World War II Rescue at Drumshee
Chapter One
‘Submarine!’
The yelled word was almost more shocking than the ear-splitting wail of the
siren had been. There was a second’s silence, then the thud of running feet.
Ed threw down his pen, and before the wailing alarm signal began again, he had
rushed across the small cramped cabin, wrenched open the door and was pounding
up the iron ladder.
‘Take to the boats!’ came the order as he reached the deck.
Ed looked briefly across the deck. Less than five hundred yards away, he saw
the black shape of a submarine. The submarine’s spotlight had gripped onto the
small American tanker and its gun was trained towards them.
‘Ed, lend us a hand with this!’ It was Bill - Sid with him – both of
them Ed’s best friends. In less than a minute the boat was in the sea at the
far side of the tanker.
‘Jump,’ screamed Ed – and all three jumped together. Bill landed first
– right in the centre of the boat, then Sid, on the edge – dangerously
tilting it - and last Ed, crashing into the water, by the side of the boat. In a
second he had balanced the boat with his hand and then hauled himself in.
‘Row, like the blazes!’ he yelled. ‘Get away from the tanker!’
At that moment the gun from the submarine boomed, there was a vivid flash, a
terrible smell of oil and then the sea was covered with an oily film that shone
blue and pink and iridescent green.
‘Row,’ screamed Ed again. ‘The tanks have been split. Get away from the
oil slick! The whole sea will go on fire at the next shot.’
Panic drove them and they didn’t care that with every stroke they were
nearer and nearer to the submarine. It was almost a relief when guttural German
voices hailed them and a rope ladder was flung down to them. Quickly they
swarmed up it and stood on deck watching. The gun boomed again, the shot fell
short of the tanker but it fell on the oil slick and there was an explosion that
rocked the whole sea.
And then the fire spread from the sea to the oil tanker, burning its decks,
spiralling down its iron ladders to reach the cabins of the crew. For a moment
the flames lit up the cabin that Ed shared with Bill and Sid and shone on the
letter left lying on the cabin table.
George Washington
Boston
USA
4/6/1940
Dear Mom
In spite of the above address, here I am the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. We’ve
had a good voyage so far, no storms. The only problem is that it is boring. I
keep thinking about you and Vivian, and Auntie Bridget, and the twins all having
a great time at Drumshee with Granny and Granddad. Still, I’m doing well. I
got promoted to the rank of second engineer last week and a rise in pay.
Anyway, here’s the real reason for writing. I now know the date– it
should be about July 25 - that we will be arriving at Belfast to deliver oil and
better still, we will remain there for two weeks. I’ll be able to spend a good
long time with you and Granny and Granddad at Drumshee.
How’s Vivian? I’m sure that you and Dad are right – that Dean is much
too old for her, and I wouldn’t trust him too far, anyway. Perhaps she’ll
meet a nice Irish boy and fall in love with him.
We’ll be stopping off in Iceland tomorrow so I’ll post this then.
Hopefully, it will get to you before I do! In any case, I’ll send a telegram
when I arrive at Belfast.
Your loving son,
Ed.
And then the letter was just a piece of charred paper, the cabin no longer
existed; the fire moved on, found the oil tanks down in the hold and then the
moon and stars were extinguished in the red glare that lit up the night. A
second later, the explosion opened a crater in the sea. A pillar of white smoke
rose from sea to sky and when it cleared the sea was empty. The three young
Americans gasped with horror. It seemed impossible that the George Washington
and its crew had vanished so completely.
‘Gefängene,’ said a voice behind them.
‘That means prisoners,’ said Bill.
Bill’s grandmother was German, remembered Ed. So they were prisoners now.
They would be taken back to Germany, put into German prison camps. He would not
have his holiday in Ireland, would not see his father, mother and sister again
until the war was over, or perhaps never. He stared dully out on the empty sea.
If only there was someone out there who might rescue him.
*
On the very same day, 4 June 1940, a boy and girl sat up on the top of the
tallest tree in their garden and gazed out to sea. Their names were Clive and
Marjorie Chandler. Clive was aged thirteen and Marjorie was eleven. They lived
in a house on the top of a hill only one mile from Hawkinge aerodrome where
their father Bob was a Group Captain and a pilot of a Spitfire aeroplane. They
could see the sea very plainly from the tree, as their house was only three
miles from south coast of England. On a fine day like today it was possible to
see the coast of France from where they sat, but today they were looking at the
sea itself.
