Chapter 63: War Casualties

Michael asked his Mam, "What's a telegram? What's happened?"

His Uncle Tom had just visited. There had been a very serious conversation with Margaret. Michael could tell, from the expressions on their faces, that something very unusual had happened. Uncle Tom had made no fuss of him or of Gwyn when he arrived, unexpectedly, to see them.

Michael had not been able to hear much of the urgent whispers between his mother and her brother. Just the odd word like "telegram".

Uncle Tom didn't stay long. As he left, he said to his sister, "I've informed them at Morecambe. I'm going to see our Charlotte next, in Lodge Street. Then I'm catching the eight o'clock train to Barrow. I'll be in touch as soon as I know more."

Margaret gave Tom a long hug. "Don't forget the Martins' telephone number. They won't mind you ringing there."

A grim-faced Tom, pulled the collar of his heavy-duty AFS raincoat up round his neck and ran off in the rain, to the bus-stop, to catch a bus to Lancaster.

Margaret didn't answer Michael's question. "Don't bother me now, luvvie," she said. "I have something I need to do upstairs."

She went out of the room and up the stairs, leaving Michael to play Ludo with Gwyn. In her own bedroom, the tears which she had held back, because she did not want her children to see her crying, now flowed from her and soon she was sobbing uncontrollably.

Tom had had a telegram from Authority, in Barrow. James, Beatrice, Julia and Baby Tommy had all been killed during the bombing raid the night before!

While that was happening, Michael and Gwyn had been fast asleep.The distant but loud explosions from across Morecambe Bay had not aroused them. Margaret shook them awake and hustled them into their warm siren suits.

She had a makeshift bed ready for them in the pantry which was situated under the stairs. Mr Jackson, the Air Raid Patrol Warden, had advised her that was the best place to be, if bombs were dropped nearby.

It was not the first time that they had had air raid warnings at night. The children were quite used to transferring from their own beds and sleeping together downstairs with their mother in the cramped space, in the pantry.

When Liverpool had been bombed, the raids went on for a long time.

Margaret lay awake, listening to the thumps of explosions, from more than fifty miles away. But last night had been different. It was only about eleven miles from their house, across the Bay, to Barrow. They had not known it at the time but it was her parents' town that was being attacked. The enemy's prime targets were the submarines at Vickers shipyard.

The noises didn't sound as though they were eleven miles away. Margaret thought they were being dropped on Williamson's. The explosions caused the house to shake gently. Her heart had thumped loudly.

Margaret worried about her Barrow relatives' safety. At the height of the bombing, she began to be frantic for her own and the children's survival. Would it be their turn next? She hoped that all of the other ARP Wardens had been as efficient as Mr Jackson, in seeing that blackout regulations were being kept. They'd been warned often enough that chinks of light might be seen by enemy pilots and guide them to you.

She was not prepared for what Tom had told her. His news was shocking. It was unbelievable. Tom was lucky to be alive. If he had not been stationed in Lancaster, he too would have been a casualty.

When was it all going to end? Ever since they'd moved from Edward Street, after a few months of happiness, everything had started going wrong. Her mariage had been upset by Gordon's lies and straying and by her suspicions. Then the war came. Since Gordon had joined up, her life had been an unending struggle to keep house and home together. Recently, Gordon had been behaving in strange ways when he came on leave. Now, to cap all of that, and put it all into perspective, this terrible personal tragedy had occurred. Four awful deaths, all in one go, was an unbearable blow!

She had a glimpse into the void, a feeling that life was pointless, that there was no justice, no fairness. What had she ever done to hurt anyone? Why did these awful things keep on happening to her? She was overwhelmed by self-pity.

"Mam! Mam!" It was Gwyn calling her. "Mam, when are you coming down? We've finished playing. I want my cocoa."

She went downstairs, to the children. She did her best to straighten her face and hide the fact that she'd been crying. But Michael noticed. "What's wrong Mam? What's the matter?"

