Harry's War

By D. Edward Bradley

In war-torn England, in September 1941, thirteen-year-old Harry Lockwood steps off the train and embarks on his new life at Markham College, a boys' boarding school near London. With his father stationed in North Africa and his mother working in a munitions factory a hundred miles away, he is on his own.

Soon, Harry finds himself fighting for survival in a new world where the misuse of power by sadistic prefects creates a closed society ruled by fear and violence. As if this is not enough, Hitler's bombardment of Britain with terrifying V1 flying bombs and V2 ballistic missiles threatens to destroy him.

Harry's tale is one of lost innocence, of war, of loyalty and of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Nov 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781611871791

Book preview

Harry’s War

By D. Edward Bradley

Copyright 2011 by D. Edward Bradley

Cover Copyright 2011 by Damian Bradley and Untreed Reads Publishing

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

http://www.untreedreads.com

Praise for Harry’s War

"Wuthering Heights, Goodbye Mr. Chips and Pride and Prejudice took me to worlds I’d never have the chance to visit on my own. Mr. Bradley has accomplished the same sense of adventure with this first in a Trilogy…. At age 13, Harry Lockwood sets out for his education at a prestigious English boarding school for boys. World War Two is in full swing…. V1 and V2 bombs threaten life and limb…. Boys must suffer beatings and humiliations by sadistic prefects…. With humor and determination born of courage, Harry and his friends survive four years…. Well-written books and memorable characters are rare these days, but Harry’s War is an exception to that statement."

—Laurel Johnson, Midwest Book Review

"To the accumulated tradition of British boarding school literature…add D. Edward Bradley’s first-class, autobiographical novel, Harry’s War…. Harry develops from a 13-year-old facing the prospect of his first term at a prestigious English public school with mixed feelings in 1941 to a confident, mature young man of 17 in 1945…. Perhaps there’s a sequel…if it’s as good as this book it will be well worth reading."

—Books in Canada

"Thrilling, intense and heart-warming…. As England is continually battered by German forces during World War II, Harry Lockwood takes his first steps into his own war. His first year at the prestigious Markham College is a mix of excitement, fear and trepidation as he makes new friends, becomes a victim to the sadistic traditions of the school and attempts to survive both wartime and adolescence…. Author D. Edward Bradley does a superb job of controlling the flow of this marvelous tale by easing the action with both humor and sadness…. If you love romance, action, strife, perseverance and well written prose, I highly recommend Harry’s War."

—Brian Knight, Premium Promotional Services

Harry’s War

D. Edward Bradley

Harry’s War is a work of fiction although some events are based on the author’s own experiences. Characters and schools are imaginary and any resemblance to reality is coincidental. It is emphasised that incidents depicted as occurring at Markham College are entirely fictitious. Every effort has been made to verify the chronology of World War II events that impacted on the story, but the author’s recollection of some, as well as details of the British educational system at the time, may not be correct.

With special thanks to:

Chris Balston, Robynn Clairday, Vickie Galante,

Marianne Greathouse, Nancy Mehl, and

Lauran Strait.

For RB

Contents

Praise for Harry’s War

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Interlude

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Interlude

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Interlude

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Interlude

Chapter Sixteen

Interlude

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Interlude

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

July 1944

Sixteen-year-old Harry Lockwood was halfway to the garden shed when he heard the doodlebug. He thought little of it at first because the flying bomb was a long way off. After all, only a few had reached London’s more distant outskirts where his boarding school was located. Even the most persistent usually ran out of fuel and fell to earth long before they got anywhere near Markham College. These vicious weapons had been raining down on the City for several weeks now, but the explosions of their payloads were little more than far-off thuds.

Harry continued to thread his way through the patchwork of small allotments which made up the boys’ so-called Victory Gardens. He should have been at the swimming pool by now, but a routine visit to the dentist after lunch had made him too late and he had been relegated to garden duty instead.

