Chapter One – 1945 Germany
His back was wedged into the corner of the room as he sat on the floor his legs straight out in front of him rifle across his knees helmet upside down on the floor beside him. He closed his eyes, but couldn’t escape the sounds outside. He opened them again. The gaping hole in the wall to his left, where there had once been a window, was still there. The floor was still strewn with rubble. Dust filled the air. The weak winter sunshine illuminated the dancing dust particles in straight lines as they shafted through the gaping hole in the wall and struck the wall opposite. A dust covered framed picture of contented cows in a field hung perfectly squarely in the sunlight. He'd have broken into uncontrollable laughter at the incongruity of the still perfectly hung picture in the midst of such chaos if he hadn’t been so weary.
The smell of dust and smoke was heavy in the air, but he’d long ago lost being able to smell his own body, his field grey uniform filthy and torn in places. The body of his friend lay on the floor opposite, his arms and legs at obscene angles. The flowered wallpaper and plaster of the room ripped in countless places by shrapnel and gunfire. His friends blood had oozed across the floorboards and soaked into the edge of a red and blue dust covered carpet that could once have been someone’s pride and joy. He’d been the last of his four friends. He couldn’t remember now when the others had gone, the days had all merged together.
His mind had become dangerously numb.
It had started a week earlier with the letter.
Mail had been getting less regular in recent months, with some mail not getting through at all. Earlier in the war when letters were a celebration even with censorship, he’d looked forward to letters from home. His pregnant wife and their two year old son still lived in his wife’s mother’s house in Köln. There was trepidation and hesitation before reading letters now that life at home was only marginally less dangerous than on the front line, as enemy bombers destroyed towns and cities at will.
This letter had been from his next door neighbours wife, whose home had been totally destroyed by a direct hit. It wasn’t her loss that had affected him, but her news that his wife, their two year old son and his mother-in-law had been in the cellar of their home during the attack and
been killed by the same bomb, their bodies recovered from under the rubble. He'd also had no news of his father-in-law for months.
He no longer puzzled over why one person died and another didn’t. Why he'd not been touched by the shrapnel from the exploding shell outside the window, but his friend had been almost torn apart by it. The seemingly interminable retreat. How long had it been. It seemed like months, but must only be a few weeks since they’d started their fighting retreat. Now in this small town, shattered by war on the banks of the Rhine, he felt as if he was the last one left.
Gunfire was closer now and there was small arms fire in the street outside. The glass in the picture suddenly fractured into countless pieces and fell to the floor, a neat hole through the head of one of the contented cows. The house shook to another explosion, but he didn’t even flinch. Fine particles of plaster and paint floated silently down from the ceiling. It looked like snow as it passed through the sunbeams. A cloud of dust flooded in through the hole in the wall as the roof somewhere above, collapsed with a rumble.
It had been house-to-house fighting ever since before they'd crossed the river and now, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he was alone. There had always been others fighting with him and suddenly the feeling of loneliness and the prospect of having to go on alone was overwhelming. The futility of it all, the loss of friends and endless destruction. Anger rose up inside him. Anger at who he didn't know, just raw unbounded anger. It had come over him more often in recent weeks, often the driving force that had kept him alive. But this time unbidden his body rose up hands grabbed the assault rifle as he stood fully exposed in the gap in the wall legs apart raising the rifle to waist level his finger tightening on the trigger body braced for the impact of bullets.
But there were no bullets and the silence outside slowly registered on his conscious mind. As he stood there rifle ready his finger poised looking down from the second storey to the rubble strewn street below where he could see the empty windows, shattered shop fronts and abandoned vehicles. There was no movement only dust swirling in the winter wind. He had to shake his head. It was as if everyone except him had evaporated from this broken, debris strewn world.
Then he saw the body of a soldier in the street, then another and then the body of a civilian next to a shattered handcart. There had been so many
of those. The silence persisted. He shook his head to try and clear it. The sudden madness left him as quickly as it had taken control and he stepped back into the room. Gently he straightened his friends body, crossed his bloodied hands on his chest and closed his unseeing eyes. Taking one last look at him he said a silent prayer, turned and left the room.
At the end of a short corridor a landing of a flight of stairs went up and down. Except, as he looked up, all he could see was sky. The stairs ending in jagged masonry a few steps up. The top of the building and its roof had gone. The silence was worrying him now. He couldn’t hear his own footsteps or the sound of the rubble as he moved it with his boots. With his rifle at the ready, he made his way carefully down the stairs. At the first floor landing were the bodies of two soldiers. They, and the heavy calibre machine gun they'd been using, smashed by a direct hit from a tank, or field gun shell. The metallic smell of blood mixed with the cloying dust. Until recently he'd lost any sensitivity to the brutality of the conflict, but now he looked away from the sight in front of him, sickened. Something he wouldn’t have done before.
