Blackout. Part 17

"Which takes priority over tanks? I can see the history books now. 'World War II was lost because of a toothache.'"

"It's not a toothache, it's a cracked filling," Cess said. "And it'll do you good to get a bit of fresh air." Cess yanked the sheet of paper out of the typewriter. "You can write your fairy tales later."

"No, I can't," Ernest said, making an unsuccessful grab for the paper. "If I don't get these stories in by tomorrow morning, they won't be in Tuesday's edition, and Lady Bracknell will have my head."

Cess held it out of reach. "'The Steeple Cross Women's Inst.i.tute held a tea Friday afternoon,'" he read aloud, "'to welcome the officers of the 21st Airborne to the village.' Definitely more important than blowing up tanks, Worthing. Front-page stuff. This'll be in the Times Times, I presume?"

"No, the Sudbury Weekly Shopper," Sudbury Weekly Shopper," Ernest said, making another grab for the sheet of paper, this time successful. "And it's due at nine tomorrow morning along with four others, Ernest said, making another grab for the sheet of paper, this time successful. "And it's due at nine tomorrow morning along with four others, which I haven't finished yet which I haven't finished yet. And, thanks to you, I already missed last week's deadline. Take Moncrieff with you."

"He's down with a bad cold."

"Which he no doubt caught while blowing up tanks in the pouring rain. Not exactly my idea of fun," Ernest said, rolling a new sheet of paper into the typewriter, and began typing again.

"It's not raining," Cess said. "There's only a light fog, and it's supposed to clear by morning. Perfect flying weather. That's why we've got to blow them up tonight. It'll only take an hour or two. You'll be back in more than enough time to finish your articles and get them over to Sudbury."

Ernest didn't believe that any more than he believed it wasn't raining. It had rained every day all spring. "There must be someone else who can do it. What about Lady Bracknell? He'd be perfect for the job. He's full of hot air."

"He's in London, meeting with the higher-ups, and everyone else is over at Camp Omaha. You're the only one who can do it. Come, Worthing, do you want to tell your children you sat at a typewriter all through the war or that you blew up tanks?"

"Cess, what makes you think we'll ever be allowed to tell anyone anything?"

"I suppose that's true. But surely by the time we have grand grandchildren, some some of it will have been decla.s.sified. That is, if we win the war. Which we won't if you don't help. I can't manage both the tanks and the cutter on my own." of it will have been decla.s.sified. That is, if we win the war. Which we won't if you don't help. I can't manage both the tanks and the cutter on my own."

"Oh, all right," Ernest said, pulling the paper out of the typewriter and putting it in a file folder on top of several others. "Give me five minutes to lock up."

"Lock up up? Do you honestly think Goebbels is going to break in and steal your tea party story while we're gone?"

"I'm only following regulations," Ernest said, swiveling his chair to face the metal filing cabinet. He opened the second drawer down, filed the folder, then fished a ring of keys out of his pocket and locked the cabinet. "'All written materials of Fort.i.tude South and the Special Means unit shall be considered "top top secret" and handled accordingly.' And speaking of regulations, if I'm going to be in some b.l.o.o.d.y cow pasture all night, I need a decent pair of boots. All officers are to be issued appropriate gear for missions.'"

Cess handed him an umbrella. "Here."

"I thought you said fog, not rain."

"Light fog. Clearing toward morning. And wear an Army uniform, in case someone shows up in the middle of the operation. You have two minutes. I want to be there before dark." He went out.

Ernest waited, listening, till he heard the outside door slam, then swiftly unlocked the file drawer, pulled out the folder, removed several of the pages, replaced the file, and relocked the drawer. He slid the pages he'd removed into a manila envelope, sealed it, and stuck it under a stack of forms in the bottom drawer of the desk. Then he took a key from around his neck, locked the drawer, hung the key around his neck again under his shirt, picked up the umbrella, put on his uniform and his boots, and went outside.

