Torpedoed

Torpedoed

Charles G. Dyer

Copyright © 2014 Charles G Dyer

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 9781311486257

Smashwords Edition

License

Thank you for purchasing this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

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CONTENTS

Chapter_One

Chapter_Two

Chapter_Three

Chapter_Four

Chapter_Five

Chapter_Six

Chapter_Seven

Chapter_Eight

Chapter_Nine

Chapter_Ten

Chapter_Eleven

Chapter_Twelve

Chapter_Thirteen

Chapter_Fourteen

Chapter_Fifteen

About_the_author

CHAPTER ONE

Lesley had just walked a mile from the Underground station after a terrifying nightshift. The Nazis had bombed London throughout the night. Wave upon wave of bombers bearing their dreaded black crosses had indiscriminately dropped their deadly cargoes on the city. The incessant noise of the anti-aircraft batteries had been worse than the detonations of the bombs and the eerie howling of aircraft engines.

About halfway home, she noticed that the streets were littered with bits of silver material. As she stooped to examine a fragment, a woman said, That's all that left of a barrage balloon, Luv.

The frumpy woman hung over her garden gate puffing on a cigarette. Her hair was wrapped in a white and red polka-dot scarf in the style of Flo, Andy Capp's wife.

Aren't they supposed to deter enemy aircraft? Leslie said disdainfully. Those hideous blimps just clutter the sky.

The woman blew a smoke ring and coughed. My ol' man's in the ARP, so 'e should know what 'e's talkin' about. 'E says that balloons force the 'uns to fly higher. An' that makes it 'arder fer them to hit their targets. An' that makes it easier for our AA guns, an' our fighter boys to shoot them down. The 'uns also 'ave to waste their bullets by shooting them down.

I suppose you're right, Lesley conceded.

Aye, that I am. The woman coughed. Just recently the WAAFs have been roped in to replace the men that handle them barrage balloons.

Oh? Lesley didn't want to encourage the woman.

Aye, that's so's to free the men for other more active military duties, the woman said.

The balloons were great bulky things and contrary to the opinions of many, they were actually very efficient. Their primary function being to discourage low-level enemy attacks in which more accurate bombing was possible. The steel supporting cables presented a definite mental and material hazard to enemy pilots. By August 1940, there were about 450 barrage balloons over London alone.

As Lesley trudged on, she reviewed the events of the previous night. There were too many patients to get everyone into the shelters. I wasted half the night trying to reassure them that a hospital would never be bombed.

Not that she had believed it for a minute. It's obvious to me that the Nazis are either very poor at aiming, or that they're simply releasing their bombs as soon as they can, without any concern for where they might land. They've already shown their complete disregard for the sanctity of medical facilities. I know of at least one hospital that's been hit.

The neighbourhood was of a much lower standard than that in which she had been raised. Nevertheless, it was a respectable lower middle-class area. When she moved in, shortly after graduating, it was the best that she could afford for the foreseeable future.

As usual, whenever she had any quiet time, Leslie pined for her dead fiancée. Captain Archibald Jennings had almost made it out of France. It had taken several weeks of uncertainty and anguish to learn that he had died on the beaches of Dunkirk.

She had asked every one of the hundreds of Dunkirk evacuees that she treated whether or not they had seen him. The sad reality was only finally confirmed through the efforts of the Red Cross.

She sniffed and knuckled a tear from her eye. Oh Archie, why couldn't you have just stayed in London?

For most of the length of her street, Lesley had been looking down so that she could avoid the worst of the debris. She was only a few houses away from home when she looked up. Disbelief froze her in mid-step. Her normally erect and graceful bearing, which commanded respect from all but the most chauvinistic of her colleagues, hung limply on wobbly legs.

Tears that had been itching to fall over Archie now found another reason to stream from her eyes. She blanched and clapped her hands to her face. Oh God, no! First Archie, now this. It simply can't be happening… She looked around to make sure where she was.

As the awful truth sunk into her tired mind, the colour slowly returned to her face and her heart began pounding in her temples. She shook her clenched fist at the gloomy sky.

Damn you all to bloody Hell! she screamed.

Hot tears of rage welled up in her weary eyes. She stamped her foot and shrieked, You bloody filthy Huns will pay for this!

She began muttering and sniffing as she angrily brushed hot tears from her ruddy cheeks with the tense knuckles of her gloved hand, and gaped in confusion at the shattered remains of her house.

