all.”
“I know, bach,” Maggie said, looking up at her. “But I burnt it. After you all left. I put it on the fire.”
Sarah looked back at her, her soupspoon held halfway to her mouth. She placed it in the bowl, feeling a flush of anger pulse through her chest. That pamphlet had been the only thing left; the only sign, the only marker. It was their only connection to their husbands and now Maggie had destroyed it. She felt her anger melt towards tears, tears of frustration, not sadness. The kind of tooth-grinding frustration she’d felt as a child when accused of doing something wrong. A frustration against the flow of events that seemed to always be running counter to her own direction.
“I couldn’t have it around here,” Maggie continued. “What if someone else found it?”
Sarah knew who Maggie was talking about. “I thought you said they wouldn’t come this far. That there was nothing for them here.”
“Well, now there isn’t, is there?” Maggie replied, an edge to her voice. “And honestly, Sarah,” she continued more softly, “you wouldn’t have wanted to see it. There was some horrid stuff in there, really.” She returned to her soup, shaking her head. “Awful,” she muttered between spoonfuls, “awful.”
Sarah walked home through the dark lanes that night still nursing her disbelief, her reluctance to accept the story that appeared to have unfolded before them all. She knew she would still ride out on the hill when she could, though, looking. Just in case. And it didn’t stop her from thinking all the time of where Tom and the other men would go, where, if Maggie’s story was true, they would build their underground shelter. In the meantime, however, the farm demanded her as a suckling baby demands its mother; without malice, without agenda, just simply because it was the way of things. Her farm and the farms of the other women. The whole valley was there, with its cycle of birth, sowing, harvesting, and slaughter, and they, the women, had to keep it turning or it would leave them behind altogether. And that’s why, despite her aching limbs and the gritty tiredness in her eyes, Sarah had woken the next morning and gone to pull mangels with Menna and the others.
When she came back to Upper Blaen that evening, she saw to her own animals, then cooked herself some bacon and potatoes before tying up the dogs for the night. Then, with a slow rain tapping faster at the window, she sat by the fire to write her diary, picking up the thin pen through which she found it so hard to speak faithfully to Tom about how she’d spent her days without him.
November 1st
4.30 p.m. Wehrmacht Unit, Poss . 4th Infantry Div. (Wehrheis IV) temp. attached to 14th Panzergren. Div.? Travelling N.W. out of Pandy. Dest. Longtown/Michaelchurch?
1 × Mercedes Benz staff car. One driver (1 × sergeant?) three passengers. 1 × officer. Light arms. 2 × MP38 submachine guns .
1 × BMW R35 motorbike and sidecar. Two men. 1 × MG 42 heavy machine gun (7.92mm) on sidecar mount. Light arms .
Shrapnel damage to left wheel arch of staff car .
The tip of the pencil broke through the rice paper as George marked the full stop. He pulled it free, leaving a grey-edged puncture like a tiny bullet hole at the end of the sentence. His hand was shaking. He was too excited. Stay calm, he told himself. Too excited and too tired.
George had been observing troop movements for the past week, but this was the first sign of the enemy probing deeper into the hills, away from the focus points of the railway and the main road. It had all begun as Atkins had predicted, just much slower. The fourteen days had passed and George was still here. Still going about his farmwork by day and running messages at night. But eventually it unfolded exactly as he’d told George it would, as if Atkins himself had planned the invasion.
First there had been their own troops along with scatterings of Americans and Canadians. Mixed regiments, even some
“I know, bach,” Maggie said, looking up at her. “But I burnt it. After you all left. I put it on the fire.”
Sarah looked back at her, her soupspoon held halfway to her mouth. She placed it in the bowl, feeling a flush of anger pulse through her chest. That pamphlet had been the only thing left; the only sign, the only marker. It was their only connection to their husbands and now Maggie had destroyed it. She felt her anger melt towards tears, tears of frustration, not sadness. The kind of tooth-grinding frustration she’d felt as a child when accused of doing something wrong. A frustration against the flow of events that seemed to always be running counter to her own direction.
“I couldn’t have it around here,” Maggie continued. “What if someone else found it?”
Sarah knew who Maggie was talking about. “I thought you said they wouldn’t come this far. That there was nothing for them here.”
“Well, now there isn’t, is there?” Maggie replied, an edge to her voice. “And honestly, Sarah,” she continued more softly, “you wouldn’t have wanted to see it. There was some horrid stuff in there, really.” She returned to her soup, shaking her head. “Awful,” she muttered between spoonfuls, “awful.”
Sarah walked home through the dark lanes that night still nursing her disbelief, her reluctance to accept the story that appeared to have unfolded before them all. She knew she would still ride out on the hill when she could, though, looking. Just in case. And it didn’t stop her from thinking all the time of where Tom and the other men would go, where, if Maggie’s story was true, they would build their underground shelter. In the meantime, however, the farm demanded her as a suckling baby demands its mother; without malice, without agenda, just simply because it was the way of things. Her farm and the farms of the other women. The whole valley was there, with its cycle of birth, sowing, harvesting, and slaughter, and they, the women, had to keep it turning or it would leave them behind altogether. And that’s why, despite her aching limbs and the gritty tiredness in her eyes, Sarah had woken the next morning and gone to pull mangels with Menna and the others.
When she came back to Upper Blaen that evening, she saw to her own animals, then cooked herself some bacon and potatoes before tying up the dogs for the night. Then, with a slow rain tapping faster at the window, she sat by the fire to write her diary, picking up the thin pen through which she found it so hard to speak faithfully to Tom about how she’d spent her days without him.
November 1st
4.30 p.m. Wehrmacht Unit, Poss . 4th Infantry Div. (Wehrheis IV) temp. attached to 14th Panzergren. Div.? Travelling N.W. out of Pandy. Dest. Longtown/Michaelchurch?
1 × Mercedes Benz staff car. One driver (1 × sergeant?) three passengers. 1 × officer. Light arms. 2 × MP38 submachine guns .
1 × BMW R35 motorbike and sidecar. Two men. 1 × MG 42 heavy machine gun (7.92mm) on sidecar mount. Light arms .
Shrapnel damage to left wheel arch of staff car .
The tip of the pencil broke through the rice paper as George marked the full stop. He pulled it free, leaving a grey-edged puncture like a tiny bullet hole at the end of the sentence. His hand was shaking. He was too excited. Stay calm, he told himself. Too excited and too tired.
George had been observing troop movements for the past week, but this was the first sign of the enemy probing deeper into the hills, away from the focus points of the railway and the main road. It had all begun as Atkins had predicted, just much slower. The fourteen days had passed and George was still here. Still going about his farmwork by day and running messages at night. But eventually it unfolded exactly as he’d told George it would, as if Atkins himself had planned the invasion.
First there had been their own troops along with scatterings of Americans and Canadians. Mixed regiments, even some
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