There was only about twenty-five miles of sea between the coast of Dunkirk in
northern France and the beach of Folkestone in southern England and today every
mile of it was crowded with boats. Big troop carriers, destroyers, barges, small
yachts, even rowing boats – every man who could sail or row was out there
today in the desperate struggle to bring the English troops back from France
before they could be killed or imprisoned by the Germans. It wasn’t an easy
task: overhead the German aeroplanes, the Stukkas and the Dorniers, shot
continuously at the helpless men in the ships and boats. There would have been
no hope of bringing the British troops back if had not been for the heroic
Spitfire and Hurricane pilots from Hawkinge aerodrome who darted in and out and
shot down as many German planes as they could.
‘I wish I could be there,’ said Clive, his blue eyes intense with
longing.
I don’t, thought Marjorie. Her stomach felt sick at the very thought of it.
She knew her father was out there, risking his life the way he did every day.
One day, she knew, someone would come and tell her that he was dead, just the
way that the headmistress of her boarding school had told her about the death of
her mother in a train crash two years ago. She would only have Clive to look
after her if anything happened to her father, she thought, and now he wanted to
leave her, to go off and get killed too.
‘You’re too young,’ she said aloud, trying to keep the panic out of her
voice.
‘I’m not,’ said Clive pushing his thick blond hair back from his eyes.
‘At least I could have taken a boat out there. I can row well. Oh look,
Marjorie, there’s a real dogfight going on over there. Look towards Lympne.
Some of these Germans are trying to get across here to Kent.’
Marjorie watched; her finger nails digging into the palms of her hands. Was
her father there in the middle of that dogfight? She almost envied her dead
mother. If she were dead now, she would not have to endure this terror every
day. Which aeroplanes were which, she wondered. She always found them hard to
tell apart although she knew that the Stukkas were the German ones and
Hurricanes and the Spitfires were the English ones. Bursts of fire came from all
the planes and then suddenly and sickeningly, one aeroplane began to spin around
and then to lurch over on one wing. Flames burst from it and it began to drop
down towards the sea.
Marjorie screamed. Was it a Spitfire? She didn’t know, but she felt as if
her own body was on fire.
‘Don’t be stupid, Marjorie,’ said Clive roughly. ‘That’s a Stukka;
it’s got a black cross on it. The RAF planes all have a red, white and blue
circle on them. Take your hands away from your eyes. This is a super wizard
show. Buck up, old girl, show some courage.’
Where do you get courage, wondered Marjorie? Was everyone born with courage
and did some people’s courage just leak away when things happened like their
mother dying and their father going off in his Spitfire everyday to fight the
Germans? She didn’t know, but she knew that Clive would despise her forever if
he knew how much of a coward she was really. She took her hands from her eyes
and stared ahead dully.
‘There’s a Spitfire coming back,’ she said in a flat voice.
‘It’s not a Spitfire,’ yelled Clive. ‘It’s a Stukka; there’s
three of them. They’re coming in our direction. Quick, Marjorie, we must get
down to the shelter.’
Clive was down from the tree in a flash, but Marjorie’s legs suddenly began
to shake and her teeth began to chatter. She couldn’t take her eyes off the
planes coming nearer and nearer at such a terrifying speed. It seemed as if they
could see her, up there in the oak tree, and they were making straight for her.
In another moment they would open fire and then it would be all over.
‘Marjorie!’ screamed Clive. ‘Come on. Quick!’
In another moment he had climbed back up the tree and was tugging at her
hand. His hands were so warm, she noticed confusedly. And he had come back for
her! Suddenly the dreamy cold feeling that had come over her seemed to melt away
and she grabbed at a low branch of the oak tree with her other hand.
Instinctively her foot found its usual toehold and in a minute they were both
down on the lawn and running towards the house.
The wail of the air-raid siren from Hawkinge aerodrome sounded then and,
almost instantly, came the shriek of an aircraft just overhead, getting louder
and louder every minute.
Marjorie’s fears came drowned her again and she crouched down in the middle
of the lawn like a frightened rabbit in the glare of a lamp. Hobbs, the
gardener, came running down from the vegetable garden and scooped her up like a
baby in his arms. In a minute all three were in the house and he had put her
down on the steps to the air raid shelter in the cellar of their house.
Mrs Pluckley, the cook, was already there and so were Chrissie and Janet, the
two maids.
'Couldn't wipe your boots before you came,' snapped Mrs Pluckley as the
gardener.
