Vera's Valour (7 page)

Their parting was a painful as most lovers who had to part during the war. It took all Vera’s inner strength to remain cheerful and wish him well, and not burst into tears at the thought of any harm that might come to him.

But as he set off in his jeep, Vera made the effort to smile and not show him how frightened she felt - for his as well as her survival – and she waved. She knew she was now physically weakened after her weeks of living on any food she could get hold of. And being a nutritionist, she longed to get home as quickly as possible and prepare her body with some wholesome food for the birth of her baby.

The French families had the sadness of seeing the aftermath of the bombardment and havoc caused by the fighting that had taken place around their village. The devastation for some was heartbreaking. But everyone helped each other to try and overcome the trauma the war had inflicted on them. As many in France rejoiced that the invasion had been a success and the Germans driven off, others mourned their dead and began to rebuild.

Jeanette’s family offered Vera to stay with them for a few days so that she could recover from being entombed. She was able to have a bath and wash her clothes. The job of bringing the farm back to normal began. Lost livestock had to be replaced, and mending what had been broken.

“It is so sad,” Jeanette said, “before the Allies came the Germans left us alone to continue our live in peace. Now look at the mess.”

Vera could sympathize with her. So many people’s lives had been destroyed by Hitler’s ambitions. And even now thousands of others faced catastrophe.

But all Vera could do, was what most people had to do, get on with what they were faced with. She helped Jeanette clear up the farmhouse and farmyard, and assisted her to cook a meal using what was available. Rabbit stews, pigeon pies and using herbs, fruits, and vegetables from the farm.

Cooking was soothing for Vera. Several women came and helped her prepare the vegetables. Although Vera had the constant difficulty of thinking of dishes that had ingredients she had available. But she managed.

Her meals were appreciated by everyone who came to the farm hoping for some food. Especially grateful were those villagers who had been bombed out of their homes and had no cooking facilities.

* * *

At last the day came when Vera was feeling stronger and felt able to travel, she said goodbye to her French friends, collected her bicycle, and set off for the coast.

The loss of having friends around her was chilling. And as she pedalled carefully, the thought of what she might see before she got home made her heart quaver – but she gritted her teeth and tried not to dwell on anything she saw.

Men digging graves, and others stacking supplies into piles just as they had been England before she left.

Arriving at the wide expanse of beach she was immediately stuck by the debris of a battle.

“Where do you think you are going, Miss?”

The bellowed question made Vera start, and turn to see a British military policeman striding towards her.

“I’m going back to England, I hope,” she shouted back.

“Well you won’t get there that way. There’s mines ahead. Come over here.”

It was comforting to find a British soldier.

Once she had been joined by the tough-looking man - with a revolver that was easy for him to get at - he looked her up and down suspiciously. “Are you hoping to swim the channel, eh?”

She took out the papers Geoffrey had given her, and snatching them he looked them over. Then pointing to a pillbox he barked at her, “Go over to there. Stay with the casualties waiting to be evacuated.”

“Yes, sir,” Vera said cheekily. It was strangely reassuring being bossed around and told what to do.

I wasn’t easy to push her bicycle over the churned up sand, but she didn’t want to leave it in France if she could possibly take it back to England. Especially as the German soldier had repaired it for her it was like new. But she soon forgot about it when she reached the canvas protecting the scores of injured soldiers waiting for a boat to take them home.

Almost at once she realised she could help the nurses with tending the sick. Just being there and talking to them, or helping a Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nurse assist an injured soldier made her useful.

The skilled nurses were amongst the first British servicewomen to come to Normandy after D-Day, but they were tired and glad of Vera’s help.

Grey-faced, some of the men were shivering from pain even under their blankets and needed someone to reassure them.

A little yelp make her look to see a prone man hiding an Alsatian puppy under his blanket, which he told Vera he’d found wandering about lost.

“Don’t tell the Sister I have her under my blanket,” he whispered, “Or she’ll make me give it up.”