Perhaps some of his unit was still here on this floor. Turning into the corridor he edged his way along, ready to engage the enemy if he had to, his sense of self-preservation still strong. The hearing in his right ear was returning, there was a warm trickle down his right cheek. His eardrums must have been affected by that last explosion. The door to the first apartment was flat on the floor inside the room. There was no one there. The next door was partially open. There was no one visible through the gap. Pushing the door gently with the butt of his rifle made the hinges creak. He could just hear that as he stepped inside. This apartment was not as badly damaged as the one he'd been in, one floor up. The windows were still in place, even if most of the glass had gone, the curtains hanging out through the broken panes. The hope that he'd find some of his unit still persisted. As he looked into the next room it appeared to be totally untouched. Everything was still in its proper place. Only a film of dust gave any indication of what was happening outside.
The bullet hit him in the left shoulder. He felt the impact before he heard the gunshot. Instinctively his rifle swung the short arc towards the shooter and he pulled the trigger. Another gunshot sounded simultaneously, the bullet going wide and hitting the wooden door behind him. In the second that it took for the three shots to be fired he saw the officer with his
pistol raised, felt the recoil of his rifle and saw his shot make a hole in the officers forehead.
He was ready to take another shot, but the officer had been thrown back against the wall and now slid down to the floor, his open eyes now sightless. Another shot wasn’t necessary.
War had made him a mindless killing machine. Heartless and remorseless in the moment of instinctive and trained reaction. It was only since the letter that any past sensibilities had started to rise again, in conflict with the survivor he'd become. He knelt beside the officer and removed the pistol from his dead hand. He looked to be a young man, as most junior officers were, often leading men who were both older and more battle hardened. He seemed to be a similar age to himself, perhaps mid twenties, difficult to tell. War had made most men appear older than their years, but there was a familiarity in this young man’s face now looking peaceful in death. The officer had the same blue eyes, high cheekbones in a square face and small cleft chin. He gently closed the officers eyes and without thinking wiped away a small trickle of blood that traced its way down the officers forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
He was the enemy, but for once he wondered if this man had a family, children even or parents who may never know what happened to him. Perhaps he could write to the officers family. The killer to the bereaved. What would he say, I’m sorry I shot your son, your husband, your brother. It was just the war. That would bring them no comfort as the letter from his next door neighbour brought no comfort to him for the loss of his remaining family.
Weariness flooded over him again as the pain in his shoulder took over from the initial shock and adrenalin rush. He slumped against the wall beside the officers body. The blood stain on his uniform adding to the stains of weeks of constant wear through cold, wet and mud.
There were more explosions and small arms fire from outside. A tank shot resounded down the street. The enemy must be in the street again and his unit must be gone now. Still fighting a rearguard action. Why! For Gods sake why! His mind screamed. Was everything to be destroyed. All human dignity to be ended. He was no coward, he'd proven that over and over again, if ever proof was necessary and what had it achieved. Nothing! They'd said, fight! And, as a good soldier, he'd fought. What was there left
to fight for, loyalty, duty, country. Mindless senseless duty and soon there would be no country left to fight for!
He turned towards the officer.
In a top pocket of the officers battledress was a leather wallet containing a photograph, his ID and a letter. The photograph was of his smiling parents on a picnic. They were both in summer clothes. On the back his mother had written, “Dearest Dodo, we're both looking forward to seeing you home soon”. It was dated July 1940 and signed “from Mother and Father with love”.
The letter was from a firm of solicitors in London. It was two well thumbed neatly typed pages dated in April 1941. It explained, with sincere condolences, that the officers parents had been killed in the blitz while they had been in an air raid shelter. The shelter had taken a direct hit. The letter went on to ask the officer to come into their offices when he was next on leave. The ID gave the officers name, number and date of birth.
Dodo had been twenty five when he'd died.
Looking now at Dodo’s peaceful face, he made a decision that was to change his life for ever.
Chapter Two – 1945 England
He’d applied a field dressing to his shoulder wound, but it had failed to completely stem the flow of blood. The bullet must have hit a blood vessel. He knew he needed help or the blood loss would kill him.
