The Hills and the Valley (37 page)

Huw was forced to retire defeated. He did not feel that making things up with a girlfriend would be counted as ‘very pressing'by the station commander, important though it was to him. He could only hope that his new chief in Essex would be more understanding and he told himself a few days could hardly make any difference.

He could scarcely have been more wrong.

‘We don't want a long engagement, Mum,' Barbara said. ‘There's no point. It's not as if we have to save up to get married. Marcus is well able to keep me and we can live at Hillsbridge House.'

‘That is hardly the point, Barbara. I want you to be sure you're doing the right thing,' Amy replied.

‘I am sure.'

They were in the garden of Valley View, Amy deadheading the first flush of roses on the bushes which rioted around the lawn, Barbara following her to talk as she worked, but the argument was the same one which had raged constantly since the end of April when Marcus had formally asked Amy for Barbara's hand. Because she really had no concrete reason for refusal and because she hoped that it might help Barbara to get over Huw, Amy agreed to their engagement. She was still torn by guilt at the misery her daughter had been caused because she had kept silent about Huw's parentage and she was glad that Barbara had found someone as acceptable as Marcus to help heal the wounds. But marriage … Amy's heart seemed to fold up at the thought of it. Marriage was such an enormous step and she was still not convinced that Barbara's feelings for Marcus were anything other than love on the rebound. She had only to remember Barbara's ravaged face in the weeks following Huw's rejection to know how deeply she had cared for him. The child had gone about in a daze of misery, hardly speaking when she was spoken to. It was wrong, of course. It could never be. And Amy had fervently hoped that one day someone else would come along to make Barbara forget her infatuation. But was Marcus the right one? Amy was not sure that he was, though apart from the feeling that it had all happened much too suddenly, she could not put her finger on the reason for her reluctance to believe that he was. He seemed perfect – charming, well-educated, apparently devoted to Barbara – what more could a mother want for her daughter? Yet still Amy could not rid herself of her intuitive sense of misgiving.

‘Mum – please!' Barbara said. ‘Will you stop fiddling with those roses and
talk
to me? It's very important, Mum. Marcus and I want to get married now – before the end of the summer.'

‘It's too soon,' Amy said. ‘We could never arrange a wedding at such short notice.'

‘Rubbish. Of course we could. Sir Richard has already said we can have the reception at Hillsbridge House. That only leaves the church to be booked.'

‘Honestly, Barbara, you talk as if it were as easy to organise a wedding as a day trip out in the car!' Amy said snappily. ‘There's a great deal more to it than that if you want to do it properly. In any case I thought I'd made it clear I'm not agreeable to you marrying for quite a while yet. You won't be twenty-one for another three years and until then you need my permission.'

‘No I don't.'

‘You certainly do.'

‘If you keep on refusing we can always apply to the courts,' Barbara said. As always her mother's opposition was only serving to make her more determined. ‘You had your way about keeping me out of the WAAF but this time my mind is made up.'

‘Sometimes I think it's a pity you aren't joining the WAAF,' Amy said with feeling. ‘Apply to the courts indeed! I never heard of such a thing!'

‘The trouble with you, Mum, is that you think you can run everyone's lives for them,' Barbara retorted. ‘Just because you are the boss at work you think everybody will do what you tell them at home as well. But if you keep saying no that's what we shall do, and with a war on, Marcus who he is and me eighteen and old enough to be serving my country you can bet they'll give us permission if you won't.' She paused, not wanting to be hurtful, yet determined not to be talked around. ‘I'm sorry, Mum, but you must realise I'm grown up now. You have to let me make my own decisions.'

And your own mistakes, Amy thought. But perhaps Barbara was right – she shouldn't try to impose her will on a child who was ready to fly the nest. With two happy marriages of her own she wanted to be certain her daughter would be equally happy. But that did not give her the right to dictate or judge too harshly, nor to pretend she knew all the answers.

Perhaps the war was to blame, she thought, for making the younger generation grow up too quickly. Boys became men overnight and girls became their wives. And no one knew what tomorrow would bring, or even if there would be a tomorrow.

