The FitzOsbornes at War (45 page)

‘The whole thing’s so terrible,’ said Veronica. ‘I mean, apart from the horrible loss of life – and killing prisoners of war, which is illegal – the Nazis are using this to drive a wedge between the Allied nations. The Polish government-in-exile is absolutely furious, of course, and wants an independent investigation by the Red Cross, so the Soviet Union’s broken off diplomatic relations with the Poles. And
now
it seems the British and the Americans are going to support the Soviets.’

‘Does Mr Churchill think it was really the Nazis who killed all those men?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no, he understands it’s far more likely the Soviets were responsible. But as the Soviets are doing most of the fighting against the Nazis, the Soviets’ demands trump those of the Poles. This isn’t about discovering the truth. It’s about winning the war.’

And then, in the midst of all this, I discovered that Henry has been pestering the Colonel! It’s quite possible
he’s
the one trying to calm down General Sikorski, the Polish Prime Minister, and set up new meetings with the Soviets. The last thing the poor Colonel needs right now is to have to deal with Henry’s nonsense about joining the Wrens, but I received this note in the post today:

My dear Sophie,

Enclosed is a letter your sister sent to me. I trust your judgement entirely, so if you approve of her plans, let me know and I’ll do what I can to assist.

Yours fondly,

[illegible but very familiar Colonel signature]

How did Henry even get his address? I suppose she must have sent the letter via Rupert, and he was too kind-hearted to put her off. Of course, if
anyone
could wangle her a posting with the Wrens, it would be the Colonel . . . but I refuse to consider the matter until the school year is over. I’m certainly not going to bother Veronica with it now.

Still . . . the Colonel ‘trusts my judgement entirely’? That’s a rather nice thing to say, isn’t it?

10th July, 1943

I
WAS WALKING OUT OF
Harrods this afternoon, feeling mildly triumphant about having procured a packet of sewing needles and some elastic, when I heard someone calling, ‘Sophie! Sophie!’ The next thing I knew, a girl had flung her arms round me and my face was full of honey-blonde curls. She loosened her grasp, I blinked . . . and it was
Kick
! Kick Kennedy, back in London!

‘But when did you arrive?’ I cried, after we’d each babbled about how wonderful it was to see the other. ‘And what are you
doing
here – Oh, American Red Cross, yes, I can see that now, but why didn’t you
tell
us what you were planning?’

She grinned at me. ‘Well, I didn’t know for sure where I’d be stationed – I mean, I could have ended up
anywhere
, even Iceland! But can you believe it, I’m right around the corner from our old house. I’ve just started as programme assistant at the Hans Crescent Club and guess what, I’m a second lieutenant in the US Army, too! They figured they ought to make all us Red Cross girls into officers, just in case we get captured.’

‘You look so impressive,’ I said, admiring her smart blue-grey uniform. ‘What is it you do, exactly?’

‘Oh, I keep our officers entertained,’ she said. ‘Play gin rummy and ping-pong, jitterbug with them, write letters to their mothers, organise their leave passes. Often it’s just sitting and listening – sometimes those poor boys get so homesick, all they want is to talk to an American girl. But it’s exhausting, I’ll tell you that. I can’t
wait
for my next day off. Lady Astor invited me to Cliveden last weekend, and I’ve had dinner with Lord Beaverbrook, and next weekend, I’m going down to Compton Place with Billy –’

‘Oh, Billy Hartington?’ I said, and she blushed.

‘Well, I always knew he wasn’t really
serious
about Sally Norton. She’s a nice girl and they’ve known each other since they were kids, but . . . Anyway, when he broke off their engagement a few months ago, I thought, “I can’t sit around here in Washington, waiting till the war is over! This is crazy!” And I always
did
want to do something useful for the war effort – so here I am. He’s stationed at Alton now, did you know? That’s only an hour from London. And oh, Sophie, have you
seen
him in his uniform? He was telling me all about Dunkirk and boy, was he ever
brave
–’

And she went on about Billy’s many wonderful qualities for some time. When she stopped for breath, I asked after her two elder brothers, who I knew had joined the US Navy. She said that Joe was flying a patrol plane near Puerto Rico, searching for German U-boats, and Jack was commanding a motor torpedo boat in the South Pacific, attacking Japanese destroyers.

I told Kick about how we’d finally given in to Henry’s pleadings and allowed her to join the Wrens and there still being no news of Toby, and she listened politely for about a minute before shifting the conversation back to Billy. If sorrow makes one self-centred, then so does being in love. I couldn’t begrudge her that, though. I’m glad she and Billy are enjoying whatever time they have together before their disapproving parents – or the war – tear them apart.

Kick suddenly remembered that she was on duty and was supposed to have been back at the club a quarter of an hour ago, so she had to dash off, although she shouted something over her shoulder about Friday evening and the Four Hundred as she ran. I waved goodbye, then went to catch my bus, marvelling at how
rich
Kick had looked, with her glossy, luxuriant hair and plump cheeks and immaculate stockings. Goodness knows how haggard and threadbare
I
must have seemed to her.