Staggering to his feet, he'd retraced his steps along the corridor to the stair well and leaning against the bullet and shrapnel pockmarked wall, slowly made his way down. he'd been near the bottom when the stairs had given way underneath him. There was a sickening feeling of falling helplessly into space and then a bone jarring impact as he'd landed and blacked out.
He'd no idea how long he lay unconscious. When he came round there was almost total darkness. Above was a jagged hole through which a dim light filtered. It had been enough for him to see he'd fallen into a cellar, but he couldn’t see out of his right eye. Putting his hand to his face it felt wet, his hand coming away covered in blood. Wiping away as much as he could didn't help, his right eye was still blurred.
There were old and broken pieces of furniture, a mattress standing against a wall and an old bicycle standing upside down on its saddle and handlebars. He was cold. Very cold.
Should he shout for help? Who was up there, friend or foe. Would they come in the shape of life, or death. Either way, if he did nothing, he was going to die in this hole. He'd shouted. There’d been no response, only silence. He’d kept shouting until the dim light started to fade and night descended.
Painfully he'd searched around him. Inside a box he'd found some old clothes. With great difficulty he’d tipped the mattress onto the floor, crawled onto it and covered himself in the old clothes. Shivering violently at first he'd gradually felt warmer and fallen into a demented sleep.
He was three again and trying to hide in the skirts of his mothers long dress when suddenly his father appeared at the front door of their house. He was the most frightening figure he’d ever seen. Mama had shown him pictures of how his father had looked before he'd gone to the trenches in 1917. That had been four years ago. Those pictures showed a proud erect man with a large moustache, hair neatly parted in the middle, wearing a dark suit. She spoke often of his father, of how kind and handsome he was, but this grotesque figure couldn’t be his father. He was thin, grey and bent
and was held up by a wooden crutch and looked like an old man. But Mama cried out and rushed to him when he appeared, followed by his grandmother. They'd both been in tears as they helped him into the house and into a chair.
After a while Mama had seen him cowering in the hallway peering round the edge of the door. She held out her hands to him and gave him a beaming smile. She was so beautiful. He ran into her arms.
“It’s alright Emil”, she said softly, bending down and holding him tight. “Your father has returned to us from the war, he’s been injured and been a prisoner for a long time, but we’ll have him back to his old self soon.”
“But he’s ugly!” he’d cried and buried his face in Mama’s chest, carefully keeping one eye on the ugly man.
In his dream he woke up, his mother was crying in another room. His father was shouting, he heard a thump and someone fell to the floor. Flinging back the covers of his bed, he rushed out of his bedroom and down the hall. Their bedroom door was open, his mother was lying on the floor clutching her face and crying, his father was standing over her his face a mask of pure evil. Emil, who was all of ten years old, flung himself at his father. His father staggered under the unexpected onslaught, but recovered quickly grabbed Emil by his night clothes and slapped him hard across the mouth. Emil tasted blood as he staggered away. His father was coming for him. Emil grabbed a gun that was lying on the bedside table and pulled the trigger and kept pulling until there were no more bullets left.
The noise of the gun woke him. The winter sun, that was now streaming into the cellar from the hole above, was so bright he couldn’t look directly into it. Lying in front of him, in a pool of sunlight and spreading blood was a German soldier, a wicked looking serrated edged bayonet still in his hand. He passed out again.
When he came round some time later, it was to find himself on a stretcher in a field medical station. He couldn’t see out of his right eye. Doctors and nurses were moving quickly, attending to twenty or thirty wounded. A nurse noticed that he was conscious.
“How are you doing?” she'd asked.
He'd blinked several times and frowned in concentration, trying to recall what had happened. They'd probably pumped him full of morphine his head felt like it was full of cotton wool.
“I can’t see”, he'd said with some difficulty, his tongue seemed to fill his dry mouth. He started to panic. “My eye, my eye ....” He lifted his right hand to his face to find it swathed in bandages. Then he'd realised he couldn’t move his left arm.
“It’s OK. Your head is bandaged, but your left eye is just fine. You have cuts and bruises on your head. You must have fallen. The right side of your head and your right eye are bandaged, but the Doctor says the sight in your right eye should be OK when the bandages come off.”
“Water, please.” he'd said, feeling less panicky now. The nurse had returned after a few seconds and lifting his head had brought the tin cup to his lips. The water was cool and refreshing, he tried to drink it all, but she stopped him.
“Slowly, slowly, Lieutenant.”
He blinked again as she lowered his head back onto the pillow. She'd seen him try to move his left hand.