Now she regretted all those hours of work and care that she had put into turning the house into a home. A home that she had hoped to share with her beloved Archie. Hours that had denied her a social life and had probably cost her a few friendships.

Most of her free time had been devoted to home-making. She had applied all the handy boyish skills that her father had taught her, and some. Scrimping and saving, she had frequented thrift shops for bargain materials for curtains, tablecloths and scatter cushions. After stripping, sanding and varnishing them, she had painstakingly reupholstered the seats and backs of old dining room chairs that she had picked up in the East End for a song.

The neatly trimmed privet hedge that she had so carefully nurtured and manicured was now stripped to a row of bare stalks, and behind that was a pile of shattered bricks and mortar. Splintered roof timbers were strewn about beneath a mosaic of broken roof tiles. All that remained of her house was the back third and that looked as though it was about to fall down.

Scraping, sanding and painting walls, floors and frames had gone on for months. Hiring help was out of the question on her meagre earnings. Archie was worse off financially than she was, and the Army Medical Corps kept him in France from the beginning of the war.

Yesterday, she was sure that her father would have been proud of everything she had done. Today, Lesley sniffed, and smudged her makeup as she absently wiped away the tears. Oh, why didn't I take some photographs? Oh God, why are you so cruel to me? First, for take Archie from me. Now, all that time and effort and money is just… wasted.

She broke down and howled pitifully. Her tears were a mixture of frustration and heartbreak. Her father had taught her not to grow too attached to material things, but she had learned the value of money the hard way. A considerable amount of time and effort had been spent on this house. She clenched her fists at her sides and sobbed. Bloody, bloody, bloody Huns…

Lucky you were working last night, her skinny neighbour said from behind her.

Oh! Lesley jumped and spun around. You shouldn't sneak up behind me like that, Bess.

Sorry, Luv, Bess said. The bleeding Jerries gave us a bit of a rough night. At least my house's still standing. Must be awful for you…I can't imagine… Gawd, and after all that work you've done too.

The woman absently scraped a pattern in the dirt with her shoe. Her face and clothes were covered in grime, and she had not brushed her hair.

Lesley took a deep breath and regretted doing so. Mingled with the smoke and dust, the sickly sweet stench of burnt flesh hung in the crisp morning air. She looked at the disheveled figure next to her. Was anyone hurt?

Bess grimaced and nodded at the house next door to Lesley's. Their shelter took a direct hit. Andrew and little Jimmy were killed instantly. Poor Marge's in a bad way… All that blood… Gawd… and me feeling so bleeding helpless. I wanted to be sick. Tears dribbled out of her bloodshot eyes. The ARP was here pronto, filling out forms requesting an ambulance and another for the mortuary van.

Poor Marge. She'll be devastated to hear about Jimmy and Andrew. She doted on them both, Lesley said. I hope she'll be all right.

The last thing Lesley wanted to hear was about other people's woes. Nevertheless, Bess continued with the cold facts of her gossip. The ambulance came quickly and took her away. Soon after, the mortuary van came, and I couldn't watch anymore. The warden also filled out an air raid damage report form. D'you know that bag they carry is full of bleeding forms that they have to fill out. Gawd knows what they'll do with all that paper. I don't know much more than that.

Lesley wordlessly looked around at the devastation. Apparently only one high explosive bomb had landed in the immediate vicinity. Besides broken windows and a few chips out of brickwork and plaster, the houses on the opposite side of the road had survived the blast.

She glumly said, I remember that Andrew Doyle paid seven pounds for their Anderson shelter in October last year… She choked back another sob. He was such a nice friendly man…

Too true. Bess wiped her tears and nodded. Him and his son Jimmy slaved away for two weekends digging that bleeding hole. Then they had a good few days of struggle with the corrugated iron before they covered it all with soil.

Lesley shook her head. Grass and weeds covered it quickly, but they finished it off so neatly with that sandbag screen wall at the entrance… All for nothing… poor sods.

Bess grimaced. Poor Marge hated going into it because it was always damp and full of spiders, and she was terrified of the horrible little creatures.

Lesley herself had acquired a Morrison shelter because it did not require any digging, and she thought it more comfortable and convenient anyway. She got it free because her income was less than three hundred and fifty pounds per year. It was essentially a steel cage that was officially called the Morrison Table Indoor Shelter. It took her over two days to assemble the three hundred plus parts. Lesley had put a board and tablecloth over the top of hers, and used it as a dining room table.

