The Unknown Soldier

August 1942, Stansted Woods, Westbourne, Hampshire

There was a great muffled boom and the ground shook beneath my feet as, gingerly, thick gloves covering my hands, I removed the steaming casserole dish from the oven. There was a tearing sound as if something was pushing through the trees, cutting off leaves and branches as if with a scythe and letting them fall to the ground with an almighty crash.

Mother, her hands immersed in a bowl of pastry, looked at me, her eyes wide with fright, “A plane must have come down, Gracie. Oh, good God, it must be a plane.” She raised her hands to her face leaving floury prints all over her cheeks.

“I’ll call father,” I said, as putting the dish down on our scrubbed pine table, I hurriedly removed my apron, and hung it on a hook on the back of the pantry door, and ran outside, hurrying through the garden, barely noticing father’s fragrant rose beds and his neat vegetable plot as, heart thumping hard, I rushed out of the gate and in the direction of the forest.

“Father,” I called, my voice high and shrill, “Father quick, there’s a plane down.”

It was a hot day, the sun high in a clear blue sky and the air still and rife with the sound of bees as they buzzed from flower to flower. Smoke hung in a great grey balloon over the trees. I hesitated for a split second, unsure what to do when I heard voices and saw father running towards me, coming from the big house, three men in his wake, our two dogs, Rexy and Howie, lumbering along beside them, “Gracie,” he said breathlessly, “You shouldn’t be here. Go back with your mother.”

“No father, you might need first aid help. I’m coming with you.”

I felt his tut rather than heard it, as I joined the men, glad I’d attended the war time first aid training at the village hall in Westbourne. The plane was a steaming hot wreck, huge bubbles of smoke puffing into the air as it lay on the earth like a great beached whale, a canopy of tree branches, the leaves a sparkling green in the sunlight, shrouding it, and the smell of oil so strong it tickled my throat.

“It’s one of ours,” said father, “One of our own. A spitfire.”

“Where is he then?” growled Wilf.

Albert, gazing intently at the plane, replied, “The cockpit’s badly damaged, he’s been thrown.”

“Oh no,” I said, covering my mouth with shaky hands, “Please let him be alive.”

Father caught my eye, “You shouldn’t be here our Gracie. This isn’t for a young girl to see.”

“It’s war time, Ernie,” Stan said, “She should be prepared for even worse than this.”

The two dogs growled softly as slinking, bellies close to the ground, they moved around the wreck, sniffing hard along with guttural growls, and then a sudden frenzied stream of barking as they found their prey some way from the plane and, just as Albert had said, wrenched from the cockpit and flung to the ground with the force of the crash. I got a brief glimpse of a dirty grey uniform, the pale oval of a face and thick dark hair closely cropped, his helmet having gone, torn from his head.

“Good boys, good boys,” said Wilf to the dogs, they were panting now, their tongues lolling, whilst Wilf felt the wrist that lay amongst the dirt and the leaves like a dead thing, “There’s a pulse Ernie,” he said, “It’s very faint but it’s there.”

“Quick,” said Albert, “We must get him away from the plane, the whole thing could go up in flames.”

“Be careful with him,” I said in agitation as the men lifted the young man carefully between them, “Be careful of his legs. He might need splints.” Tears welled up into my eyes and my heart beat fast and furious.

“The doctor will sort him, don’t you worry, Gracie,” soothed Stan, “We just need to get him settled somewhere first.”

“Yes, up to the big house,” instructed father, “We’ll get him comfy there and I’ll call for the doctor, and the ambulance. Quick now, come on.”

“No father, not the big house, take him to our house, it’s nearer and as well as that there’s been damage to the big house with the bombing.”

“We’ve no room our Gracie,” father replied, “There’s plenty of space at the big house, despite the damage from the bombing.”

“We’ve a spare room now, father.” There was a tense prolonged silence as father stared at me, his pale blue washed out eyes hurt and afraid whilst Albert, Wilf and Stan watched, standing stock still as if turned to stone. Even the dogs sat quiet and still, their breathing soft now and quiet, “Our Dan’s room.”

“No …”

“Dan would have wanted to help, father,” I hissed.

“It’s true, Ernie,” said Stan as both Albert and Wilf nodded their heads, “He was a good boy was your Dan.”

As if defeated, sagging into himself like a rag doll, father, his voice hoarse, said, “Right, there’s no time for arguing, to our house then. Be careful men.”

“I’ll run on ahead,” I said, “To warn mother.”

Mother was on the doorstep, wringing her hands, the floury hand prints still on her cheeks. She looked blue and pinched around the mouth, her cheekbones high from the weight she’d lost recently, “Have you taken your medication, mother?” I asked.

She nodded and said, “But never mind me, Gracie. What’s happening out there?”

“The pilot is still alive; they’re bringing him here.”

“Yes, to Dan’s room,” she said and immediately turned to go inside, rushing up the stairs and into my brother’s room where I stood with her, my heart thumping hard as I gazed around at the posters of Marilyn Monroe, Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth that adorned the walls, along with shelves of books and the many Airfix models of planes, and tanks and helicopters that Dan had painstakingly put together.