“Your left arm is strapped to your body after the Doctor removed the bullet from your shoulder.” She'd said. “You are lucky we got you in time, you’d lost a lot of blood. If the medics hadn’t heard the gunfire from the cellar you’d fallen into, you’d have died of blood loss and exposure.”
“What day is it?”
“Saturday, Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant? Yes”, he'd thought”, Lieutenant, not Feldwebel.” He'd closed his eyes, but not before he'd realised that he'd automatically answered the nurse in English.
“Thank you.” he'd said. “Where am I?”
“You’re safe at a field hospital in a town in Holland, whose name I can’t even start to pronounce”, she smiled.
The morphine took over again and he'd fallen into a deep sleep.
When he'd woken again it was dark outside and a soft light filled the tent from lamps hung from the frames. A Padre was doing the rounds of the wounded. He watched him work his way round the wounded stopping longer with some and saying prayers with and over, several. Eventually he'd stopped by his stretcher and crouched down.
“Wie geht es dir?”
“Sehr müder, Padre.” Without thinking he'd replied in German, saying he was very tired in response to the Padre’s question about how he was doing.
“Your belt buckle has Gott mit uns, inscribed on it and you’ve scratched your name on the back”, the Padre had said so softly that no one nearby could have heard.
The Padre’s peaceful gaze met his one good eye that was now wide with the fear of discovery.
“I have taken the belt. Your secret is safe.” The Padre said. His mind was too muddled with medication to even think of denying it was his.
“May I read to you?”
“Yes Padre”, he'd managed to say.
The Padre opened his bible and read from Joshua Chapter nine. The Hivites, who had pretended to be what they were not and were delivered by Joshua out of the hands of the children of Israel. Saved them from being killed and put them to work as woodcutters and water carriers for the congregation and the alter of the Lord.
“I shall pray for your recovery”, he'd said, “and will ask that you’ll be guided by the Lord to be of use to those whose land you settle in. Sleep now and be at peace.”
“What is your name Padre?”
“My name is not important Lieutenant. What you do now is important.”
The next time he'd woken he was in another tent. Men with their wounds bandaged some with crutches, some sitting up chatting, others lying ominously silent on their stretchers.
“Here he is!” someone had called and two soldiers had came across to where he was lying. They had the same regimental badges as had been on his uniform, before they'd cut the battle dress off.
“How you doing Lieutenant?” The tallest had asked.
“Doin’ OK”, he'd mumbled.
“They mucked up your face a bit, Sir”, the shorter one observed.
“More handsome now”, he'd mumbled again, giving them a lopsided smile, followed by an agonized grimace and a groan as the one side of his face exploded with pain.
Just then a Doctor and nurse came along.
“OK, you two!” the Doctor had said. “No more visiting time. The Lieutenant needs to rest.”
“OK, Doc”, the tall soldier said. “Just wanted to make sure the Lieutenant was OK. We’ll see you later Lieutenant”, he'd said as the two
soldiers started to move off. “Take care of him Doc. He’s a bloody hero, you know.”
The doctor was about to walk away when he managed to call out weakly.
“Doctor!”
“Yes Lieutenant.”
“A Padre spoke to me. I think it must have been yesterday, but he didn't give me his name.”
“Probably Captain Simpson”, the doctor said before moving off.
The two soldiers never got to see him again, as that afternoon the walking wounded were taken on a long and uncomfortable truck ride to the coast, where they were to be shipped back to England. Along the way there were long lines of disarmed German soldiers being escorted alongside the road to captivity. Countless smashed and burnt out tanks, guns and vehicles strewn either side and the interminable trudging line of refuges with handcarts and prams. Villages were often nothing, but empty broken shells of houses.
He’d distinguished himself by being violently seasick on the short voyage from Ostende to Dover, where he disembarked to what had initially seemed chaos on the dockside. he'd been issued with a blanket, a fresh battledress jacket and a greatcoat, into the right sleeve of which he'd thrust his good arm with the other still in a sling, ten shillings, some letters and identity documents. A military policeman was directing men to various queues. His was a queue of walking wounded being processed by two corporals, each at a small wooden desk.
Further down the dockside another ship was offloading a stream of captured German officers. Some still in smart grey uniforms, others in a ragbag of clothing. he'd felt conflicting emotions at being where he was and in the line he was in, when those he'd fought with were just a stones throw away.
