Christmas on the Home Front. Roland Moore

All he had to worry about then were the sores on his hands from the milking equipment and the barking voice of the farmer who would talk about meeting quotas at any opportunity. Such easy times!

      Siegfried imagined that the fields beyond the woods would suit dairy farming. The terrain didn’t look too different from Coswig and it was easy to imagine himself at home. Oh, how he wished he was at home.

      Emory stirred in the back of the car, his mouth moving as if he was eating food. Siegfried glanced back as his captain’s bleary eyes focussed and a look of resigned disappointment spread on his face; as if he’d forgotten where he had gone to sleep the night before. He winced at the discomfort in his right arm as reality came rushing back.

      ‘Anything to report?’ His voice was croaky and dry.

      ‘I haven’t seen a soul,’ Siegfried shrugged. Now that he knew Emory wasn’t sleeping, Siegfried allowed himself to stretch in his seat to ease the soreness in his back. He took the canvas bag from the passenger seat and removed a small metal canister. Unscrewing the top, he offered it to his commander to take the first drink. Emory took it and glugged down a big swig of water. He handed it back and Siegfried did the same.

      ‘We need food,’ Emory stated. ‘And we need to find some clothes that don’t stand out like our uniforms.’

      Siegfried nodded. They were wearing their standard issue Luftwaffe uniforms. It was one of the first priorities to ditch such uniforms if a flyer found himself behind enemy lines.

      Soon the men had got out of the car and were stretching their legs in the frosty early morning sun. Competing birdsong from the trees filled their ears. Siegfried took a pocket compass from his bag and passed it to Emory.

      ‘Seems to be a rural area,’ Siegfried offered.

      ‘Less chance of them finding us. We should move mainly at night. We need to send a message. Get help.’

      ‘Who will help us here?’

      Siegfried found the notion that the British would help them absurd. Surely any British person would want to imprison or harm them?

      ‘There are networks. People who sympathise with us.’ Emory’s attention was taken by a plume of smoke in the distance. A cottage, perhaps a mile away, was burning a fire.

      ‘Isn’t it too risky?’ Siegfried followed his commander’s gaze.

      ‘We don’t have an option. We’ll steal what we can and get away. Ready?’

      Siegfried nodded and the two men set off across the field, the most direct route to the small cottage. Siegfried felt conspicuous in his uniform, but Emory was striding forward across the ploughed ground seemingly without such concerns.

      Soon they had reached the perimeter of hawthorn hedge that surrounded the cottage. Within the perimeter, the grass was overgrown, and machinery parts were sprawled about. The cottage itself was a single storey building with a thatched roof and two windows and a green door that needed repainting. Emory and Siegfried crouched behind the hedge, watching for signs of movement.

      The door opened and a burly, bald-headed man in a cable-knit sweater appeared. Siegfried didn’t fancy their chances against him in a fair fight. But then he saw that Emory was gripping his service-issue knife. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. Siegfried got his knife out too and gripped it tightly. The man from the cottage stood still for a moment, a plate of potato peelings in his hand. Had he spotted them? Then he arched his back and belched before moving across the garden. When he reached the end, he tipped the peelings into a compost heap and went back inside.

      ‘What do you think?’ Siegfried whispered.

      ‘He would have clothes.’

      They both knew it was risky to venture inside. What if the man was not alone? And even if he was alone and they overpowered him, Siegfried knew that the alarm would be raised, and people would be on their trail. No, they had to be careful and not leave a trail of destruction. Not unless they had no other option.

      ‘He’s growing something near the compost bin.’ Emory pointed to where potatoes and cauliflower were growing. ‘That would keep us going until we find something better.’

      Siegfried nodded. He liked the idea of stealing a cauliflower more than the idea of facing that man in a fight. Emory indicated for Siegfried to move forwards. There was no gate, so Siegfried moved into the garden, keeping low and near to the house so that he couldn’t be seen from the windows. Emory was keeping look out. Siegfried reached the edge of the cottage. There was no choice now. He had to go across about ten feet of open garden to reach the vegetable patch. Taking a deep breath and clutching his dagger, Siegfried ran in a crouch across the area. He reached the patch, not daring to look back. He scanned the food on offer and pulled up a cauliflower. Tucking it under his arm, he ran back to the comparative safety of the side of the cottage. He waited a moment, listening for any movement. When he was satisfied that no one was going to burst out of the door, Siegfried ran back to the perimeter opening. He ran through and Emory joined him in a sprint away from the cottage. When they reached the abandoned car, both men were out of breath and giddy with the excitement of their small victory.

      Siegfried tossed the cauliflower to his commander, who used his knife to break it apart. They ate hungrily, crunching down the raw vegetable. Siegfried suspected he would get indigestion, but it was better than being hungry.

      When they had finished, the men got back into the old car. They would wait until dusk before venturing out again. Siegfried gripped the knife and allowed a light sleep to take him. He could feel the cauliflower settling uneasily in his stomach. But it didn’t matter. He knew they would both feel better for their meal. The men took turns to nap and keep watch. Siegfried was soon bored of looking at the cramped confines of the car and felt that he knew each inch of the dashboard and steering wheel; each rip on the musty leather seats. But eventually after the longest day in his life, dusk began to fall.

      And when it did, Siegfried became aware of a tiny squeaking sound in the distance. It was too rhythmic to be a mouse. No, it was a bicycle. He roused the dozing Emory and they listened together. Someone was nearing the end of the lane. Quietly, Siegfried got out of the car. Emory followed, gripping his knife. The unseen rider’s foot slipped off the pedal and Siegfried heard them spin without resistance. A moment later the rider had control of the bicycle again – and was getting closer and closer. There was no avoiding the inevitable confrontation. Siegfried picked up a small branch. It might be a better weapon to use at a distance.

      And they waited.

      A few minutes later a dark-haired woman with pale skin and deep brown eyes cycled into view. She was dressed in a crimson coat and had a magazine tucked under one arm. Abruptly, she stopped cycling when she saw the two men waiting.

      A look of fear crossed the face of Connie Carter.

       Chapter 3

      Six days to Christmas.

      When Joyce woke she was aware that it was later than it should be. The sun was higher than she expected, and the sky was a vibrant slate-blue colour that signified it was far beyond dawn. Usually when she awoke, it was as if the sky hadn’t been coloured in for the day. There was no denying that she had overslept and, disorientated, she fumbled for her wristwatch from the bedside table and squinted to make out the time.

      Nine o’clock.

      Why hadn’t Esther woken her?

      Joyce swung her legs out of bed and padded over to the window. Pulling back the curtains, she could see the morning sun dappling the south field. The tractor stood parked in the distance, its rotavator blades raised skyward as if in silent prayer. There was no one working in the fields and an eerie quietness all around.

      Joyce pulled her sweater over her head, walked out the room and made her way downstairs.

      ‘Esther?’ She shouted.

      No answer.