Shoes for Anthony (12 page)

‘I really don't know,' said Bethan, her voice clipped. ‘I doubt if they'll come here. Why would they?'

‘To take our women!' yelled Emrys. ‘By God, Alf, can you imagine the punch-ups? They won't stand a chance. Not against pitmen.'

‘Don't be so sure, Emrys,' said Bethan. ‘They're trained soldiers, remember? And they've not been on rations for years on end.'

‘What you talking about?' said Alf. ‘Jam sandwiches are the food of the gods. I shall fight them to the death.'

I let out a laugh. I looked up towards Bethan and saw a small smile mustering in the torchlight.

‘What's that noise?' said Emrys, coming up sharp.

We all stopped. An odd thick whine was coming up behind us, but in the pitch black it was impossible to see what it was. I peered down the street. ‘Can't see anything,' I said.

‘Sounds like a van coming,' said Bethan, tugging at my jumper. ‘Get off the road, Ant.'

‘Why would a van be coming up at this time …?' began Emrys, narrowing his eyes in an effort to penetrate the gloom.

And then I realised. It wasn't something coming up the street. It was something going over it. It was the same noise I'd heard up the mountain.

‘It's a plane!' I shouted. ‘Told you about the Mozzie. Must be the same one!'

I stared up into the sky, bursting with excitement. It was quite something to see a Mozzie so low once … but twice? A deep, penetrating rumble rolled closer. It was coming right over the rooftops. Bethan shone her torch upwards in the hope we might catch sight of something, but I could only make out the chimney tops, the constant wafts of smoke making strange shifting shapes across the night sky.

‘Beam's too weak,' said Bethan, tapping at the end of it.

I peered into the black; was that a shadow moving towards us?

‘There!' I shouted. ‘Up there!'

The rumble turned into an ear-splitting roar. I clamped my hands to my ears as the plane, louder than I remembered, passed over us. I couldn't make out any details; it was just a large, dark mass. A sudden, sharp wind blew across us and Bethan had to grab her hat to stop it rolling up the street.

‘Christ, it's low,' said Alf.

There was a strange whining noise, splutters and cracks, as if the engines were faltering.

‘They need to pull up,' said Emrys. ‘They're going to hit the mountain! Pull up, man!' he yelled. ‘Pull up!'

Odd-sounding, fractured glitches echoed off the rooftops followed by a crunching, disturbing mechanical death rattle. I strained to hear more, but there was nothing, nothing at all. A terrible, deadly silence filled the gloom. It felt like an eternity but in reality it must only have lasted seconds.

‘Oh, God, no,' whispered Bethan.

A thumping boom and a ball of flame shot upwards into the night sky.

We felt the energy of it, an invisible wave that sent me reeling, a massive explosion that illuminated the mountain, sending great orbs of fire raging outwards. The air was thick with the bitter smell of burning fuel, and a wall of sour, choking smoke billowed towards us.

‘Cover your face!' yelled Bethan, groping for her gas mask.

I grabbed the bottom of my jumper and pulled it over my nose.

‘Get down!' shouted Emrys, and all of us threw ourselves onto the cobbles.

My mind was racing. Bad things happen.

Bad things happen.

The first thick wave of smoke had rolled over us. I was coughing and it was difficult to see.

‘Knock up as many men as you can!' yelled Alf, pushing himself up. ‘Come on, Emrys! We've got to get up there!'

I felt Bethan's hand tighten around mine. ‘Don't be afraid,' she said, getting to her feet. ‘Quickly, we need to get help.'

I picked myself up and ran alongside her, my hand tight in hers. The street was filled with smoke, making my eyes burn. I rubbed at them and looked beyond the rooftops, my gaze fixed on the mountain. I was consumed by a strange, hollow sense of dread. A dark cloud billowed upwards. There was another explosion. I flinched.

People were coming out from their front doors, wrapping themselves in heavy dressing gowns. It was as if time was suspended: people frozen, staring up, soundless. Bethan punctuated the silence, yelling as we ran, ‘A plane's gone down! Everyone do what you can!'

‘Is it a Mozzie?' someone called out as we flew past. A cry went up. I glanced sideways: a face, hands clutched over a mouth; it was all smudged shadows.

‘Ant,' said Bethan, looking down at me and letting go of my hand. ‘Run to Mr Pugh's. Tell him to call out the Home Guard. I'll get to the cop shop and use their telephone to ring the base.'