The man behind him tapped him on the shoulder and quietly said he could move on. A gap had developed in the line ahead while he'd been absorbed in his thoughts. When he reached one of the desks he'd handed over his papers, including the field Doctors report, stamped by some senior officer. The corporal who looked like he'd benefit from a week in bed, examined the papers, checked a list he had on a clipboard and stamped the
medical report. Without looking up the corporal had said, “line on the right, Lieutenant.”
He did as instructed and found himself in a line of wounded officers the front of which disappeared into a warehouse door. The officer in front of him used a crutch to compensate for the loss of his left leg. he'd kept running his hand down to the where the stump of his leg was now hidden inside a carefully folded and pinned trouser leg.
Eventually he'd found himself in front of an elderly Major with two lines of medal ribbons on his chest, who must have served in the First War. Standing as best he could to attention.
“At ease, Lieutenant”, the major had said kindly before examining the papers once again.
“Any relatives, Lieutenant?”
“Lost in the bombing Major!”, he'd replied smartly.
“Do you have somewhere to go?”
“Yes Major, London.”
The Major eyed him carefully. He'd seen a lot of wounded men. If there was one common feature, it was their reluctance to admit they needed help. He'd learned he hoped, to be able to tell those who didn't, from those who really did need help. This Lieutenant seemed both physically and mentally strong and the Doctor’s prognosis was that apart from some scars, he'd make a full recovery. The Major compressed his lips for a moment before handing back the papers, a card he'd chosen from a small cardboard box and a railway travel voucher.
“Report to a doctor at the address on the card in one week and if he gives you the OK then report to your unit in two weeks Lieutenant.”
“Yes Sir!” he'd given the Major as smart a salute as he could. The Major returned it more casually.
“Stations that way.” The Major had said pointing towards a large open warehouse door. Buses at the pavement.”
He'd sat in silence on the cold draughty bus for its short journey to the station and then in the crowded train for nearly three hours as it was stopped and re-routed several times on what should have been a direct journey taking half that time.
It was cold grey and raining when the train arrived at Victoria, the station bustling with military uniforms of every description, police and
civilians. Everyone was in a hurry to get where they were going and the concourse was slick with the passage of so many wet shoes and boots.
He'd been lucky to get a taxi outside the station.
“How much to Welbeck Street?” he'd asked through the taxi window, the rain now starting to trickle down his neck.
“For you Guv’, a shilling!” the taxi driver had said cheerfully.
He'd seen the taxi meter clock up two shillings and sixpence by the time they got there, but despite offering the driver the correct fare he refused and only took a shilling.
“God bless you Lieutenant!” he'd cried as he pulled away from the kerb. There had been bomb damage everywhere and yet the capital was extremely busy. The streets were full of traffic, if mostly buses and vans. The pavements were full of hurrying pedestrians, most with umbrellas. Welbeck Street had not escaped the bombing. There were gaps, like missing teeth, in the rows of handsome houses. He'd noted the number of the house he'd been dropped at and starting walking in the direction of the number that was on his papers. When he'd got there less than a minute later the building still stood undamaged, as did the ones several doors either side.
At the top of the short flight of steps was an arched glazed, maple front door. To its right, a list of occupants, each in small holders on handwritten cards in a polished brass frame. The name he was looking for was on the third floor. Inside he'd been greeted by a black and white Edwardian tiled floor, cream painted anaglypta wallpaper and mushroom coloured paintwork. A little way along the ground floor passage were the stairs. He'd walked up to the third floor where he'd been met by a handsome if small landing, furnished with a half moon mahogany console table bearing a small Wedgwood vase and fresh flowers. The entrance to the flat was a panelled white door with a brass number three attached. To his surprise the door was half open. He'd pushed it fully open and walked tentatively inside.
“Hello!”, he'd called.
There was a moment of silence before a young woman in a floral apron and headscarf tied in a knot above her forehead, came out of one of the rooms a duster in her hand. She was suddenly wide eyed.
“Ooh, Mister Howard, sir! I didn't know you were coming home! Ooh, sir you’re injured, sir!”, she'd added her eyes opening even wider.
“Who are you?” he'd asked
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir”, she'd answered with a brief curtsy. “I’m Betty, sir. Miss Simmonds from number four gets me to clean your flat every other week, sir.”
“Thank you Betty. Don’t let me stop you.”
“I’ve just finished, sir. Miss Simmonds will be very pleased you’re home, sir.”
“I’m sure she will, Betty. I’ll speak to her later.”
“Yes, sir, thank you sir.” she bobbed. Betty was still a little flustered as she gathered up her cloths and feather duster.
“There are letters on the mantelpiece, sir.” She'd added before quietly closing the door behind her.