The room was exactly as he’d left it, so unbearably tidy, except for his desk that was covered with stamps, the album still open, as if he’d been in the middle of inserting them, a small pair of tweezers at the ready, his chair pulled out ready to sit on. I remembered the day the telegram came and the wailing and the weeping, the tight feeling in my throat and my stomach and then his personal effects, his watch and signet ring, the few pound notes and a picture of all of us, mother and father and me, on a rare day out to the seaside, Hayling Island, I think.

Trying to put it from my mind, I moved to the window where I could see that the ambulance had arrived, lights flashing, and the men lifted him from the back on a stretcher, and slowly made their way through the gate and along the garden path.

“They’re here,” I told mother as we both moved towards the door and were ready when they brought him into the room and laid him carefully on the bed. We took over then, loosening his tie, undoing the belt on his uniform jacket. I felt in the inside pocket and found a wallet which I handed to father. Reluctantly, he rifled through it, pulling out papers that he handed to Stan.

“Sergeant Kurt Larsen,” Stan read, “He’s Norwegian.”

He gazed at us, “There’s an address here, and parent’s names. He’s twenty-four years old and is with the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve.”

“Don’t,” cut in father, “It’s personal Stan. Not for us to see, but for the authorities.”

“We need to know his name” said mother, “We need to call him something when he comes round.”

“If he comes round,” put in Wilf.

I gazed at him, at Sergeant Kurt Larsen. His eyes were closed, the lids creased, and his face waxy, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead and upper lip. He had a nice face even with the deep cuts and bruising on cheeks and chin, his brows were thick, and his nose straight, just a gentle flare at the nostrils. His lips were full and his jaw square.

His breathing was thready but on feeling his wrist again, and then the soft place on the side of his neck, the pulse was still there, just about. Mother handed me a warm crocheted blanket, a soft pink and white, that I lay over him, tucking it around his body to keep him warm.

“I’m going to the big house,” stated father, “To use the phone. I’ll ring the doctor.”

“Tell him to hurry,” I said, “Please father, tell him to hurry.”

“And the fire officers,” put in Stan, “If that plane goes up …”

As the men left, rushing with all their might from my brother’s room, there was a great muffled boom and a great pall of black smoke rose above the trees together with the crackle of fire. I rushed to the window, where I stared wide eyed at the spectacle, relieved that Stan had mentioned the fire officers as well. Mother joined me, staring too, as the acrid stench of smoke stole through the tiny crack of the open sash window.

“You were right to bring him here,” she said quietly, turning away from the window to stare at the man on the bed. She nodded her head decisively, “Dan would have wanted this, encouraged this.”

“Yes,” I replied, “Father didn’t want it, not at first.”

“No, he wouldn’t, would he? Not yet at any rate. It’s only been four months, Gracie. Not long enough to see reason.”

Heartfelt I said, “Oh mother, just think, this poor man has a mother and father somewhere, maybe a sweetheart too, brothers and sisters, perhaps children, even though he’s so young. We must help him not only for himself, but for them as well.”

I had a sudden image of Dan the morning he left, standing before me, his uniform starched and pressed, the buttons shiny, his boyish face wide open, eager for adventure. The two dogs, Rexy and Howie, whining at his feet and Dan then with tears in his eyes because he had to leave them. His grief always for the animals.

“Well Gracie,” I remember him saying, a grin on his face, “Will you miss me?”

As if coming out of a dream, I felt mother’s hand on my shoulder, bony as a claw, as she said, “Yes, Gracie, for them too.” I fetched water then and sat at his bedside and bathed the cuts on his face, some deep and oozing, others shallow, superficial. His eyes flickered as I wiped a cloth softly across his cheekbones, they still flickered even as I said, “Mother, look,” and she stood behind me, peering over my shoulder, whilst his eyes stayed open and stared it seemed into mine.

My heart pounded in anticipation that he was waking up, that he would speak, but then his eyes closed again and were still, his breathing hurried, panting even, as still, Sergeant Larsen slept on whilst we waited, mother and I, for the doctor to arrive.

***

“He’s a lucky man,” said Doctor Sheldon, “A very lucky man, mainly broken bones. His legs, pelvis, arms, you name it, they’re broken. Burns on his back, chest and legs, oh, and hands. There doesn’t seem to be any internal injuries but only time will tell, only time.” He spooned some of the casserole into his mouth, wincing a little as it burnt his mouth, “Some deep and some superficial cuts to the face,” He shrugged and repeated, “He’s a lucky man. Obviously still needed on this earth for something.”

Doctor Sheldon, a small portly man with a mass of grey hair and a very distinguished moustache that crawled across his upper lip like a furry caterpillar, had joined us for our evening meal after giving Sergeant Larsen, still sleeping upstairs, a very thorough examination, removing his uniform and smoke encrusted clothing, carefully turning him this way and that as he fixed him up with splints and bandages.

I was on hand as the doctor’s nurse/helper, assisting him with washing the poor broken body and dressing him oh so carefully in a pair of Dan’s blue and white striped pyjamas. I took off his watch, as fine a timepiece I’ve ever seen, and laid it on the bedside cabinet, along with a signet ring set with a small red stone that we’d removed from his little finger.