The lad was badly wounded and she hadn’t the heart to take the little animal from him. She even managed to find a drink for the puppy when the nurses weren’t looking. He seemed so grateful.

Full of sympathy, she stayed and talked to him when she could.

“What’s your name?”

“Fred.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Newcastle.”

Vera only had a vague idea about the North of England, but she listened to him tell about his football team and how he did the pools every week if he could afford it on his meagre soldier’s pay. She held his hand and tried to comfort him as she thought his mother, or sister, or girl friend would do.

But hours later after Vera and the soldier had been put on board a boat to be taken back to England, she found the soldier had died.

She now had a puppy, as well as a bicycle, to take home.

.

CHAPTER NINE

NO-one took much notice of her when they landed. All the attention was given to talking the injured off the boat and into waiting ambulances. Vera hid the puppy in her bicycle basket and managed to get a sailor to lift the bike off the boat and onto the quay.

She felt elated to have her feet on English soil again.

The last few weeks were behind her as though they had been a nightmare – and yet parts of the dream in France had been strangely pleasant - meeting Geoff, and her time in the French house cooking.

So much had happened to her in the past few weeks. Unbelievable experiences. Her mind was in a whirl thinking about what she’d been though. She wanted cry with relief that she was still alive - and yet she felt like singing with joy.

But where am I? Where should I go?

Standing around on the quay, with this strangely dazed feeling, and wondering what to do, she was soon told to move on by a military policeman, and so she began move. Why she felt so incapable of doing anything even though was safely back in England she couldn’t understand. It didn’t make sense.

A little nose pushed out of the bicycle basket and the puppy looked at her mournfully.

“Oh you poor little mite!” she spoke to the pup, “you’ve been so good, and just as I promised Bill, my boyfriend who died in Malta that I would look after his dog, I will look after you because you were Fred’s little doggie.”

Having taken on the responsibly of Fred’s puppy it made her forget her memories of Normandy, and come to her senses.

“Now, what shall we do, Freda?” she asked the little pup as she stoked its head.

A series of whines reminded her that she must feed it.

Getting on her bicycle she rode along the quay and saw a NAAFI mobile van.

A nice cup of English tea was pictured in her mind - and water and some food for the dog.

Having to concentrate on not only her needs - but on Fred’s puppy too, made her snap out of her lethargy as she approached the canteen van.

The two women in overalls looked at Vera scornfully when she asked for a cup of tea. “We don’t serve civilians,” one said.

For the first time Vera was aware of how others would see her: a ragamuffin. Her hair had grown over the past few weeks and was longer neat she normally wore it. And instead of it being brushed off the forehead and neatly rolled off her collar, it straggled untidily around her face and neck, as it had been blow about in the Channel wind. She hadn’t worn any lipstick for ages and her lips were not smooth and kissable. Her clothes were a mixture of some clothes she’d left home with and some Jeanette had kindly given her, because her bump was beginning to make her skirt too tight around the waist. Her stockings had many runs, and her shoes had seen any polish for ages and were covered with sand.

But that didn’t make her feel inferior – in fact she felt quite pleased to think she’d come though all she had, and didn’t see why she had to accept being put down by a couple of stay-at-home tea servers.

She propped her bike up against their van and ignoring their contempt she said crisply, “I’ve not just biked up from the town to cadge a free cup of tea.” Even mentioning tea made Vera’s mouth water, and she was determined to get it.

As neither of them made any move to pour any out for her, Vera went on, “You might be NAFFI girls serving tea and buns to service personnel. But you are not supposed to shut up shop just because I’m not in uniform. I had to destroy my military identity card in France in case I was captured by the Jerries And the papers Colonel Parkington – he’s my husband – gave me, were kept by a military policeman on the beach at Arromanches.”

“Oh yes?” said one young woman with a giggle, her poised with her hand on the huge metal tea pot handle, as she winked at her assistant and said, “Now tell us another story.”

Vera took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m the supervisor of British Restaurants in Norfolk.”