Into an all-enveloping grayness. If this was what Cess considered a light fog, he shuddered to think what a heavy one was. He couldn't see the tanks or the lorry. He couldn't even see the gravel driveway at his feet.

But he could hear an engine. He felt his way toward it, his hands out in front of him till they connected with the side of the Austin. "What took you so long?" Cess asked, leaning out of the fog to open its door. "Get in."

Ernest climbed in. "I thought you said the tanks were here."

"They are," Cess said, roaring off into blackness. "We've got to go pick them up in Tenterden and then take them down to Icklesham."

Tenterden was not "here." It was fifteen miles in the opposite direction from Icklesham and, in this fog, it would be well after dark before they even got there. This'll take all night This'll take all night, he thought. I'll never make that deadline I'll never make that deadline. But halfway to Brede, the fog lifted, and when they reached Tenterden, everything was, amazingly, loaded and ready to go. Ernest, following Cess and the lorry in the Austin, began to feel some hope that it wouldn't take too long to get unloaded and set up, and they might actually be done blowing up the tanks by midnight. Whereupon the fog closed in again, causing Cess to miss the turn for Icklesham twice and for the lane once. It was nearly midnight before they located the right pasture.

Ernest parked the Austin among some bushes and got out to open the gate. He promptly stepped in mud up to his ankles and then, after he'd extricated himself, in a large cowpat. He squelched over to the lorry, looking around for cows, even though in this foggy darkness he wouldn't see one till he'd collided with it. "I thought there weren't supposed to be any cows in this pasture," he said to Cess.

"There were before, but the farmer moved them into the next one over," Cess said, leaning out the window. "That's why we picked this pasture. That, and the large copse of trees over there." He pointed vaguely out into the murk. "The tanks will be hidden out of sight under the trees."

"I thought the whole idea was to let the Germans see them."

"To let them see some some of them," Cess corrected. "There are a dozen in this battalion." of them," Cess corrected. "There are a dozen in this battalion."

"We've got to blow up a dozen dozen tanks?" tanks?"

"No, only two. The Army didn't park them far enough under the trees. Their rear ends can still be seen poking out from under the branches. I think it'll be easiest if I back across the field. Help me turn around."

"Are you certain that's a good idea?" Ernest said. "It's awfully muddy."

"That'll make the tracks more visible. You needn't worry. This lorry's got good tires. I won't get her stuck."

He didn't. Ernest did, driving the lorry back to the gate after they'd unloaded the two tanks. It took them the next two hours to get out of the mudhole, in the process of which Ernest lost his footing and fell flat, and they made a hideous rutted mess out of the center of the field.

"Goring's boys will never believe tank treads did that," Ernest said, shining a shielded torch on the churned-up mud.

"You're right," Cess said. "We'll have to put a tank over it to hide it, and-I know!-we'll make it look as though it got stuck in the mud."

"Tanks don't get stuck in the mud."

"They would in this mud," Cess said. "We'll only blow up three quadrants and leave the other one flat, so it'll look like it's listing."

"Do you honestly think they'll be able to see that from fifteen thousand feet?"

"No idea," Cess said, "but if we stand here arguing, we won't be done by morning, and the Germans will see what we're up to. Here, lend me a hand. We'll unload the tank and then drive the lorry back to the lane. That way we won't have to drag it."

Ernest helped him unload the heavy rubber pallet. Cess connected the pump and began inflating the tank. "Are you certain it's facing the right way?" Ernest asked. "It should be facing the copse."

"Oh, right," Cess said, shielding his torch with his hand and shining the light on it. "No, it's the wrong way round. Here, help me shift it."

They pushed and shoved and dragged the heavy ma.s.s around till it faced the other way. "Now let's hope it isn't upside down," Cess said. "They should put a 'this end up' on them, though I suppose that might make the Germans suspicious." He began to pump. "Oh, good, there's a tread."

