A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (27 page)

The screams rose, the ground shuddered, the smell of burning was overlaid by cordite, and above it all, the roar of the engines, the shadows of the wings. The planes roared on, and they heard Miller yelling, ‘Follow me, up and over the hill, while we've a smokescreen. We'll work our way down the slope to the front line. At the double, before they return.'

They scrambled up and over the top, through the dust, smoke and debris, and James' legs were weak from fear. He slipped and slid down, hanging on to his rifle, keeping it clean and functioning.

Almost at the bottom, a Lieutenant Mieras gestured them forwards, towards the front line. Bloody hell, they were really doing it. The fear deepened as James followed the others, bent over, still slipping on the slope, between the clumps of olive trees and scrubs. Ian was panting at his elbow. James swung round, almost knocking Ian off his feet. ‘Where's Archie?'

Ian looked confused. ‘What? Can't hear. The blast caught me lug 'oles.'

Miller was shrieking, much as he did when someone turned left instead of right on the parade ground. ‘What the hell are you two doing? This is no time for a cosy bloody chat. We're needed at the front. We need to hold it or the fascists will outflank all our forces.'

‘It's Archie, Sarge,' James called as he ran on, his pack banging on his back, the sun burning his head. Damn it, he'd lost his hat without realising.

Sergeant Miller waved them forward, looking calm, as though daring any bugger to shoot him. ‘Sorry, lads, he bought it. Saw it myself.'

They reached the forward battle zone by late afternoon. The fascists had been repulsed but were ensconsed on the hills either side and ahead. Immediately B Company received orders to follow Miller to the foot of Hill 300, eastern sector. They
were to be an advance party, and must dig in, and warn of any incursion.

It was cloudy, and the darkness gave them cover to crawl forward on their bellies, up the lower slopes. With each yard James saw Archie's face. He felt grief and rage, and he didn't care if Tim was at the top of the hill, because if he came upon him he'd crack his rifle butt across his bastard fascist face. His leather ammunition pouch caught on the rough ground and made a scraping noise. He froze. Just then the clouds moved and the moon lit the terrain like a spotlight. Machine gun fire chattered. There was a shout, a grunt.

The cloud came over, the firing continued, but so did they, crawling forward, fury in their bellies. There were shouts, groans, and orders to keep going. There was another shout, a muffled scream. The man nearest James was hit. Christ, not Ian? He hissed, ‘Who is it?'

‘Tommy,' came the reply.

James slid across to the lad. ‘Where are you hit?'

‘Leg.' Tommy was panting.

Ian joined them as James drew out his handkerchief, dyed black so it wouldn't be visible, and tied off the leg. ‘The medics'll be along,' he whispered. He and Ian shared Tommy's ammunition pouches and grenades, and crawled on. The mortars had fixed on the main force coming up behind them, and in the light of the explosions they lay low as the shells roared over them, then crawled on when the light had dimmed.

Miller was everywhere, directing, organising and encouraging the small advance party, and they all found some sort of cover as mortars, machine guns and rifles fired down on them from the hills either side. There was a pillbox just under the summit over to the left; the machine gun was in there. Miller nudged Ian. ‘Prove yourself, man. Shoot the bugger.'

Ian steadied himself, and when the next round flashed from the slit he fired. The firing stopped, but now there was movement at the base of the pillbox, and they both fired round after round until their rifle bolts were too hot to handle. The advance guard were pinned down as firing from the right grew steadily stronger and they dug in deep, as ordered. As dawn arrived the barrage continued over them, and there was desultory return fire from the Republicans, but so far no infantry attack.

To their left was the now silent pillbox; in front were neglected terraces that sloped away, their vines ruined. To the right were some olive and pine trees, and it was from there the firing still came. The hair prickled on the back of James' neck. Ian, who made it his business to stay beside him at all times, whispered, ‘'Ere we are, sitting like bloody ducks, so what do we bloody do if they come? Say 'ello and ask 'em for a bleedin' cuppa?'

