Rose Under Fire (Code Name Verity, #2)(8)

London is covered in broken glass. Glass and dust. You can tell where the bombs have fallen by the piles of glass, which get bigger and bigger until you get to a hole in the ground where a house or a store was. More piles of glass are banked against the buildings that are still standing, and there are little paths cleared on the sidewalks. I thought it was bad around Southampton, but London is just a wasteland of wreckage. The trees have all lost their leaves in bomb blasts so that it looks like winter. Houses with no roofs and no windows have signs on the door that say ‘Still occupied’ to stop people looting them.

The train line down from Scotland to Southampton had been hit, so we got diverted to a different line and had to get off in London and take a bus to Charing Cross Station where we got on another train to try to go around the damage. The bus had no glass in the windows – they take the glass out on purpose – people would rather sit in the wind than risk windows exploding in their faces. Two V-1 flying bombs went over while we were on the bus, one of them passing close to the rooftops of the buildings – the driver just sped on. Not much else he could do, I guess! Anti-aircraft guns were racketing away too from somewhere pretty close by. Every single passenger on the bus, including me and Maddie, dove under the seats and lay there cowering.

There was a small boy, no more than three years old, just across from me. All the time we were on the floor he was shouting in terror, over and over: ‘Not on a bus! Not on a bus! MUMMY MUMMY NOT ON A BUS!’

His mother couldn’t do a thing – she just kept kissing him and kissing him – ‘Shh, shh.’ But he wouldn’t stop and it was more terrible to listen to than the clattering of the bomb as it passed over, terrible to hear such a little kid so frightened and not be able to do anything to make the fear go away. Because the thing he’s afraid of is real.

Maddie was just as bad. It surprised me – she always seems so confident, and so much older than me. She lay there next to me with her arms clamped over her head, absolutely shaking, and sobbing too.

When the bomb’s racket cut out we didn’t know if that was because we couldn’t hear it any more, or if the guns had got it, or if it was falling on us.

‘Count – count now –’ the young mother whispered to her kid. ‘All the way up to thirty and then you’ll be safe –’

I had my arm round Maddie’s shoulders, but she was still cowering with her arms over her head. I looked up at the little boy, with my hair just brushing the grubby underneath of the bus bench. Now I stopped worrying about the stupid bomb and lay there willing this kid to make it up to thirty.

‘25 – 26 – 27 – 28 – 29 –’

He got there at last, triumphant.

‘30!’

Everybody on the bus burst out clapping.

Then we all got up sheepishly and dusted ourselves off, because nothing had happened and we felt a little foolish lying on the floor while the bus sped through the empty Sunday streets.

Maddie still had her corsage of tartan ribbon and white heather and rosebuds from yesterday pinned on her uniform – actually, it had been part of the ceremony, pinning the family tartan on her. The flowers were very crushed and wilted. As we sat down again, she muttered, ‘No kiddies for me till after we’ve won the war, I think. Not that it’s likely! We were both out like lights the second we fell into bed. Just so tired all the time, you know? Thirteen days on duty and only two off, Spitfires coming and going as fast as the workshops can spit ’em out.’

I nodded. I’d been so tired I’d slept in my uniform. Well, I’d taken off my hose and tunic anyway. American slob!

‘And Jamie’s away to – well, he’s away now anyway,’ Maddie finished wistfully.

We made it safely to the train at Charing Cross – it is awful going in and out of Charing Cross, when you know perfectly well it’s the dead centre of London and probably the bullseye the Germans are targeting. But for me the most frightening thing happened after we got off the train at Hamble Station. We were walking along the branch line that takes trains down to the airfield except on Sundays (yes, we were walking back to the airfield on Sunday evening, because technically I was working that day and it would still be light for another five hours), and there were a couple of kids leaning over the wall by the tracks and yelling. They straightened up guiltily when they noticed us, but their pal who’d scaled the wall to get to the other side of the tracks didn’t realise we were there and gave himself away by shouting to his friends.

‘Oi, you lot – I’ve got another bit, but I need Rob’s knife back to cut these wires!’

The kids froze. We probably looked scarily official in our uniforms, especially Maddie with her First Officer’s gold stripes. The boys took a couple of steps back. One of them leaned over the wall and tried to shush his pal. And that made me look over the side of the wall to see what the other boy was doing.

He was taking apart a bomb.

Scout’s honour, that’s what he was doing. It was a flying bomb that hadn’t gone off. Sometimes they run out of fuel prematurely and just glide down, and occasionally they just don’t go off. It was much smaller than a Tempest or even a Spitfire, really no more than a bomb with wings. It had taken a couple of saplings down as it ploughed into the strip of waste ground at the edge of the railway, and now it was sitting on its belly by the train tracks, one wing missing and a long strip of the fuselage ripped open where it had connected with the trees. All of its innards were lying exposed to view and ready for small boys to come along and mop up souvenirs.