The front end of a tank began to emerge out of the flat folds of gray-green rubber, looking remarkably tanklike. Ernest watched for a moment, then fetched the phonograph, the small wooden table it sat on, and its speaker. He set them up, got the record from the lorry, placed it on the turntable, and lowered the needle. The sound of tanks rolling thunderously toward him filled the pasture, making it impossible to hear anything Cess said.

On the other hand, he thought as he wrestled the tank-tread cutter off the back of the lorry, he no longer had to switch on his torch. He could find his way simply by following the sound. Unless there were in fact cows in this pasture-which, judging by the number of fresh cowpats he was stepping in, there definitely could be.

Cess had told him on the way to Tenterden that the cutter was perfectly simple to operate. All one had to do was push it, like a lawn mower, but it was at least five times as heavy. It required bearing down with one's whole weight on the handle to make it go even a few inches, it refused to budge at all in gra.s.s taller than two inches, and it tended to veer off at an angle. Ernest had to go back to the lorry, fetch a rake, smooth over what he'd done, then redo it several times before he had a more-or-less straight tread mark from the gate to the mired tank.

Cess was still working on the right front quadrant. "Sprang a leak," he shouted over the rumble of tanks. "Luckily, I brought my bicycle patch kit along. Don't come any nearer! That cutter's sharp."

Ernest nodded, hoisted it over in front of where the tank's other tread would be, and started back toward the gate. "How many of these do you want?" he shouted to Cess.

"At least a dozen pair," Cess shouted, "and some of them need to overlap. I think the fog's beginning to lift."

The fog was not not beginning to lift. When he switched on his torch so he could return the needle to the beginning of the record, the phonograph was shrouded in mist. And even if it should lift, they wouldn't be able to tell in this blackness. He looked at his watch. Two o'clock, and they still hadn't inflated a tank. They were going to be stuck here forever. beginning to lift. When he switched on his torch so he could return the needle to the beginning of the record, the phonograph was shrouded in mist. And even if it should lift, they wouldn't be able to tell in this blackness. He looked at his watch. Two o'clock, and they still hadn't inflated a tank. They were going to be stuck here forever.

Cess finally completed the mired tank and slogged across the field to the copse to do the other two, Ernest following with the cutter, making tread tracks to indicate where the tanks had driven in under the trees.

Halfway there, the sound of tanks shut off. d.a.m.n, he'd forgotten to move the needle. He had to go all the way back across the pasture to start the record, and he'd no sooner reached the cutter again than the fog did indeed lift. "I told you," Cess said happily, and it immediately began to rain.

"The phonograph!" Cess cried, and Ernest had to rescue it and then the umbrella and prop it over the phonograph, tying it to the tank's rubber gun with rope.

The shower lasted till just before dawn, magnifying the mud and making the gra.s.s so slippery that Ernest fell down twice more-once racing to move the phonograph needle, which had stuck and was repeating the same three seconds of tank rumbling over and over, and the second time helping Cess repair yet another puncture. "But think of the war story you'll have to tell your grandchildren!" Cess said as he wiped the mud off.

"I doubt whether I'll ever have grandchildren," Ernest said, spitting out mud. "I am beginning to doubt whether I'll even survive this night."

"Nonsense, the sun'll be up any moment, and we're nearly done here." Cess leaned down so he could see the tread marks, which Ernest had to admit looked very realistic. "Make two more tracks, and I'll finish off this last tank. We'll be home in time for breakfast."

And in time for me to finish the articles and run them over to Sudbury by nine, Ernest thought, aligning the tracker with the other tread marks and pushing down hard on it. Which would be good. He didn't like the idea of those other articles sitting there for another week, even in a locked drawer. Now that he could partially see where he was going and didn't need to stop and check his path with the torch every few feet, it should only take him twenty minutes to do the treads and load the lorry, and another three-quarters of an hour back home. They should be there by seven at the latest, which would give him more than enough time.

But he'd only gone a few yards before Cess loomed out of the fog and tapped him on the shoulder. "The fog's beginning to lift," he said. "We'd best get out of here. I'll finish off the tanks and you start on stowing the equipment."