Sergeant Miller crawled to them on his way who knew where, and grunted, ‘What you do is stop your bellyaching and use your eyes and ears to catch the
first sight or sound of feet on the ground heading our way. Then we set off the flares.' He handed one to Ian. ‘It'll give the main force time to sort themselves out while we hold 'em off. Crucial, you are, young Ian. Could be the high point of your miserable and possibly short life.'

‘Always a comedian,' Ian grunted, as Miller crawled on his way. Their group, including Frank and Boyo, scraped out the ground beneath them over the course of the long day, until they had an excuse for a trench. All the while the enemy artillery roared over them, aiming for the main force. The ground shuddered, the noise deluged them, and shrapnel flew.

The setting of the sun brought hope of some respite, but another night passed with more of the same. The next day, the enemy infantry came in a rush, and Miller set off his flare, shouting for Ian and another man to do likewise. The pillbox and the firing from the right kept their heads down, so they didn't know if the enemy was charging from the front. They clutched their rifles to them, while the pillbox machine gun chattered, and bullets spattered and hissed around them.

Suddenly the gunfire stopped, and the enemy charged past them in a rush. The men aimed their rifles, but from nowhere another squad came from the rear, shouting in English, ‘It's over. Hold your fire.'

James and the others spun round, then half
lifted their rifles, but it was suicide. Just then Miller shouted and raged at the fascists from his trench, diverting their attention for a moment. James and Ian tried to heel their army papers into the bottom of the trench to avoid giving any information to the enemy, but the ground was too damned hard.

The soldiers left Miller to others, and booted and jabbed with their rifle butts until James' squad were out of the trench, while one of the fascists collected up the papers. They were threatened with death if they didn't run to the olive trees. They all ran, Miller too, then on down the slope until they were in the valley, their guards in close order around them. All the while the main Republican force engaged the enemy.

Miller said quietly, ‘Well done, lads. We let them know in time.'

In the valley they were robbed of everything worth a farthing. Their boots were taken and tried on for size by the enemy troops before being tied by the laces and slung round their new owners' necks. In return the Republicans were given stinking ancient
alpargatas
, their hands were tied behind their backs, and they were herded like goats further along the valley, rifle butts jabbing at them and punches landing. There was no food, and no water. Their tongues swelled.

Every minute James wondered how he could walk because his legs were shaking so much, and Ian said,
far too often, ‘Makes me realise me old dad wasn't so bad after all.'

Miller tried to keep their spirits up. ‘It'll be better when we're in a proper camp, lads,' he told them, then, his voice low, ‘but keep yourselves alert. If the opportunity presents itself, be ready to make a break for it.'

It was early November and nothing had been heard from James. ‘So, he's staying in Spain, fighting, not exploring the Classics,' Bridie murmured as she waited for her turn to stir the Christmas cake mixture.

Her mam looked up from grating orange peel for today's menu, wild duck à l'orange. ‘Keep making the cakes, it's all you can do.'

‘He said he'd be in touch,' Bridie complained. ‘If they can get into Spain, letters can get out. I should have made him come back.'

‘Hush, we're not going through all that again. Anyway, Ver and I have come round to his way of thinking, and yours, that we should all do something, so we've written to the letter pages of the newspapers, all of them. Needless to say, they haven't been published.'

Ver stopped stirring the cake, having made her wish, her knuckles white on the spoon. Mrs Moore took it. She in her turn stirred then handed the spoon to Bridie. ‘Make it a good wish, lass.'

Bridie made her wish, which was twofold: one for James' safety, and one for Tim's safe return to them. She lifted out the spoon, and some mixture dropped back into the bowl. She said quietly, ‘I made two. Is that going to weaken the wishes?' Panic gripped her.

Gracie took the spoon and stirred. ‘Don't worry, Bridie, I've done the same.' She handed the spoon to Maisie, Mart's wife, who was pregnant for the first time, and feeling exhausted, as she wasn't a young thing any more, as Matron had pointed out.

Her mother laughed, but it was strained. ‘It wouldn't dare weaken, not with this monstrous regiment stirring like mad. Potty is telephoning with what news he can glean of James' whereabouts from his extraordinary contacts. We will wait. Our wish could have been answered.'

