Christmas on the Home Front. Roland Moore

The younger man had concern etched on his face, terror in his eyes. His name was Siegfried Weber. He was twenty-two and although this has been his third mission, he had never been to England before.

      The older man winced and clutched his right arm. His name was Emory Mayer. He was forty and this had been his eighteenth mission. He had worked as a tailor in England for two years in the 1920s and if sartorial thoughts were foremost in his mind right now, he’d have registered the state of his uniform, which was partially burnt away around the arm, the skin underneath blackened. Siegfried couldn’t tell whether it was from the burn or from dirt from the fuel. He didn’t want to rub it to find out. Instead, he lifted his captain as best as he could and shuffled them both even further away from the plane. It was burning brightly, and Siegfried knew it would be a beacon for anyone trying to find survivors. They had to get away.

      Siegfried hoisted Emory’s good arm over his shoulder and walked them across the scrubland, inching slowly away. Every now and then he would risk a look behind him, hoping that the wreckage would be a small dot on the horizon. But the progress was such that he stopped looking behind him, knowing that the continued proximity of the plane would sap his morale and rob him of the impetus to keep going.

      The plane exploded in a final, epic fireball, plumes of black smoke reaching fleetingly into the sky before disappearing forever. Siegfried risked a look back, feeling a burst of heat on his face. And then the fire was gone, the hulking remains continuing to spew black smoke into a black sky. He hoped that the explosion had signified the end of the plane acting like a beacon for the enemy.

      In the distance, Siegfried could hear dogs barking. They sounded close, but he had no idea how close. How could the search have been coordinated so quickly? Siegfried tried to calm his nerves, taking deep breaths as he hauled his captain along. No, the searchers were probably a long way away and the sound of the dogs had carried in the wind.

      Siegfried knew that he couldn’t be certain of any of that. He knew that his life was hanging by a thread. He had to find shelter soon; a place to give medical treatment to his captain. They had to find somewhere safe.

      Joyce Fisher stood on the front step of the village hall, staring up at the sky. She thought she’d heard an explosion in the distance, far off in Frensham Fields. But it could have been soldiers on night manoeuvres. Esther came out to join her and they looked out into the night sky together. A chill wind was blowing gently, carrying a faint rainfall and Joyce felt her face getting slightly damp. It was oddly refreshing and she didn’t immediately think about going back inside. Sometimes it was good to feel nature and enjoy a light rain against your face.

      ‘We should be getting back to the farm,’ Esther commented.

      ‘I know,’ Joyce replied. She and Dolores would have to be awake by six and out working by half-past. Late nights weren’t something you could keep doing when you were a land girl, not unless you wanted to fall asleep on your shovel.

      By the time they got back to Pasture Farm it was nearly ten o’clock. Joyce locked the back door. The light flickered slightly.

      ‘Probably the rain,’ Esther commented. ‘I keep telling Fred that the junction box gets submerged when there’s too much water.’

      Joyce turned out the light and she and Esther trudged up the stairs to the bedrooms. Joyce could hear Dolores murmuring in her sleep and she wished Esther a hushed goodnight and went into her own room.

      ‘See you in the morning,’ Joyce whispered.

      ‘I wish it was really the morning. It’s still the middle of the night when we get up, isn’t it?’ Esther replied. They shared a smile as Joyce closed the door behind her.

      She dropped her dress to the floor and carefully folded it over the back of the chair. Walking to the window, Joyce closed the curtains. Outside she could hear the plaintive cries of a fox somewhere in Gorley Wood. She got her washbag and sat on the bed, waiting for the sounds of Esther in the bathroom to fall silent before she ventured out to see if it was free.

      Joyce stared at the dressing table. A dog-eared photograph of John was propped next to her rollers and hairbrush. Seeing his face warmed her heart and made her smile. She hoped he was resting and taking it easy and not having too many chores to do for Teddy. But more than that she hoped he would be back soon; back on the train.

      She hoped he’d be back in time for Christmas.

       Chapter 2

      Seven days to Christmas.

      It was chilly in the fields with a winter frost covering the ploughed soil as Joyce, Connie, and Iris trudged out to repair a fallen fence; the earth cracking under their feet like frozen chocolate on ice cream. They competed to see who could produce the biggest bloom of cloudy air from their lungs until they all felt dizzy and had to stop. Iris wanted to find out who had the widest stride and started taking huge steps on her way to the field. Connie tried too. Joyce thought this was unfair as her legs were shorter than both the other women, but they joked and cajoled her into having a go.

      ‘Well, make sure you’re watching!’

      ‘Go on, Joyce. See if you can beat Iris’s record.’

      ‘Yes, I managed to get all the way from that furrow to this one.’

      ‘It was never that far.’ Joyce suspected they were trying to put her off by fibbing. This was psychological warfare. ‘You’d have to be on stilts to do that.’

      ‘Excuse me. My legs are exactly like stilts.’

      ‘Hush now, I’ve got to focus.’

      Joyce concentrated as the other women watched expectantly. She lifted one foot and pushed it forward as far as it would go before planting it on the ground. At the last minute she realised she’d overstretched, and while Connie and Iris had managed to do the manoeuvre elegantly, Joyce lost her balance and fell over. Connie helped her to her feet, and they walked the remaining distance across the field giggling at the ridiculous competitions they invented. It was a way to pass the time; a way to have fun in these difficult times.

      Reaching the fence, they started to sort the planks of wood and posts on the ground into a rough approximation of the fence they planned to build. Joyce counted out nails as Connie idly swung the mallet round like a gunslinger from a western.

      ‘Here, do you think I could test your reflexes with this, Iris?’

      ‘Not flaming likely. You’d break my leg.’

      Iris and Connie dissolved into a fit of giggles.

      ‘Will you two stop mucking about? I want to finish this job before Christmas day.’ Joyce was grinning too as she placed the nails into different pockets ready for the assembly.

      They had lived through five wartime Christmases and it was getting hard to remember the ones before. Or at least it was getting hard to remember them without them being painted as halcyon days when everything was perfect. But there was no denying that those pre-war Christmases had plenty of food and presents; they were times you didn’t have to scrimp and save your rations for the big day; when turkeys and chickens hung in the butchers’ windows and you could take your pick; times when you could put on a pair of stockings without having to think about faking them with an eyebrow pencil to draw the seams.

      Each Christmas since had seemed to present more challenges. As people became adept at scouring the shops for sought-after rations, basic goods for Christmas became harder to source. You really did have to be an early bird. This year, like the ones before that she’d spent on the farm, Joyce had put aside some of the sixteen shillings she was paid by Finch since September. This nest egg, together with money from the other girls, could enable them to buy a decent ox heart or some beef cheek from the butchers – plus other food and drink for the Christmas period. But it wasn’t always easy to save.

      ‘Sorry I haven’t put any into the pot for a few weeks,’ Joyce looked apologetically