She had to tell them. They had to know. But how?

"What did Uncle Tom want, Mam? Why have you been crying?" Michael had been sleeping quite well for some time. But, after his mother told him about the deaths at Barrow, the Uglies returned. He had nightmares, every night, and Margaret found him sleep-walking on three occasions during the weeks before Gordon's next leave.

Gwyn started sucking her thumb.

Margaret thought perhaps she should have spoken far more openly to the children, about what had happened to her Barrow family. But she didn't. She could not find it in her to talk about her dead mother and father, her little sister Julia and her baby. She kept her grief to herself as much as possible and tried not to let it show. She should have shared it.

One day, Gwyn said, "I wonder what Tommy was like. I wanted to go and see him. I wish we had a baby like him Mam."

Margaret had to head upstairs quickly because she felt the tears welling up again. "Poor Julia," she thought. "It's a good job she made the most of her life when she did. She was quite right, living only for a good time until her marriage."

The Lancaster and Morecambe contingent went to Barrow for the funerals. Michael and Gwyn went too. All of the local cousins accompanied their parents. It was in terrible contrast with their last journey. Everyone had been happy then going to Julia's wedding. Now, the train was crowded with soldiers and other members of the Armed Forces. There was only standing room in the corridor until the train began to empty at the stations round the Bay.

Aunt Charlotte's oldest, Amelia, was thirteen now and she was put in charge of the children at Dalton Road, during the funeral. Only the adults went to the church and the cemetery. The children watched from the windows as the procession of hearses and hired cars moved away from the house. The first destination was the local church where the wedding had been.

"Poor James," whispered Margaret to her sisters sitting alongside her in the car, "this time he'll have to go into the church, whether he wants it or not."

Dick overheard and said some feeling, "Aye, you never can tell when you're going to need the church. People think it's there for just when it suits them!"

Earlier that day, Margaret had gone to Ryelands, at the end of morning school, to collect the children. The Headmistress was busy with an Inspector. She pointed to the children's classrooms and told Margaret she could go on her own for Michael and Gwyn.

Margaret collected Michael first. She whispered to his red-headed teacher, Miss Farrell, whom she'd only seen, at a distance, a couple of times before. She told her what it was all about.

"I thought Michael had been a bit subdued this week," said Beth. "I thought that he had a lot on his mind. He's a bright lad you know. He's a joy to teach. I'm so sorry to hear your bad news."

"Thank-you," replied Margaret, anxious to be off, to go for Gwyn. "He'll be back in school in the morning. But he's bound to be tired." Beth told her not worry. She would take special care of Michael until he got over the bad news.

Margaret and her children arrived at Castle Station before the other relatives. They went through the entrance across from the Station Hotel. The hotel was closed and being used by the Army.

They crossed the bridge to the main-line platform, where the train for Barrow would arrive. Michael was glad they were early because of his new hobby.

John Martin had told Michael all about collecting train numbers. Michael had his book with him and wrote the numbers down of the engines which he saw. Next to a side platform, up against the buffers, was the little tank engine, which pulled, or pushed, a few coaches to Morecambe's Euston Road railway station. It travelled there and back, all day long. It was hissing away to itself and puffing out an occasional cloud of steam, waiting for passengers.

Michael wrote its number down in his notebook.

Over the other side of the main lines, and beyond the main platform buildings, there was an electric train waiting to set off for Green Ayre. Michael was not interested in that. He only collected steam train names and numbers. He thought how lucky Rob was, because he lived near the main line which went over the railway bridge on Torrisholme Road. All Rob had to do was look out of his bedroom window and take their numbers, every few minutes, as the trains went past.

The relatives duly assembled. They were very subdued. The children were very quiet during the journey. When they arrived in Barrow, it was a scene of devastation which met their eyes. There were gasps of astonishment and dismay. Michael could hardly believe what he was viewing. As they left the station, they could see lots of buildings had been bombed and demolished or half-wrecked. There were Army lorries parked, here and there, amongst the ruins, with anti-aircraft guns mounted on the back. From others, long thick cables were attached to barrage balloons, high in the sky, floating there like inflated elephants.