‘All right, Barbara,' she said. ‘What date were you and Marcus thinking of?'

‘August 16th,' Barbara replied promptly. ‘And we will arrange everything. You won't have to worry about a thing.'

‘I'd better write it in my diary then, hadn't I?' Amy said drily.

‘Oh Mum!' Barbara's face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Does that mean you'll give your permission?'

‘Yes, Barbara, I suppose it does.'

‘Oh Mum, thank you! I must phone Marcus and tell him!'

She hugged Amy and ran off towards the house. Amy shook her head, hoping fervently that her intuition was wrong and that she would not live to regret her change of heart. Then, with an air of resignation, she went back to deadheading her roses.

Two days after he arrived at his new station Huw's flight was detailed to act as target-withdrawal wing for the ‘beehive' – the formation of bombers and their fighter escort which had been instructed to destroy an engineering factory in France that was producing valuable aircraft parts for the Germans.

‘Immediately he had installed his belongings in his billet Huw had spoken to the Station Commander about the chances of a short leave pass and had been promised one at the earliest possible opportunity. That night, as he led his men out to the airfield, he was feeling reasonably happy and he whistled as he knotted the silk scarf which Barbara had sent him last Christmas at the neck of his flying jacket and adjusted his Mae West.

‘It's a nice night for flying,' a voice beside him said and he turned to see ‘Topsy'Brown hurrying to catch him up.

Topsy was one of the newest pilots on the squadron – a fresh-faced boy who had joined the RAF straight from school – and already Huw had marked him down as one he needed to keep an eye on. Though he handled his Hurricane well his keenness to make his first kill was a little worrying. When he had flown a few more sorties he would learn to temper his enthusiasm with caution, Huw thought, but for the moment he would need watching if he was to survive to fly another day.

‘Should be a good chance for a bag tonight shouldn't there?' he said now, reinforcing Huw's opinion.

Huw nodded. Flying as target-withdrawal wing meant that they would arrive in the target area as the ‘beehive'turned for home and their job would be to assist in any scraps that might still be going on and mop up any stragglers.

‘We should have some fun, yes,' Huw said. ‘But don't take any risks, Topsy. Do as you're told and fly yourself in first – right?'

‘Yes sir!'

They took off into the gathering dusk, climbing and heading out over the Channel. In spite of his vigilance towards other members of his flight, Huw felt relaxed. He liked the Hurricane, liked the compact feel of the aeroplane and its marvellous manoeuvrability, though on the ground it looked clumsier than the elegant little Spitfire, and liked the stories he had heard of the amount of punishment it could take and still keep flying.

The coast of France loomed up ahead and they headed south. Flak was heavy from the harbour defences splintering the darkness of the fine clear night but they managed to avoid it and flew on keeping a sharp lookout for German fighters and aware of the need to arrive at the target area at precisely the right time – the success of these sorties depended on perfect timing.

Then, just as they expected them to, the fields beneath gave way to the build up of heavy industrial buildings starkly illuminated by a huge fire that was burning out of control and the sky was streaked with the bright criss cross of gunfire.

The bombers had done their job. They had hit their target and turned for the safety of home. But the Germans were after them like furious terriers snapping at their heels. There was work for the target-withdrawal wing as they had guessed there would be. Huw issued an instruction and they went in, drawing the German fire. An Me109 dived steeply away from Huw and he followed it, though at first his slower plane was left standing. Then the Me109 began to pull out much sooner than Huw expected and as he overhauled it he shattered its tail unit with a burst from his guns. It fell like a stone and mentally he added it to his tally of ‘enemy destroyed'.

The remaining Germans had scattered and Huw and his flight were about to turn for home when the reinforcements arrived – a flock of fresh and determined Bf109s. Huw shouted a warning; it was every man for himself now. He got one with a full deflection burst at point blank range and saw his shells striking the 109's fuselage. It nose dived away, hitting the ground and exploding in a burst of bright flame.