Suddenly, a tiny alarm rang at the back of Harry’s mind when he realised from the sound of the engine that this particular V1 appeared to be heading straight for Markham College. He looked up at the overcast sky. As yet, nothing was visible. If, Heaven forbid, it was to fly over the school grounds, the doodlebug would probably cross the playing fields and approach Gillespie Hall. That grey monstrosity was the heart of the Markham College complex. Harry glanced back towards Hutchison’s House, his equally grey residence. He would never get there before it arrived.

The thing kept coming on, and in less than half a minute the noise of its engine became terrifying. It resembled the slow, throaty staccato of a very large motor bike. Harry prayed that the V1’s power plant would cut out before it got too close. Once the engine died, you measured the rest of your life in seconds, counting from the time the noise stopped. When you got to about eight, the bomb would hit the ground and explode, hopefully a long way off—otherwise you were dead.

Still, it grew louder.

Harry covered his ears. Bloody hell! It’s coming right overhead!

He dropped flat on his stomach as he had been taught. The sputtering explosions of the pulse-jet pounded into his brain, but he was unable to resist the temptation to roll on his side and look up. Sure enough, the menace was there, just below the clouds. The square-ended wings and pointed fuselage were clearly visible. A ton of high explosive was heading straight for him.

Dive, damn you! he yelled. Now! Now!

But on it came, doubtless bent on blowing him to hell.

He closed his eyes and rolled back onto his stomach, lifting his torso just off the ground with his elbows and knees. He prayed that this would protect him from the shock wave of the imminent explosion and fervently hoped that those who had instructed him were right.

By this time, the sound of the engine was so loud that it drowned all remnants of thought.

Then, without warning, his greatest dread—silence.

Harry began to count. One….

But the V1 started again—it was going to fly away! Relief was only a speck in his subconscious when the engine stopped once more, this time for good. One…two….

Time slowed to an agonising crawl. Minutes, not seconds, seemed to pass until at last he reached, Seven…eight…nine….

Chapter One

Autumn Term, September 1941

That’s it, thought Harry Lockwood with resignation as the tail end of the train cleared the platform at Northwick Park Station. I seem to be here whether I like it or not.

Harry was facing the prospect of his first term at a prestigious English public school with mixed feelings. It would be a challenge, certainly, and Harry had always relished a challenge. But at his prep school he had ended up as a large fish in a small pool. Now he would be exactly the opposite.

The journey from his home in Christchurch on England’s south coast had been long and lonely, and he breathed a mental sigh of relief as he carried his belongings through the station entrance to the gravel car park. Harry considered himself a seasoned traveller, having often taken the train to his prep school in Devon by himself, but this was the first time he had crossed London without an adult. In 1941, it was no mean feat for a thirteen-year-old. In addition to getting lost in the London Underground, there was the ever-present risk of being caught in an air raid. Not a pleasant thought.

The letter from his future Housemaster, a Mr. Hutchison, had been quite specific in its instructions. He was to await the arrival of the school bus. This would take him, along with any other boys who might be waiting, on the half-hour drive through the autumn countryside to their destination, Markham College.

There were a dozen or so other boys, Markham Collegians, he supposed they’d be called, and Harry cast a wary eye over each one. They were easy to recognise by their identical clothing: grey shirts, grey V-necked sweaters, black jackets, grey trousers and polished black shoes. Some sported straw hats, which Harry thought ridiculous. He had tried on his at home. The thing didn’t suit his long features, straight brown hair and intense-looking, almost black eyes. And it seemed inappropriate for his athletic build. Unfortunately, according to the school’s prospectus, straw hats were compulsory.

Only a couple of the boys seemed to stand out from the rest. One was tall with a wide mouth, while the other had a slightly bent nose, a rather battered-looking face and dark hair. A few were obviously new. Harry could see that from the apprehensive expressions on their faces.

I wonder if I’ll get to know any of them really well, he mused. With about three hundred students at Markham, he thought it was a distinct possibility.