When I got home, Veronica had finished the week’s grocery shopping and was weeding our overgrown vegetable patch. She was covered in dirt, but looked far more relaxed than she had for a long while. It’s been another horrible month at the Foreign Office. The leader of the French Resistance was tortured to death by the Gestapo, who also arrested many others in the Resistance, so life has become even more difficult and dangerous for Allied servicemen trying to escape into Spain. In addition, some Spanish workers managed to smuggle a bomb into Gibraltar last month and the resulting explosion set fire to the docks, so now the British are frantically trying to prevent further attacks. Worst of all, poor General Sikorski, the Polish Prime Minister, was killed when his plane crashed into the sea, just seconds after taking off from the aerodrome at Gibraltar. His death is so very convenient for the Soviets (and indeed, for the British and Americans) that there is much speculation over whether his plane was sabotaged – and if so, by whom? It is all very worrying, but Veronica said that her afternoon of ripping up weeds had been quite therapeutic.

‘I pretended each one was a Fascist,’ she said. She pointed to an especially thick specimen sprawled at her feet. ‘Look, that’s Goering. And that tall, limp one over there is Ribbentrop.’

After I’d helped cart Hitler, Mussolini, Franco and all the others to the compost heap, I came inside to write letters to various family members. Henry has finished her initial training – three weeks of marching about in blue overalls – which she absolutely loved. Now she’s in Plymouth, learning how to navigate a motor launch so that she can ferry people and stores out to naval ships. As she spent most of her childhood messing about on boats, I can’t imagine any of this is particularly challenging for her – except for having to obey all the rules and regulations, of course. She wrote to say that her new uniform kit included knee-length knitted knickers, which were far too thick and scratchy to wear. As she had plenty of her own underclothes – and the sea breezes can get quite cold – she cut out the gusset of the knickers and wore them as a pullover, putting her head through the new opening, and her arms where the legs were supposed to go. Then all the other Wrens started doing the same, and when their commanding officer finally noticed, Henry pointed out it
was
a part of their uniform and the regulations didn’t specify
how
the knickers were to be worn. Lucky for her that the officer couldn’t help laughing. (Or perhaps it wasn’t luck; perhaps it was that famous FitzOsborne charm.) Henry does seem very happy where she is, but I can’t help feeling anxious about her. She’s so
young
. Still, it’s a comfort to know Alice lives fairly close by, just in case there are any problems.

I also sent a page to Simon with our news. We’ve had half a dozen letters from him now, but they are carefully addressed to both Veronica and me, and are utterly devoid of any real information or emotion. Of course, all his correspondence is censored, which must be a bit off-putting for him. As it is, his letters sometimes arrive with pieces cut out of them, where he’s slipped up and accidentally mentioned the name of a place or a colleague. I can only imagine the letters of other, less careful, servicemen – their poor families must receive something resembling paper doilies.

After that, I wrote to Aunt Charlotte and Barnes. I think they both miss Henry quite a lot – she has become a sort of substitute for Toby in their eyes – so it really
was
unselfish and generous of Aunt Charlotte to sign the permission forms. I feel doubly obliged now to send them cheerful missives as often as possible.

I wrote another note to Toby, too – just saying that I was thinking of him and hoped he was all right. I don’t ever
send
the notes, of course. I don’t even keep them. But I find the act of writing them strangely comforting.

21st August, 1943

J
ACK
K
ENNEDY IS A HERO!
His boat was sunk by a Japanese destroyer somewhere in the South Pacific, but he rescued most of his men from the burning wreckage. Then he swam for hours, clutching one injured mate and encouraging the others, until they all managed to reach a tiny island. They were stranded there for days without any supplies, but finally some natives turned up and agreed to fetch help, and the men were rescued.

What an ordeal! Especially as Jack is really not very strong – he has a bad back and is constantly falling ill. Actually, I’m surprised he passed the medical to get
into
the navy, but I expect his father pulled strings. Poor Kick was worried half to death by the newspaper headlines, until she had a letter from Jack himself, who sounded the same as ever. He has refused to take any leave, and has gone straight back on patrol.

At least all of this has (temporarily) distracted Kick from the drama of her love life. Billy has turned very serious now that the Allied invasion of France appears imminent, and the two of them are discussing marriage. Of course, it is utterly impossible. His father loathes Roman Catholics and besides, Billy will be the next Duke of Devonshire. How could Billy, the future head of one of the leading Protestant families in England, possibly wed an Irish-American Catholic girl – particularly one who insists on bringing up their children as Catholic? Veronica tried to explain some of the historical and political context to Kick, but I don’t think she took much in. She was too busy worrying about eternal hellfire. She consulted some priest and he assured her that she’d be ‘living in sin’ if she married a Protestant, and that she and all her Protestant children would proceed directly to Hell when they died.