大象传媒

THE AGE OF FEAR
By Arthur Allwright

My God ! There was no mistaking the stuttering, echoing drone in the sky. Fear tightened my stomach muscles and the pounding of my heartbeat vibrated throughout my body. It was another of those revenge weapons, unmanned winged rockets with a deadly explosive nose fired by the desperate Germans from mobile launching pads in Picardy and propelled over the English Channel by pulse-jet engines..
My next door neighbour Bernard and I ran into the garden knowing that thousands of pairs of eyes would have already watched the path of this killer with the fiery ejection from its tail. Now it was our turn to urge it on to somebody else鈥檚 patch. Not here please.
We knew that the first line of defence against these robots was over the English Channel where our fighter pilots demonstrated their skills by flying alongside the low-flying 鈥渄oodle bugs鈥� as they had been christened and tried to tilt them over with their wing tips to redirect them into the sea. The second line was the ack-ack fire along the Kent coast, followed by a network of barrage balloons, whose cables occasionally tripped an intruder. But this one, like most of its fellows had pierced the haphazard defence and would continue an uncontrolled journey until its fuel expired, leaving the winged bomb to glide into whatever helpless mass happened to be below.
We stood on the Anderson shelter to give us that extra six feet of height to get a better view over the elm trees at the bottom of the garden.
鈥淚t鈥檚 missed us,鈥� he announced knowingly and as if to tempt fate, he added, 鈥淚鈥檇 hate to be near the bang if it hit the gasometer.鈥�
It was the sort of nervous conversation prompted by fear. My reply was stymied by the sudden silence. The engine had cut out and the nose dipped slightly. Desperate voices in adjoining gardens conjectured about the likely point of impact.
鈥淟ooks towards Epsom or Cheam.鈥�
鈥淢ore like Worcester Park, it鈥檚 changed course a bit,鈥� corrected another.
The gliding took an eternity. Twenty or thirty seconds is forever when you think that your life is on the line. The inevitable bang came, followed by the tell-tale evidence from the billowing funnel of white, then black smoke, that the possible spot of impact was nearer than expected, possibly only two miles away. Relief from fear shows itself in different ways.
鈥淧oor devils,鈥� came a cry a few doors along the gardens of our terraced houses, aimed at the unknown ordinary people who had paid the price of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
鈥淟et鈥檚 have a cuppa,鈥� called another.
Bernard had a better idea and within minutes, still in our school clothes, we were on our bikes, heading in the direction of the smoke. Both of our Mums were out at First Aid lessons and Dads would not be home from work for a couple of hours and this was exciting for two lads of thirteen. A rattling loose rear mudguard and soft tyres made peddling my bike hard going but I was being driven on by Bernard鈥檚 better display on his well-maintained Raleigh. This was our third attempt to chase a doodle bug but each of the two previous ones was further away than we had presumed. We were convinced, however, that this time would be different and the closeness of the rising plumes of grey smoke, unfolding against a clear blue September afternoon sky, spurred us on. The uneven railway crossing threatened to shake my bike to pieces and as we tackled the long strength-sapping gradient that followed, the additional strain began to take its toll on my wonky pedals which creaked, gasping for oil.
Two army ambulances overtook us and screeched round a corner, indicating the route that we should take. We followed with increasing speed, sensing that we were not far from our goal. The first signs of damage were lumps of roof tiles littering the road and at about the same time, people were outside their homes gaping at the broken windows. Nobody seemed to be doing anything, just gaping. At the next junction a broken road sign, 鈥淩uxley Lane鈥� hanging limply, gave the introduction to the extent of the carnage wrought by that single intruder. Amidst the smoking arena of war, two tree-lined roads of beautifully maintained houses of the 1930 era had been rudely laid to waste. The mortgaged castles of so many families were no more. Furniture and clothes festooned the remaining trees. Two jets of flames illuminated the path of fractured gas pipes and a three legged dog hobbled past us, howling in pain.
Bernard clutched his stomach and heaved as if he was about to be sick, turned his bike round and pointed in a homeward direction.
鈥淐ome on,鈥� he gasped, 鈥渢his is no place for us. We shouldn鈥檛 have come.鈥�
Nothing more was said. We half walked, half peddled along the rural back lanes of Worcester Park. The bravado of our ill-advised trek had been extinguished by the unbelievable extent and stench of the destruction. Prior to today, we had coped with the damage of individual bombs, or sticks of bombs, even close to our own homes. We openly admitted that during lulls in air raids, we had secretly wished for the danger to return, even though in the reality of an air raid, we sweated with terror at the sound of approaching bombers.
Our silent thoughts were suddenly exploded by yet another torch of death in the sky, getting louder and louder. In a split second, the two of us realised we were still in the middle of a raid and we wished that we were anywhere but here.
At about 5,000 ft, the doodle bug was still full of energy but to our horror, it turned out to be one of those rockets that dipped without warning and gathered speed in a straight line with its engine at full power and it was aiming directly at us.
鈥淐hrist,鈥� screamed Bernard, 鈥渓et鈥檚 get to the other side of the railway bridge.鈥�
Standing on our peddles and finding unknown strength, driven by fear, we raced through the arch, bounced up the tarred pavement and into a dried up ditch beside a hedge. As the tangled mess of two boys and bikes hit the ditch, a man threw himself across our bodies, yelling at us to keep our heads down. His words were obliterated by a crescendo of ear-rending proportions. The earth literally shook relentlessly with a series of explosions.
鈥淜eep your heads down.鈥� We needed no telling. I felt a jab on the back of my leg and could feel and hear chunks of debris falling around us. I found that I had been holding my breath for the whole duration of the episode, just as I had when I was anticipating pain in the dentist鈥檚 chair the previous week. As the cacophony of sound diluted, there was a gradual movement amongst us. The old man who had shielded us with his body, extricated himself, stood up and shook himself like a chicken after it had enjoyed a dust bath. As I disentangled my leg from the bike frame, I was aware of the sudden silence amid the dense smoke and an obnoxious smell permeating the foggy air. It was a memory that would stay with me for ever. My legs had turned to jelly. Both of us were shaking and the old man was walking aimlessly in the middle of the road.
鈥淲e鈥檙e alive,鈥� I said, not convincing myself that it was true.
鈥淎re we? I can鈥檛 hear anything except a ringing in my ears.鈥�
A glance around us left us bemused. In spite of the enormity of the explosion, we could see no damage on our side of the railway embankment, except for a few broken branches of trees. Without realising it, Bernard鈥檚 shout to get through the arch had undoubtedly saved our lives. The high railway embankment had protected us from the direct blast of the impact, centred on the Plough pub a hundred yards on the other side of the bridge.
鈥淲e had better get home before anyone knows we鈥檙e missing.鈥� urged Bernard as we wheeled our bikes along the pavement.
With a trickle of blood meandering down to my socks I tried to get on my bike, but the combination of a bent wheel and my jittery legs made it impossible. It was as much as I could do, to walk at all. Bernard, however was intent on getting home and made it obvious. Eventually, he made the excuse of wanting to pee and said that he would dash home and tell our mums if they were home, that we were OK.
My stomach ached, my head vibrated with every step and I began to sweat with the difficulty of dragging the injured bike. A pigeon suddenly chose the moment that I was passing beneath a tall tree, to add his contribution to my shattered nerves, by flapping his wings in a desperate attempt to escape from a pair of marauding magpies. For a brief second, I visualised another doodle bug and I chastised myself for reacting so negatively and causing my heart to race unnecessarily. I was on edge, without doubt, but I told myself that I needed to get a grip.
The local school loomed and my own need for a pee steered me into the yard and through the 鈥淏oys鈥� door. The relief of a never ending pee played a duel role and on my exit I began to think more clearly. As if by magic, there on the school wall was the recent Notice inviting parents to take advantage of pending evacuation opportunities. I used the pencil hanging from the board to add my name and address to the list of about thirty names.
My instinctive action excited me for the homeward journey and my thoughts became centred on the possible reaction at home when I told them of my plan. The focal point in my mind was to avoid a repeat of the afternoon鈥檚 scare but I suddenly saw the wonderful opportunity of at last finding an excuse to put distance between me and my three sisters with whom I had been engaged in a continuous war, making life at home sheer bedlam.

End of Chapter 1.
Copyright Arthur Allwright. 2005

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