As Harry shifted uncomfortably under the afternoon sun, the loop of string that held the cardboard box containing his gas mask slipped off his shoulder. He hitched it back on again, picked up his two suitcases and walked across the car park to join the group. Harry was hoping that someone would speak to him, but a London-bound express roared through the station, its noise and acrid smoke precluding any conversation. At that moment, the bus arrived and he lined up behind the other boys, who had begun to scramble on board with their baggage.

The boy in front of Harry, the battered-looking one with the bent nose, clambered up with difficulty.

The driver turned in his seat. You’re new, aren’t you? Which house?

Hutchison’s, Bent-Nose said, then pushed his way down the centre aisle.

Harry felt pleasantly surprised as he told the driver he was going to the same place. Here was a fellow prisoner about to serve the first of many three-month terms at the institution. Looking around, he saw that his soon-to-be acquaintance had gone to the back of the bus, so he followed and sat beside him. This move drew a disapproving look since there were many empty places, so Harry endeavoured to break the ice.

My name is Harry Lockwood, he said, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes and offering a hand. I heard you say your house is Hutchison’s. So’s mine.

I’m Martin Bulman.

A powerful handshake accompanied the reply while a confident smile replaced the scowl. Harry felt good. Here was a newfound friend before he had even arrived at the school.

Nice to meet you, Bulman, he replied as the engine clattered into life.

The bus lurched once or twice as it pulled out of the car park onto a tree-lined road, which presumably led to Markham Cross, a small village near the school. There were no signposts anywhere in Britain since they had been removed to make life difficult for German spies or, worse still, invading troops.

Every boy at Markham College was assigned to a study where he could spend his spare time and relax. Each senior and prefect had his own study, but two juniors or three new boys shared slightly larger rooms.

When they arrived at Hutchison’s House, one of the large, rather forbidding-looking stone buildings surrounding the main school, Harry was delighted to discover that he and Bulman would be sharing. Their study was supposed to be large enough for three people but in fact, it would be a tight squeeze. The room had bookshelves fixed to the top half of the walls, and a grey hot water radiator sat beneath a window that overlooked the sloping grounds of the residence. The distant smoke of central London could be seen on a clear day. There were three small desks, but no evidence of a third person. They dumped their bags on the floor and hung their gas masks on hooks provided for the purpose.

I don’t suppose it matters which desks we have, said Bulman.

Toss you for first choice, said Harry, pulling a penny from his pocket.

Done, Bulman answered. Heads.

Harry flipped the coin and Bulman won. He chose the desk out of sight behind the door, while Harry selected the one on the same wall as the window.

Bulman sat at his desk. I wonder who we’ll be sharing with.

The name on the door is Wetherby. We’re stuck with him anyway, whatever he’s like.

Whether the weather be wet, intoned Bulman. Looks like we can christen him already.

Let’s see if he deserves it first.

Too late, Lockwood. Wetherby Wet fits, so Wetherby Wet it is. Do you know when we eat? I’m starving.

I remember seeing a piece of paper with the heading ‘Instructions for New Boys.’ I think you’re sitting on it. We’ll find out from that, I expect.

Bulman stood and caught the typed sheet as it fluttered towards the floor. He scanned it briefly. You’re right. We get breakfast at eight, lunch at one and high tea at five. It also says that trunks and tuck boxes sent ‘Luggage in Advance’ should have arrived. We have to unpack our trunks tomorrow morning, but can get our tuck boxes from the baggage room at any time. What did your mother put in yours, Lockwood? Anything good?

Dunno. It’s a surprise. Come on, let’s find them and we can swap things. I’ll never last another hour until tea.

The sturdy wooden chests contained such durable goodies as parents could buy or cook under the strict food rationing that prevailed. They were retrieved after getting directions from an older boy they met in the long passageway. This extended down one of the building’s appendages known as the Study Wing. The boxes would remain in their room throughout the term, to be replenished from time to time by means of parcels from home, or purchases from the Tuck Shop or from the nearby village.