'There is a war on,' said old Hobbs, stuffing some tobacco in his pipe and
lighting it. 'You can't worry about little things like a bit of mud.'
‘I know there’s a war on,’ grumbled Mrs Pluckley. 'We’re up and down
to this cellar like a lot of yo-yo’s. How can I get the work done when all
this keeps going on? If I met that Adolf Hitler, I'd give him a piece of my
mind.'
'You might meet him soon, if the invasion happens,' said Clive, under his
breath.
'Tell us about The Great War, Mr Hobbs,' said Marjorie loudly in his ear.
That was the best way to keep him quiet, she knew. They had all heard it all
before, but Clive would only get furious and irritated if Hobbs and Mrs Pluckley
spent all their time arguing. He would want to listen to the aircraft.
'We had aeroplanes then, too,' said Hobbs, 'Of course, they were bi-planes,
then 'Oh, my God!' screamed Chrissie, and Marjorie jumped.
'That was near!' said Clive with great excitement.
'They'll make a proper mess of my lovely roses with all those pieces of
shrapnel spraying through the air,' grumbled Hobbs.
'It's going quiet now,' said Janet.
They all listened intently. The shrieking sound was dying away; it was
replaced suddenly by a screaming roar.
'They've scrambled!' yelled Clive. 'The 'Spits' are up after them. They'll do
for the bastards!'
'Mind your language,' said Mrs Pluckley sharply, but Clive took no notice
'Rat-a-tat-tat,' he yelled, pointing an imaginary machine gun at the cellar
wall. 'Got you, you Hun.'
Chrissie and Janet giggled hysterically, but Marjorie felt cold and sick.
Clive was a bit like a bomb himself, she thought. He seemed as if he might blow
up any minute. I wish we could get away from here, she thought. Hide
underground, perhaps, somewhere out of the sound of air raid sirens and never
come out until the war had ended.
'Clive,' she yelled suddenly, not able to bear the noise any longer. 'Clive,
shut up, you're making it worse.'
Clive stopped shouting and turned around to look at her with such
astonishment that Marjorie began to giggle. Once she started, she just couldn't
stop. It was a horrible feeling; the giggling just went on and on, and then she
got hiccups and they were so bad, she felt as if her middle would break apart.
'Here, drink this,' said Mrs Pluckley thrusting a mug of water under her
nose.
Marjorie tried to drink. The water tasted horrible: flat, warmish, and stale.
She choked as a sudden violent hiccup shook her. The water went all down the
front of her dress.
'Put a cold key down her back,' grunted Hobbs.
'That's for nosebleeds,' said Chrissie.
'Hold your breath, Marjorie,' advised Clive, putting his arm around her.
Marjorie tried to hold her breath, but it wasn't long before another hiccup
forced its way out. Suddenly a new sound came: a long wailing sound. Marjorie
sucked in a long breath and held it, listening all the time.
'All-clear,' said Clive with relief, and then after a minute: 'Your hiccups
have stopped, Marjorie!'
Marjorie took a cautious breath. The violent tremors inside her had stopped.
'Are you feeling better?' asked Clive.
Marjorie nodded. She was afraid to talk, in case the hiccups started again.
'Come out in the garden with me,' said Hobbs. 'You can help me to deadhead
the roses. War, or no war, I've never seen such a summer for roses.'
Marjorie began to feel better as she wandered around the garden snipping the
roses. Clive came out, looked at her and then went back in again. He despised
her; she knew that. If only she could be brave. She put down the scissors on the
table and started to follow him indoors, but then she stopped. He had turned on
the radio. She didn’t want to hear the news, didn’t want to know how many
people had been killed. She picked up the scissors again, but the voice on the
radio was so loud that she couldn’t help hearing it. It was Winston Churchill.
He had been prime minister for only a short time, but already he was the most
important person in the country and Bob Chandler thought that he would the
person who would win the war.
'We shall fight in France,' said Churchill. 'We shall fight on the seas and
oceans: we shall fight in the air. We shall defend our island, whatever the cost
may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds: we
shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we
shall never surrender.'
The radio snapped off and a minute later Clive came out, his eyes shining.
‘Did you hear that, Marjorie,’ he shouted. ‘I bet that got your courage
up. If only we could do something! – Even rescue somebody! Then we’d feel
part of the fight.’
Back to Drumshee Timeline Series booklist
Murder
at Drumshee (book 10)
|
|