Cess was right; the fog was beginning to thin. Ernest could make out the vague shapes of trees, ghostly in the gray dawn, and across the field a fence and three black-and-white cows placidly chewing gra.s.s-luckily, on the far side of it.

Ernest folded up the tarp, untied the umbrella, carried them and the pump to the lorry, and came back for the cutter. He picked it up, decided there was no way he could carry it all the way across the field, set it down, pulled the cord to start it, and pushed it back, making one last track from just in front of the tank's left tread to the edge of the field, and lugged it, limping, from there to the lorry. By the time he'd hoisted it up into the back, the fog was beginning to break up, tearing apart into long streamers which drifted like veils across the pasture, revealing the long line of tread marks leading to the copse and the rear end of one imperfectly hidden tank peeking out from the leaves, with the other behind it. Even though Ernest knew how it had been done, it looked real, and he wasn't fifteen thousand feet up. From that height, the deception would be perfect. Unless, of course, there was a phonograph standing in the middle of the pasture.

He started back for it, able to actually see where he was going for several yards at a time, but as he reached the tank, the fog closed in again, thicker than ever, cutting off everything-even the tank next to him. He shut the phonograph and fastened the clasps, then folded up the table. "Cess!" he called in what he thought was his general direction. "How are you coming along?" and the fog abruptly parted, like theater curtains sweeping open, and he could see the copse of trees and the entire pasture.

And the bull. It stood halfway across the pasture, a huge s.h.a.ggy brown creature with beady little eyes and enormous horns. It was looking at the tank.

"Hey! You there!" a voice called from the fence. "What do you think you're doing in my pasture?" And Ernest turned instinctively to look at the farmer standing there.

So did the bull.

"Get those b.l.o.o.d.y tanks out of my pasture!" the farmer shouted, angrily jabbing the air with his finger.

The bull watched him, fascinated, for a moment, then swung his head back around. To look directly at Ernest.

It has always been my great regret that we had to break our record, and that, unlike a certain famous theatre with its naked ladies, we could not claim: "We never closed."-W. R. MATTHEWS, DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, WRITING OF THE BLITZ

London-15 September 1940

THE NICE THING ABOUT TIME-LAG WAS THAT ONE COULD sleep lying on a cold stone floor with bombs crashing and anti-aircraft guns roaring. Polly even slept through the all clear. When she woke, only Lila and Viv were still there, folding up the blanket they'd sat on, and the sour-faced Mrs. Rickett. sleep lying on a cold stone floor with bombs crashing and anti-aircraft guns roaring. Polly even slept through the all clear. When she woke, only Lila and Viv were still there, folding up the blanket they'd sat on, and the sour-faced Mrs. Rickett.

She's probably staying to make certain I don't take anything when I leave, Polly thought, picking up her satchel and the "to let" listings, and wondering how early on a Sunday it was acceptable to show up to look at a room. She glanced at her watch. Half past six Half past six. Not as early as this. It was too bad she couldn't stay here and sleep. She still felt drugged, but Mrs. Rickett, her thin arms folded grimly across her chest as she glared at Lila and Viv, was hardly likely to allow that.

They went out, giggling, and Mrs. Rickett started over to Polly. To hurry me along To hurry me along, Polly thought, putting her coat on. "I'll only be a moment-" she began.

"You said you were looking for a room?" Mrs. Rickett said, pointing at the newspaper in Polly's hand.

"Yes."

"I have one," Mrs. Rickett said. "I run a boardinghouse. I intended to put it in the papers, but if you're interested it's at 14 Cardle Street. You can come along with me now and see it if you like. It's not far."

And it was one of Mr. Dunworthy's approved addresses. "Yes," Polly said, following her out the door and up the steps. "Thank you." She stopped and stared up at the building they'd come out of, its spire outlined against the dawn sky.

It's a church, she thought. That explained the clergyman's presence and the discussion about the altar flowers. The stairs they'd just come up were on the side of the church, and there was a notice board on the wall next to it. "Church of St. George, Kensington," it read. "The Rev. Floyd Norris, Rector."