While eating, they exchanged information about each other. Harry explained that his mother worked in a munitions factory, while his father was on his way to the newly formed 8th Army in North Africa. Bulman’s home was in the north of England, and since both his parents were in reserved occupations, they had not been called up.

It was just as well that the boys had eaten something, because at a quarter to five an air raid siren wailed from somewhere nearby.

Wow! That was quick! Bulman moved over to the window. I thought we’d have lots of air raids, being close to London, but not on our first day.

Harry joined him at the window, which had an eight-inch lattice of brown paper strips glued on the inside. This would reduce flying glass if a bomb landed in the immediate vicinity. They each chose an uncovered square and peered in the direction of London.

A few moments passed, then Bulman stepped back.

Hey, he said, this window opens. Why don’t we slide up the bottom half so we can see better?

Have you been in many air raids? asked Harry, guessing from Bulman’s excitement that he hadn’t.

No, none at all.

I was in a few, but never saw anything.

They stared through the open window for several minutes, but absolutely nothing happened. Harry was about to suggest giving up when he heard the distant drone of aircraft. They were bombers. He was certain of that. He remembered their low, distinctive roar from earlier that summer.

Can you hear the engines, Bulman? We ought to be able to see them by this time.

They must be miles away.

Four or five at the most. Compared with what he could tell of Bulman’s experience, Harry felt like an authority on the subject.

"Wow!"

The setting sun was more or less behind them, which made the light perfect as it glinted on the wings of three twin-engined bombers, flying in close formation.

Junkers eighty-eights, said Bulman, wide-eyed with anticipation.

They’re Heinkels, retorted Harry. Junkers don’t have rounded tailplanes.

At that moment, puffs of black smoke blossomed around the marauders as anti-aircraft shells exploded, but they were way off the mark.

Wow! repeated Bulman.

The distant crumps of their detonations followed more than ten seconds later.

What rotten shots, Harry remarked. No wonder London’s been bashed, if that’s the best we can do.

For some unknown reason, the enemy pilots ignored the anti-aircraft fire and were flying in a dead straight line, taking no evasive action. Then Harry understood. They were on their bombing run.

Watch the Heinkels, Bulman! They’re going to drop their bombs. We might see them falling!

While too far away to make out any details, they were overawed by the severity of the explosions that followed. A line of several bright red flashes erupted from the ground, accompanied by clouds of dense black smoke. Distant rumbles and thumps shook the old building just as the formation broke up and the planes took evasive action from the anti-aircraft fire.

The show’s over, said Harry. But as he turned from the window, he was almost deafened by the concentrated roar of six Spitfires.

The boys cheered as the fighters flew over Hutchison’s at treetop height. They were able to see the characteristically curved wings as the formation banked in hot pursuit of the rapidly disappearing bombers.

Get ’em! yelled Bulman.

But he didn’t see them in action because at that moment, the study door opened and they found themselves confronted by a very large and very angry-looking prefect. His straight hair was black and he had a mean, slightly turned-down mouth.

What the hell are you two doing here?

Er…nothing, sir, Harry replied.

You don’t address me as ‘sir.’ My name is Parnaby and you will address me as Parnaby. Is that understood?

Yes, Parnaby, said Bulman.

Did you read the Air Raid Precautions?

We didn’t see any, answered Harry.

Parnaby pointed to a sheet of paper that had been glued to the inside of the study door. It was outlined in red.

Read it to me, he snapped.

It says, ‘When the sirens sound an Air Raid Warning, all boys will proceed to the shelter in the cellar. No one will leave the shelter until the All Clear.’

Did you hear the siren, whatever your name is?

Yes, Parnaby.

I should hope so. It’s loud enough. You will go straight to the shelter and report to my study immediately after the All Clear. You’ll find it at the end of the corridor, in the row of prefects’ studies.

Yes, sir…Parnaby.