I nodded and watched as she ran off down a side street towards the police station. There was just one telephone in the village. I'd only heard of it being used once before, when a tunnel had collapsed underground, a charge having gone off by accident. Ten men had been killed, one of them Bopa's husband.

My heart was thumping, my mouth dry. My legs felt heavy, rooted to the spot. I knew I had to run but it was like being in a wet bog, every step an effort. Pugh's house was towards the top end of the village, past Scott Street. I saw Father and Alwyn running towards the tinder track, but they were ahead of me and didn't hear me call. I dodged right and could make out Mr Pugh's solitary rooftop, black against a sky that was burning orange. A flash of light from a door opening, and then a silhouette moved towards me.

‘Mr Pugh,' I panted, realising it was him. ‘A plane's crashed up the mountain.'

‘I know that, boy,' said Mr Pugh, pulling on his Home Guard tunic and picking up a bucket that sat by his front door. ‘We'll need buckets. And lots of them. Follow me.'

I ran behind him back to the tinder track. ‘Stand there,' Mr Pugh told me, pointing to the spot that led up the mountain. ‘Tell anyone coming to fetch a bucket, fill it in the stream and bring it up.' I looked down into the stream. Father was standing in it, up to his knees. He was filling pans as fast as he could.

Mr Pugh disappeared away through some bracken and I turned, still trying to catch my breath. Footsteps were clattering towards me. ‘Buckets!' I called out. ‘Mr Pugh says bring buckets!'

I ran towards Father. ‘We saw it go down!' I said, my eyes filling with tears. ‘Right over us, it came. Like the other day but …'

‘Go home and fetch my Davy lamp. Alwyn's, too,' said Father. He didn't look down at me. He was staring up at the scramble of bodies making their way towards us.

‘Let's get organised!' he called out, holding his arms up. ‘We need to get water up the mountain. Start making a line! We'll pass it up!'

I pushed my way down the street, a salmon swimming against the tide. The press of bodies was relentless, the air filled with urgent calls, wild, worried eyes. I needed to get out from the scrum, and elbowed my way sideways. A familiar face loomed out at me. Ade. ‘Christ, man,' he said, his mouth gaping open. ‘Think it was that plane flew over us? Let's get up there.'

‘Got to get Father's lamp. Come with me.' I grabbed his jumper by the sleeve and heaved him after me.

Mam was standing on the front step, hands high, trying to tie her hair up. Her gaze was unflinching. I cast a glance over my shoulder. The black cloud was spreading wider. ‘God help them,' mumbled Mam as I pushed past her. She blinked and noticed me. ‘Hang on, where are you going?'

‘Getting the Davys!' I called out. They were in the back kitchen, on the ledge below the window. I grabbed them and turned to run back.

‘Should we get the rifle?' said Ade, nodding towards the back door.

‘What for?' I said. ‘Take a pan off the stove. It'll do for a bucket.'

‘Wait!' shouted my mother, coming in as Ade pulled a saucepan off the top of the oven. ‘That one's got a loose handle. You'll need something bigger. Take this.' She handed Ade a large double-handled pan. Then, taking another pot herself, she headed after us.

Father was standing, up to his knees, in the stream, filling buckets as they were passed to him. Looking up and seeing me, he gestured to another man, who took his place. Taking a box of matches from his waistcoat pocket, he lit both the lamps and handed one to Alwyn. ‘Come on,' said Father, his face grave. ‘Let's get up there.'

I cast a glance back towards Mam. She was joining the long line of people waiting to fill their pots, pans and buckets. Ade nudged me. ‘Let's follow. We're too small to carry water all the way up.' I nodded. Ade passed Mam's saucepan to a woman at the stream's edge, and we struck upwards, following the misty lights from the Davy lamps.

There was a wretched stench in the air, bitter and acrid, that burned into my nostrils. Behind us, voices called out, but as we climbed higher they faded on the wind. There was a sharp, mean edge to the wind that whipped up the path, making me tremble. I climbed faster. Ade was just ahead of me. I could hear him breathing.

The plane had crashed into the ridge below the mountain peak, and as Father and Alwyn reached the plateau, I looked up to see them lit by the fire burning against the hillside. Alwyn raised his arm to shield his face from the heat. ‘It's in two pieces!' I heard Father shout. ‘Front end is gone. Back end's not alight. There's a chance we may have survivors!'