He looked around, every nerve alert and singing, and saw another 109 on Topsy Brown's tail. Topsy seemed unaware of it. Huw went in drawing the fire and at that precise moment realised that he himself was trapped. Another 109 was heading straight for him, all cannon firing. In a moment suspended in time he saw the crackling lines like deadly sparkler trails and knew the 109 had made no mistake. He was hit.

Many times, returning after seeing his friends spiral from the sky in flames, Huw had wondered how it would feel to know with deadly certainty that you were going to be shot down. He had had plenty of close shaves but always there had been something he could do. He had dived and climbed, flipped close circle, coaxed dead engines back to life in the nick of time. He had known fear, excitement, the heady crazy mix of emotions which come from surging adrenalin. But never had he faced the inevitable. He did so now and was surprised by the strange calm he found himself in. Life and death had fused, it seemed; eternity stretched before him and there was nothing whatever he could do to escape it. It was euphoric, almost, that moment of inevitability. And then the gunfire hit the Hurricane. An enormous explosion at his feet knocked him almost senseless and then his cockpit was filled with flames and he was sharply conscious once more and the momentary crazy euphoria was gone.

His plane was lost. He had known that from the moment he saw the deadly accuracy of the cannon fire. But he was alive – if he could get out of the Hurricane which would otherwise be his coffin. With fingers still numb from the force of the explosion he clutched at the release, dragged the hood open and fumbled to free himself from his harness. It gave and he raised himself up so that he was standing in the slip stream. A strange sickening stench assailed his nostrils; he realised it was his own burning flesh. His body was wholly out of the cockpit now but still he was falling with the crippled plane and he realised the toe of his boot was caught. He experienced a moment's wild panic and kicked out with all his strength. The thrust cleared him and he was hurtling down through the cold night air, tumbling head over heels. The fine honed instincts born of a hundred mental rehearsals for his moment took over where his thought processes had been arrested. He found the ripcord of his chute and jerked hard, the chute opened and he was no longer falling but floating, with the French countryside laid out beneath him ghostly pale in the moonlight and fiery orange away to his left where the factory burned fiercely.

When he saw the 109 closing in he thought that it was all over for him, for up here, suspended beneath his billowing parachute, he was a sitting duck. But the German seemed satisfied with knowing he had got the Hurricane. The wings slanted and he curled away.

The ground rushed up to meet Huw. He tried to position himself for landing but his body would no longer obey him. He hit the ground with a jolt, rolled over and tried to rise. But the blackness of the night was inside him now. A wave of pain enveloped him, the field cartwheeled around him again and as the blackness numbed and blinded him, Huw knew no more.

Amy put down the telephone and went back into the kitchen where the family were having breakfast. It was a peaceful scene repeated every morning five days a week – Ralph opening the mail as he drank tea from his extra large cup, Maureen and Barbara sharing the last piece of toast and faithfully dividing between them what was left of the butter ration. The normality of it struck at Amy as the telephone conversation had not, finding a crack in the strange calm unreality which had enveloped her as she listened to what the caller had to say. Her knees went weak suddenly and she clutched at the door to support herself.

Barbara looked up, saw her standing there and knew at once something was very wrong.

‘Mum?' Her tone was sharp and anxious.

Amy tried to speak and could not.

‘Amy!' Ralph rose, jerking his chair back. ‘Are you all right?'

‘It's Huw,' she said. ‘He's missing.'

For a moment her words seemed to hang in the air. Maureen uttered a small strangled cry; Ralph asked sharply: ‘When? How?' Only Barbara remained motionless, holding the piece of toast suspended halfway to her mouth.

‘He was shot down last night,' Amy said. ‘That was his commanding officer on the phone. He said he wanted to tell us himself.'

‘You mean he didn't come back from a sortie?' Ralph asked.

‘No, he was definitely shot down. His Number Two saw his plane crash in flames.'

‘Oh Christ! You mean …'

‘They don't know. They think they saw a parachute. He may have got out. If he did he is somewhere in France. But they don't know for sure. And even if he's alive he may be badly burned. He may be …' Her voice tailed away.