We left him, closing the door carefully behind us, the cuts on his face soothed now with ointments and creams, his eyes still closed, but the lids twitching rapidly as if he was in savage dreams, maybe reliving the crash, the moment he knew he was lost and trees, like a great leafy barrier, loomed in front of him, blocking his vision. Isn’t that what’s called the rapid eye movement part of sleep, uncontrollable dreams, nightmares even?

“How long do you think before he wakes?” mother asked the doctor.

The doctor shrugged again as he put his cutlery aside whilst he took a slice of bread and cleaned his bowl with it as if it was a cloth, before putting it in his mouth and chewing rapidly. The dogs hovered at his side, their great dark eyes watching his every move hoping, I knew, for a tidbit.

“The washing up should be light tonight,” I remember thinking, the doctor’s bowl now a gleaming white. “I’m not sure, Annie,” he said, “These things are unknown but, if he’s okay where he is for the time being, so we don’t have to move him then I say let his waking up take its course. In fact, if he can be treated here, it saves taking a hospital bed and,” He shook his head sadly, “We’re in dire need of hospital beds to be sure.”

Mother with a sharp glance at father said, “Yes, of course he’s fine where he is. He can stay as long as he needs to. What do you say, Ern?”

Father’s head shot up as if mother’s words had woken him from a deep sleep, “Yes, of course I only want the best for the young man.” He sat back, pushing his empty bowl away, “I didn’t want him in that room at first, but …”

“Well, I understand that,” said the doctor, “Your grief is still raw, Ern, don’t you think I don’t know that. My boy is out there now and every day when I wake up,” His words petered out and he shook his head sadly, tears forming in his eyes. Leaning forward, I patted his hand, a kindly man, Doctor Sheldon, I’d know him all my life. Indeed, he’d delivered me into this world and a bond of some sort existed between us.

“I think of that poem sometimes,” he said quietly, “Rudyard Kipling.”

“My Boy Jack?” I asked.

“Yes, oh Gracie, do you know the words?”

I cleared my throat a little and took a deep breath, “Have you news of my boy Jack?”

The doctor joined in, “Not at this tide.”

“When do you think that he’ll come back?”

“Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.”

The doctor faltered a little and stopped, “Thank you, Gracie,” he said, squeezing my hand tightly, “But I’d best be off now,” He stood up, pulling down the front of his suit jacket and reaching for his hat and his large brown leather doctor’s bag.

“Won’t you join us for a beer, doctor?” asked father, “It’s my best home made.” Inwardly I smiled realising that even father simply called him doctor. I had no idea of his first name, no idea at all.

“Thank you, Ern, but I won’t,” he replied, “Thelma will be wondering where I am. Since the war started, we’ve hardly spent time together, and she gets anxious when alone.”

“Where will Sergeant Larsen go when he recovers enough to be moved?” I asked.

“A local military hospital, but that can be sorted when the time comes.” He placed his hat firmly on his head and picked up his bag, “In the meantime, I’ll call in again tomorrow.”

He took his leave then, going through the already open door into the garden where the delicate floral smell of father’s roses wreathed all around. I stood on the doorstep waving goodbye, revelling in the still evening air, the sky now a subdued blue. A pall of smoke still hung over the trees reminding me of what had happened that day and of the man who lay upstairs in my brother’s bedroom, sleeping his life away. Oh, how I longed for him to wake up, to speak to us, so we can find out who he is, who he really is.

I went inside then and helped mother wash the dishes, showing her the snowy whiteness of the doctor’s bowl. I watched her laugh, grateful for any smile on her face, for since Dan’s death, smiles and laughter had been few and far between in this house. There was the murmur of voices as Father switched on the wireless in the sitting room as he sat in his chair, drinking a beer and smoking his pipe, the smell of the smoke reassuring somehow in the midst of this war. The two dogs lay contented at his feet. This awful war that was taking all our young men, all the women’s husbands, sweethearts, and brothers, wiping out the next generation.

Dan rose up in my mind again, as he always did now, and I saw us as children, running about in the woods or exploring the big house, Stansted House, where father worked as the Head Gardner, relied on so much by Lord and Lady Butler just as we relied on them for this, our home, a tied cottage in the grounds.

I saw him as a boy riding away on his bike early in the mornings, his legs going around and around like pistons, not wanting to be late for his paper round and then walking with father, a rifle in his hand, to shoot rabbits and birds that, proudly, he would give to mother. “I can wring a chicken’s neck,” I remember him saying, my baby brother, so confident, so sure of himself, “So, my dear sister, Gracie, the next time we have chicken for tea, you’ll know who put it on the table.”

And then the picture of him again, the picture that stays with me, the day he went to war, buoyed up, ready for action and adventure, his youthful face aglow, all gone now, disappeared into the ether, as if he’d never been. My mind wandered to the man upstairs, Sergeant Kurt Larsen, sleeping the sleep of the dead. Maybe he had a sister, a sister like me, eager for him to come home, waiting for his step on the garden path and the creak of the door as it opened. I vowed then to care for him, to make him well and in no time at all, to send him home.