Survivors. It was the first time I'd contemplated that someone might be alive. I was expecting nothing but death. I'd seen a dead body. Mam was taking a fruit cake round to a neighbour and I'd gone with her. We'd let ourselves in – nobody locked their front doors in Treherbert – and we'd found her in an armchair, sitting, head slumped gently backwards onto the headrest, her mouth falling open, her eyes half-closed. She looked grey and asleep, as if she'd dozed off listening to the wireless. I hadn't been frightened then, but now I was. If there was a dead body on our mountain, it wasn't going to be sitting and it wasn't going to be grey. It was going to be bloody and violent and real.

I felt dizzy and as we reached the top of the ridge, I rested my hand on an old stone wall and stopped for a moment. I looked down towards my feet and tried to catch my breath. My chest was thumping. I needed courage. As soon as I looked up, I would see it, and it would be burned into my memory for ever. I would never be able to unsee what I was about to see.

‘Bloody hell,' I heard Ade mumble. He stumbled back towards me and pointed upwards, his hand trembling.

I looked up. Above me was the tail fin, broken off and caught on a rock. A chill coursed through me. I wasn't looking up at an RAF insignia. I was looking up at a swastika. The plane was German. Ade was still staring upwards. A swastika. A bloody swastika. Father had said there might be survivors. ‘Christ,' I heard Ade whisper. ‘It's Germans. On our mountain.'

Voices were coming up towards us: the line of buckets and pans making their way up the path. Ahead, I could hear people calling out, then a terrible pained cry. Ade turned and stared at me, his eyes wide. We climbed the final incline on the ridge and, steeling ourselves, turned to look on to the plateau. The heat was tremendous. The plane broken in two, the front half ablaze, the rear section further down the hillside and rolled onto its side. Ash filled the air, small black pieces fluttering down like burnt blossom. I could make out the silhouettes of a few men: one was standing, arm against his forehead towards the blazing cockpit, the others around the broken fuselage. I could just make out Father and Alwyn. They were carrying something. I couldn't make out what.

‘Come on,' said Ade, edging forward.

A figure ran towards us. It was Emrys. ‘Hurry with those buckets!' he yelled down the ridge path.

Had he even realised? I reached out and pulled the sleeve of his jacket. He glanced down at me, his face frowning and anxious. ‘It's a German plane, Emrys,' I said, wind blowing through my fringe.

‘What?' he said, looking again down the hill path. ‘What you talking about?'

‘The plane,' I said, dragging him to the tail fin. ‘Look.'

Flames licking the skyline illuminated his face. There was another small explosion, a popping bang that sent me ducking. Emrys stood stock still, gazing upwards towards the swastika. ‘But how …?' he began, his words trailing away to a mumble. People were running past us, water sloshing over the rims of buckets and pans.

‘Form a line!' I heard Mr Pugh shouting behind us.

Emrys turned, his breath shallow. Pushing past, as if he could no longer see me, he stumbled upwards. Mr Pugh was standing, waving on the line of people stretching down the mountain. Emrys grabbed him and pointed back towards the fin. Pugh's face contorted. He glanced towards the burning cockpit, then over to Father and Alwyn. They were bent over something, but in the dark it was hard to tell what it was.

Something in me made me do it. As if a metal thread was pulling me towards them. Everything else faded away. My eyes fixed on one spot, the bundle at Father's feet. What was it? Father bent down, his face intense. Alwyn stood over him, his hands resting on his knees. Pugh and Emrys ran over. Father looked up. I was closer. What was it?

‘Stay back, Anthony!' I heard Father shout, but the words evaporated into the surrounding din.

What was it?

Father straightened up and came towards me, and at that moment I saw a red pulp, a hole, hair, white stuff, a length of curling rope. Emrys was retching onto the grass. I looked again and I saw the jacket, blown open at the bottom, an impossible mess of intestines, legs gone, something that might have been a face, a mass of clots, a chunk of skull missing and deep red bubbles frothing from a nose and mouth.

I felt my father's arm come about me and turn me away. ‘Don't look at him,' he shouted over the din. ‘Don't look at him.'

Alwyn strode over to the first man in the line and knocked his bucket to the floor. ‘Let them burn,' he said.