"My single rooms with board are ten and eight," Mrs. Rickett said, crossing the street. "It's a nice, cozy room." Which meant minuscule, and probably appalling.

But it's only six weeks. Or rather five, with the slippage, Polly thought. And I'll scarcely ever be in it. I'll be at the store all day and in the tube shelters at night And I'll scarcely ever be in it. I'll be at the store all day and in the tube shelters at night. "How far is the nearest tube station?" she asked.

"Notting Hill Gate," Mrs. Rickett said, pointing back the way they'd come. "Three streets over."

Perfect. Notting Hill Gate wasn't as deep as Holborn or Bank, but it had never been hit, and it was on the Central Line to Oxford Street. And it was less than a quarter of a mile from Cardle Street. Mr. Dunworthy would be delirious. If the room was habitable.

It was, barely. It was on the third floor, and so "cozy" the bed filled the room and Mrs. Rickett had to squeeze past its foot to get to the wardrobe on the far side. The floor was liver-colored linoleum, the wallpaper was darker still, and even when Mrs. Rickett pulled the blackout curtains back from the single small window, there was scarcely any light. The "facilities" were one flight up, the bathroom two, and hot water was extra.

But it met all of Mr. Dunworthy's requirements, and she wouldn't have to spend valuable time looking for a room. She had a feeling Mrs. Rickett would be a dreadful landlady, but having an address would make it easier for the department stores to contact her. "Have you a telephone?" she asked.

"Downstairs in the vestibule, but it's for local calls only. Five p. If you need to make a trunk call, there's a pillar box on Lampden Road. And no calls after 9 P.M P.M."

"I'll take it," Polly said, opening her handbag.

Mrs. Rickett held out her hand. "That will be one pound five. Payable in advance."

"But I thought you said it was ten and eight-"

"This room is a double."

So much for the legendary wartime spirit of generosity, Polly thought. "You've no single rooms available?"

"No."

And even if you did, you wouldn't tell me, but it was only for five weeks. She handed her the money.

Mrs. Rickett pocketed it. "No male visitors abovestairs. No smoking or drinking, and no cooking in your room. On weekdays and Sat.u.r.days, breakfast is at seven and supper at six. Sunday dinner's at one o'clock, and there's a cold collation for supper." She held out her hand. "I'll need your ration book."

Polly handed it to her. "When is breakfast?" she asked, hoping it was soon.

"Your board doesn't start till tomorrow," Mrs. Rickett said, and Polly had to resist the impulse to s.n.a.t.c.h the ration book back and tell her she'd look elsewhere. "Here's your room key." Mrs. Rickett handed it to her. "And your latch key."

"Thank you," Polly said, trying to inch to the door, but she had a few more rules to deliver. "No children and no pets. I require a fortnight's notice of departure. I hope you're you're not frightened of the bombs like my last boarder." not frightened of the bombs like my last boarder."

"No," Polly said. Just so time-lagged I can hardly stand Just so time-lagged I can hardly stand.

"Your blackout curtains must be pulled by five o'clock, so if you won't be back from work by then, do them before you leave in the morning. You'll have to pay any fines for blackout infractions," she said and finally left.

Polly sank down on the bed. She needed to go find the drop so she'd know where it was from here and from the church, then find the tube station and go to Oxford Street to see what time the stores opened tomorrow. But she was so so tired. The time-lag was even worse than last time. Then, a good night's sleep had been all she needed to adjust. But even though she'd slept nearly eight hours last night in the shelter, she felt as exhausted as if she hadn't had any sleep at all. tired. The time-lag was even worse than last time. Then, a good night's sleep had been all she needed to adjust. But even though she'd slept nearly eight hours last night in the shelter, she felt as exhausted as if she hadn't had any sleep at all.

And she wasn't likely to get much in the coming days. She couldn't count on being able to sleep through the bombing every night. The contemps had all complained about being sleep-deprived during the Blitz.