“So, why are you here? We can’t serve any Tom, Dick and Harry, a free cup of char, just because they happen to be on holiday here at the seaside.”

Vera’s face glowered. Her argumentative nature came to the fore. “Listen you two, just because you can’t see any further than a tea urn, it doesn’t mean everyone else does their national service behind the hatch of a NAFFI canteen van. I’ve just come back from France after doing my duty helping with the invasion. Now don ‘t tell me you can’t spare me a cup of tea. Get on the phone to your manageress, Dulcie Swanton, or Doreen Thornill, or Susie Salter, they all know me – Vera Parkington - and they won’t refuse me a cuppa.”

The women looked at each other “Well, in that case,” said one, “I suppose we’d better give you one.”

“Well, don’t put yourself out too much, will you?”

Looking a little nervous now because of her cross manner, and obvious officer tone as she was used to giving instructions, the girls handed her a cup of tea.

“Mmm, it’s lovely. Heavenly,” Vera said, after sipping it.

“Actually it’s a bit stewed.”

“You wouldn’t notice that if you’d been without tea for weeks. You can’t imagine how much I’ve pined for a cup of tea while I’ve been in France.”

“Glad you like it. Want another?”

“Thank you, I would - if it’s not too much trouble.”

The women’s eyes met and they smiled. “I’ll make you a fresh pot, Ducky. Want a bun?”

“If you’re sure you can spare it.”

As Vera munched her currant bun – which was probably very ordinary made with wartime ration ingredients, but tasted good to her, she wondered how other men and women returning to England after the war was over would be treated. Would they face the disbelief she’d had to put up with? No one appreciating just what it was like over there as the troops battling forward across Europe.

She was determined that when – and please God it would be soon – Geoff returned home, she would be far more understanding about the agonies he had suffered.

Feeling better after her refreshment, she asked the women where the NAFFI quarters were. After they directed her, Vera said, “Now I have one more waif and stray for you to help.”

The women looked out of the hatch looking for another person. Vera went to her bike and picked up the puppy.

Vera held up the rescued puppy for them to see.

“Ahh!” They immediately showed it more sympathy than they’d given her. And Freda was soon lapping up some water and gulping down a small bowl of food.

“Isn’t it sweet?”

A little later, fortified with some fresh tea, and a contented puppy in her bicycle basket, Vera retrieved her bicycle and set off to find the NAFFI headquarters.

* * *

Vera soon became lost trying to find the way.

The dockland was huge. She was glad she had her bicycle as she pedalled here and there, asking directions from service people she met, who looked at her as if she’d come out of a hedge backwards.

She supposed that before the invasion, she would have been carted off as a suspicious person in a Top Secret location – but now security was more relaxed. And there were so many people wearing different uniforms.

I expect they think I’m a char, come in from the town to clean some offices.

She stopped finding a patch of nicely manicured green grass for the puppy to wee on. And decided she ought to go inside the Nissen hut marked with nothing more than a notice of letters and figures on it, when she heard marching feet and a loud American voice sounded, “Lady, you’re dicing with death allowing that little beast on the commander’s lawn.”

Vera turned to look up at an American pilot speaking to her.

“I won’t tell him - and hope you won’t,” she replied with a grin.

“I guess not. But I advise you to scram.”

Looking again at him more closely she came to the conclusion that he probably was one of the top brass. If not the Commander himself!

Vera wasn’t fazed. “ I’m sorry, sir, to have chosen the wrong spot.”

The officer walked over and crouched down to play with the puppy. “He’s a fine fella.”

“Actually, he’s a she.”

“OK then, she’s a fine English shepherd dog.”

“Actually, she’s a German Alsatian. I’m sure she would have belonged to a German manning the defences in Normandy. I was given her on the beach at Arromanches. I was told the bitch and her pups had been killed in the bombing - but this one survived.” Vera added in a quiet voice, “Actually, the soldier who saved her, died - so I’m looking after her.”