Diary Of A War Bride. Lauri Robinson

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СКАЧАТЬ thought hit him as the Jeep approached the fork in the road. ‘Go left,’ Dale told Sanders.

      ‘Why? Where are we going now?’ the Corporal asked.

      The young man had a lot to learn, but that would happen in time. It always did. Such as learning that orders were followed without question. ‘There’s a roadhouse up ahead,’ Dale replied. Unlike the young Corporal, the army hadn’t had to teach him to follow orders. His father had taken care of that years ago.

      ‘I’ve heard about the roadhouse,’ Corporal Sanders said. ‘It’s called the Village Pub.’

      Dale nodded.

      ‘That’s where we’re going?’

      Dale nodded again.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Reconnaissance,’ Dale said.

      ‘Oh.’

      Yes, Corporal Sanders had a lot to learn. They, he and Sanders, were mechanics and mechanics didn’t usually embark upon reconnaissance missions.

      Then again, they hadn’t been doing a lot of engineering work up until the past few weeks. Since shortly after arriving in London and being convoyed out here to the country, they’d been building an air force base. You name it, they’d helped build it. Nissen huts, much like the Quonset sheds back home, made out of corrugated iron and built over concrete floors, runways and a number of wooden buildings that were now being used for numerous functions, and tents. Big ones, little ones and those in between. Even with all the buildings they’d erected, a fair number of men would continue to be housed in tents. What had been little more than a field was now almost as big as most of the towns back in North Dakota.

      There were several small towns around this area, or villages as the locals called them, and they were only a few miles apart from each other. Back home, people had to drive for miles to reach the next town over. Miles and miles.

      He’d caught glimpses of the villages while travelling to and from the base the past couple of months, but stopping at the roadhouse would be a first for both him and Sanders. The planes were finally in the air, flying in and out of the base daily, so today was the first free time they’d had since arriving.

      ‘Looks like this is it,’ Sanders said, pulling up next to a cobblestone two-storey building. ‘It’s hard to tell if they’re open with those blackout curtains.’

      Dale climbed out of the Jeep. The dark material hung inside every home and business for the same reason they’d covered the outside of the Nissen huts back at the base with black paint. In order to prevent the German bombers from seeing anything as they flew overhead in the darkness of night. ‘They’re open,’ he said. ‘The door’s open.’

      Sanders nodded and then asked, ‘Reconnaissance for what?’

      ‘We need to know who that girl is and where she lives before Major Hilts learns about Rooster’s flyover.’

      ‘Oh.’ Sanders visibly shivered. ‘You’re right about that, Sarge.’

      A short dark-haired man standing behind a long wooden counter waved as they walked in the door. ‘Welcome, welcome! Good to see you stopping in. You’re from the base, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Sanders replied.

      ‘Been looking forward to you boys patronising our place here,’ the man said. ‘What can I get you both? A cup of ale?’

      ‘Coffee,’ Dale said.

      ‘Same here,’ Sanders added.

      The man held a finger up in the air. ‘I stocked coffee just for you folks. Only take me a minute to get it started.’

      Sanders waited until the man walked into the back room before leaning across the table. ‘Didn’t you read the pamphlet?’

      Dale nodded. Every GI was ordered to read several pamphlets, including the one that stated:

       The British don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee. You don’t know how to make a cup of tea. It’s an even swap.

      ‘You ordered coffee,’ Sanders whispered.

      ‘Because I don’t like tea,’ Dale said. ‘The coffee here can’t be any worse than my father’s.’ For years his father had said strong coffee would put hair on his chest. Both he and his brother, Ralph, had learned that was a wives’ tale, but they’d drank the coffee anyway—every Sunday while their mother was at church. For two young boys, it had been an easy trade-off. Dad’s coffee won out over Pastor Dunlop’s sermons every week. Except for Easter Sunday and Christmas Day. Ma had insisted everyone attend church on those days.

      ‘Coffee will be ready shortly,’ the man said, walking back into the room. ‘So you boys have been busy on that air base, haven’t you? I’ve not driven out there myself, but I’ve heard all about it.’ Fidgeting with the white apron tied around his portly waist, he walked around the counter. ‘Name’s Oscar. Oscar Fowler. My brother, Ed, is in the kitchen. The two of us own this pub. We’re hoping to get some entertainment in here on Friday and Saturday nights. Just for you boys out there at the base. Hoping you’ll feel right at home here.’

      ‘That’s kind of you.’ Dale chose not to explain that they probably wouldn’t have any more time for socialising in the future than they’d had since arriving.

      ‘Least we can do,’ Oscar said. ‘Ed and I don’t think like some others do.’

      ‘Oh,’ Dale said. ‘About what?’

      ‘Some think the Germans will follow your planes back here,’ Oscar said. ‘Dropping their bombs.’

      ‘They won’t dare come this close to a base,’ Sanders answered. ‘We’ve got artillery that will take them down before they could even think about dropping a bomb.’

      Dale didn’t respond. Although there was some truth in what the Corporal said, there was no telling what the Germans were capable of.

      ‘That’s what we think,’ Oscar answered while waving a thick arm towards the counter. ‘Can I get you something while your coffee brews? A pickled egg, maybe? They’re fresh. Ed makes up a new batch every week. We get eggs, cream and cheese from a family up the road every week.’

      It had been months since he’d eaten a real egg, yet Dale’s mind was more focused on the young girl and the eggs that had broken when her bike toppled rather than eating one.

      ‘My grandmother used to pickle eggs,’ Sanders said. ‘One year, my cousin and I copped a jar from the cellar and it just so happens the jar hadn’t sealed, the eggs had rotted. Haven’t been able to eat an egg since.’

      There wasn’t a lot to be said about the egg powder they ate regularly, except that it had to be better than a rotten pickled egg. Dale couldn’t even stomach the thought of that.

      ‘The family has rabbits, too,’ Oscar said. ‘Got a pot of stew in the kitchen if you’d prefer.’

      ‘The coffee will be fine,’ Dale answered. A hint of guilt struck his СКАЧАТЬ