The station itself had suffered from blast damage.

The thing that really upset Michael was that ‘Coppernob' had gone. The plinth was still there and parts of the iron framework of its case. All the glass had been smashed and his favourite railway engine had vanished. Michael assumed that it had been blown up and that he would never see it again. Its destruction was another ingredient in his nightmares which were now filled with terrible explosions and parts of bodies flying through the air.

For the rest of his boyhood and youth he often thought about the happy visits to Barrow before the war. His memory of gleaming ‘Coppernob' was a symbol of those happy and secure times, before the bad ones came. Then, many years later, when Michael was middle-aged, just a few months before Gordon died, he took his Dad to York for the day.

Michael's mother and his wife went to have a look round the Shambles and York Minster. Gordon and Michael were still interested in railway trains, so they went to visit the National Railway Museum. Michael could not believe his eyes! "Dad," he yelled, into his partially-deaf father's ear, look over there! It's ‘Coppernob'!"

And so it was! It had survived after all. The pair of them examined it closely. Yes the old warrior had been damaged and patched up. If you looked closely, you could see where bits of shrapnel had made holes in it. It looked as good as new, all polished, and occupying a proud place , in the area dedicated to the glories of the age of steam.

"Well I never!" said Gordon.

Michael grinned and said, "Well, I never too!"

After the funerals in Barrow, Margaret wrote to Gordon, who had been unable to have leave and be with her during her first weeks of grieving.

Dear Gordon,

I hope that you are well.

As you may imagine, all is pretty fraught here. The children are still very upset and I can't credit what has happened.

In my mind, they are all still alive and getting on with their lives. I suppose I think that because we've been living miles away and not seeing them very often.

On the day of the funeral, I picked the children up from school. I met Miss Farrell, Michael's teacher. She seems to be very pleasant. You'll be pleased to hear that she told me Michael is doing exceptionally well in her class.

Anyway, we just have to get on with our lives. I wish you were here to help me cope. The children do miss you a lot.

I'm still working for Joyce. It may be that she has found Mr Right at last. She's always going out with the same chap. He's in the R.A.F. He's very young and he talks with a posh accent but he seems to be very nice. I don't know how long he'll be stationed at Morecambe. Most of them are posted quite quickly from here.

I have not a lot of news but I expect you know how I'm feeling. When is this war going to end? What is happening to all of us?

At least, I'm lucky with my neighbours. They've been a great help.

Michael likes hearing from you. Gwyn is learning to read now. She would like a letter of her own, if you can spare the time.

Have you a date for your next leave yet?

From, Your wife,

Margaret

"Can't even spare me a kiss on paper," thought Gordon, when he read the letter. "What a bloody awful life it is!"

During his last leave, Margaret had gone all cold on him again. He'd given her no new reason to be like that. That's the sort she was. Her trouble was, she expected life to be perfect and when it wasn't she took it too hard.

When he thought about Julia and his baby, he felt like screaming. It was even worse for him when he wondered if the bombs he was helping to drop were finding the wrong targets and causing the same sort of carnage amongst German civilians. It all helped to lead to his near-breakdown during his second set of missions.

What a predicament to be in: knowing the war was a just war; not wanting to let the rest of his team down, the best lot of men he'd ever known; but not wanting to kill innocent people; trying not to go crazy!

Trying! Trying! Trying!

"You must always do your best in life," his dad had told him, during his last time at home during the First World War, before he went back to the tenches and was killed. "If you can't do any good for someone, just make sure you don't do them any harm!"

The older he became, the more complicated life seemed. Compared with where he was now, life in peacetime at home and at Williamson's had been dead easy. In those days, he thought he had some of the answers to life's problems. Now, he was not very hopeful of knowing which were the right questions!