She stared at the destruction through misty eyes. The bulk of her building was reduced to a pile of rubble. Most of the Doyle's dwelling was nothing more than useless debris, and there was a huge crater where the Anderson shelter had been. One of the corrugated iron panels from the shelter was embedded in a wall of her house. They were such pleasant and friendly people. What did they do to deserve this? she muttered.

Although her experiences with the opposite sex were limited, she was sure that young Jimmy had a crush on her. He had often been around offering help while she was busy with her renovations. She shook her head and regretted not having been more receptive to his infatuation.

For her, a few things had militated against encouraging the boy. I couldn't afford to pay him for his help. I didn't want to be beholden to him. He might have only been seventeen, but he looked older. His bulbous nose was too plebeian for my liking. Lesley sighed and chided herself inwardly for thinking ill of the dead, and for her unwarranted snobbery.

Bess tried to lighten the mood. Your hair looks lovely.

Thanks, I had a wash and perm on the way home. Lesley laughed mirthlessly at the irony of it all. She wished that she had inherited her mother's red hair, but nature inflicted her with something woodier. Nevertheless, she took pride in her appearances.

She had never seen her mother, but descriptions had made her envious. Her aversion to anything artificial prevented her from dyeing the despised tresses. Now her immaculately groomed hair was the only thing about her that was not sagging.

Her hair was swept back to expose her dainty ears. Her scalp was covered in an array of pin curls. Waved side rolls flowed neatly into cascading spirals that stopped short of her shoulders and emphasised her slender neckline.

The hairdo was topped by a soft emerald green variation of a tam-o'-shanter. This narrow rectangular wedge of a hat tapered to a long overhanging brim. It had a broad ribbon bow on top that matched her dark cream silk scarf. The tailored suit she wore was of the same material as the hat, and its pleated skirt just covered her knees.

She preferred shoulder bags to handbags because they gave her freedom to use her hands. That was a practical consideration in her line of work. The bag she wore was a gift from her father, and a rare item it was. The rectangular shaped Zambesi crocodile skin bag in rich cognac brown had long broad shoulder straps and a fold-over closure flap. It was finished with fine black leather blanket-stitching at the edges.

Besides her dejected posture, the only thing that detracted from her stylish appearance was the little rectangular cardboard box dangling from its shoulder strap and resting against her rump. It contained her gas mask. Everyone had to carry one at all times to avoid the wrath of the Air Raid Wardens or the fines of the Police.

Some people had special gas masks for their dogs. Lesley hated wearing her horrible rubber mask, which fitted over her face and was fastened by elastic straps behind her head. In addition to the fact that it was hard to breathe, the plastic windows across her eyes fogged up when she exhaled and the stink of rubber was nauseating.

You look like you need a good cuppa and some rest, Bess said. She lay a reassuring hand on Lesley's arm.

That's very kind of you Bess, Lesley patted Bess's hand, it was a busy night at the hospital… now this… She stifled a sob as she gestured pathetically at her ruined home.

Come on then, Bess momentarily tightened her grip, I'll make you a nice cuppa, and I'll help you sift through the mess later. You can have a lie-down on my bed.

My ears are still ringing. We had several near misses. Some were close enough to break windows. Lesley followed Bess in a daze.

Hmm, Bess nodded, I know how you feel. My heart's still going at nineteen to the dozen. Damn the bleeding Huns.

~#~

Bess woke Lesley around two o'clock and gave her tea and sandwiches. If you like, I'll give you hand.

Lesley did not think that she would need much assistance, but she nodded anyway. Thanks Bess.

The early morning mist and cloud cover had cleared considerably to allow a warm sunny afternoon. To the southeast, spindly vapour trails wove between scattered high clouds. The sight made Lesley think of cotton wool swabs and sutures. The life and death dogfights of the Battle of Britain were too far away for them to hear any sounds.

The stairs and two upstairs bedrooms at the front of the house were gone. At ground floor level, the lounge and hall were completely destroyed. The dining room was inaccessible and she saw no point to scrabbling about in the rubble-filled kitchen. Upstairs, all that remained was her bedroom minus the front wall and the back part of the bathroom. The enamelled cast-iron bath was shattered and the broken pipes dribbled water.