In Richard's study, along the internal corridor, he, Jack, Mart, Charlie and Aub sat around his desk, waiting for the phone to ring. Potty had said he'd get back to them by three with what news he could find out about James. The phone rang, on the dot of three. Richard picked it up, pale, with sweat beading his forehead. ‘Hello, Potty.'

As always, Potty's voice was so loud that Richard held the phone away from his ear, wincing. ‘Dear boy, I've burrowed like the little hamster I am, if indeed they burrow, and good news, though somewhat of a déjà vu, if you get my drift?'

Richard shook his head, as though to clear it, an
action mirrored by the others, and he wondered how his old friend had bumbled along in the military for so long, though he seemed to spend most of his time swanning around his clubs as far as Richard could tell. Well, maybe that was where his contacts also swanned. ‘I don't altogether follow your drift, Potty. Perhaps you could elucidate?' Why the hell did he get all long-winded when he was talking to Potty?

‘Elucidate?' Potty boomed. Richard winced and held the phone even further away. ‘Indeed I will. The old dear is a prisoner, held by the delicious and delightful cream of Franco's mob.'

The others stared at one another. Somehow they had all been hoping he was on his way home.

Richard looked up at Aub. ‘What can we do?' he murmured.

Aub shook his head. ‘I don't know.'

Potty bawled, ‘Can do nothing this end, old son.'

Richard shook his head, trying to think, desperation clouding his mind, a mind too full of Estrella's tales, some of which she'd witnessed, of captured prisoners being starved, beaten and shot.

Just then, the women came in. ‘We heard the telephone,' Ver said, coming to Richard's side.

‘Just a moment, would you, Potty?' Richard put his hand across the mouthpiece. ‘He's a prisoner, but Potty can do nothing, only give us information, which is good of him, of course.'

Bridie was staring at him, and suddenly reached
over and snatched the receiver. ‘Uncle Potty, you have Bauer. Can't he do something?'

Potty's voice was very quiet now. He said, ‘Bridie, I believe. Well, young lady, I don't
have
Herr Bauer, as you say. He was good enough to help you, when I understood him to be visiting a mutual business acquaintance. I am actually merely on nodding terms. I repeat, I barely know the man. Do you understand? Now pass me back to your uncle, if you please.'

His voice was at full volume as he spoke to Richard, so they all heard him say, ‘I repeat, I can do nothing, but it's best for the laddie if someone can; we've heard tricky stuff's being done – by both sides, it has to be said. You have someone who perhaps
can
help, of course. A someone who has a contact in Berlin who might be able to hoick him to safety. Perhaps you should ask that someone. I refer of course to young Tim. Now, must away, lots to do, people to see, and a nice Pudding Club meeting to attend later.' There was a click. Richard replaced the receiver.

After a moment, he looked up at his wife, then his gaze went slowly from Gracie to Jack.

Mart, Charlie and Aub ranged themselves alongside Jack. Mart protested, ‘You know how difficult that is, Richard. I was there, in the club. He didn't even come when Jeb phoned him to tell him Prancer had died, and we'd be at the field and needed him. He did nothing.'

Jack held out his hand to Gracie, who came to stand with him. ‘Perhaps we could try again,' she said, her voice shaking. ‘It's James we're talking about. Maria and Estrella tell such stories.'

Bridie slipped to the door, feeling so hot, she thought she'd melt. She wanted to leave. She felt for the door, but her mother saw her, and reached out. ‘Bridie, pet. Don't worry, we'll find a way.'

Bridie didn't look at her, but at Gracie, who was still standing with Jack, gripping his arm. It had gone on too long. Bridie said, ‘I didn't know then that Tim was responding to a message. He came, you see, on his motorbike, to the lane when Prancer died. I thought he'd come to be unkind again. I said he wasn't wanted, and he was to go and stop dripping his poison, because things were bad enough without that.'

There was utter silence, and she waited. Please, please don't make me say it again, she begged silently, and please don't hate me. I hate myself enough for the whole room. Gracie turned. Jack put his hand out, but she tore free and ran, pushing Evie to one side, and slapped Bridie right across the face, before Jack could reach her. Then he was dragging Gracie off while Aub stood between Gracie and Bridie, looking at Gracie, his hand out, but speaking to Bridie. ‘Bridie, are you sorry?'