And you are Lockwood and Wetherby? Parnaby glanced at the names on the outside of the door.

Wetherby’s not here yet, said Harry. I’m Lockwood.

And I’m Bulman.

Very well. I’ll take you to the shelter.

The air raid shelter in the cellar had been constructed at considerable expense. A stout wooden floor was mounted on bricks above the original dirt. Heavy reinforcing beams provided adequate protection against anything but a direct hit. The place was divided into several large rooms with wide wooden benches built onto the walls. These could be used for sleeping during night raids.

Juniors and new boys over there, said Parnaby, pointing to a sign over the entrance to one of the rooms as he disappeared into the prefects’ area.

Harry and Bulman found the juniors’ room half-empty. The uncertainties of wartime travel meant that the arrival of many boys from more distant parts of the country could be delayed for a day, or even two. Some fifteen faces looked up in unison as they entered, expressions of disdain on several. The two sat on a vacant length of bench.

Did you see anything? asked a tallish, heavily built, fair-haired boy with freckles, who was sitting opposite.

Not much, replied Harry. Three Heinkels were shot at by anti-aircraft guns while they were dropping their bombs.

And some Spitfires flew over, Bulman added.

They often do. The freckled boy came over and sat beside them. There’s an RAF Squadron at Beckley Wood about four miles away.

That’s a comforting thought. Harry stood and put his hands in his pockets. He was restless.

The only trouble is that the Germans keep trying to hit the airfield, but they’re not very accurate. Last winter a bomb landed on one of our soccer pitches and ruined it. By the way, you’d better watch out. New boys aren’t allowed to put their hands in their pockets. After a year you can put in one hand, and two after two years. Of course, it’s okay unless a prefect catches you. The boy grinned. My name’s Barnett.

You mean Beastly, commented another fair-haired boy, who was quite skinny, didn’t have freckles and looked rather effeminate.

And he’s Pansy, Beastly sniggered.

Really? queried Bulman.

Of course not, said Pansy. You’re supposed to call me Bloombury. But nobody ever did.

After the All Clear, Harry and Bulman knocked on the door of Parnaby’s study. About half the size of their own, it was quite comfortable for one person.

The owner sat at, or rather presided over, a small table. Shut the door and stand in front of me.

This one’s definitely a nasty piece of work, thought Harry. His hair’s brushed just like Hitler’s and he looks like a prizefighter. But I suppose we were at fault.

So what’s your excuse? continued Parnaby.

We’d only just arrived, replied Bulman.

You’re supposed to read all the notices in the study as soon as you open the door. This is too serious for me to handle. I’m reporting you to Mr. Hutchison. He deals with worms like you at nine o’clock every evening, so you will go to his office at that time.

Yes, Parnaby, both boys replied in unison.

Out! shouted Parnaby.

Harry shut the door with care.

At least Mr. Hutchison is an adult and should behave like one, commented Bulman as they made their way back to their own study.

We were in the wrong, replied Harry. But Parnaby is a big oaf, wouldn’t you say?

Better not let him hear you, said Bulman, grinning.

A few minutes later, a bell summoned them to a belated high tea. Bulman led the way to the dining room, with its six long tables and a shorter one on a small stage for the prefects. Harry surveyed the seven faces around it surreptitiously. He noticed Parnaby glaring at him and got on with his meal.

Mr. Hutchison’s office was quite well appointed, with a cheerful fire burning beneath an ornate mantelpiece. A balding man, who wore a tidy moustache and what appeared to be a pleasant but somewhat artificial smile, waved the pair to a couple of chairs in front of his desk.

I gather from Parnaby that you haven’t had a very auspicious start at Markham College, he began. Things like that often happen with new boys, and I can understand the excitement of seeing enemy bombers. However, Air Raid Precautions are there for your own safety and must be obeyed. I’ll overlook the matter this time, but if there are any more incidents, there will be consequences.

Yes, sir, chorused the two boys, much relieved.

Mr. Hutchison leaned back in his chair. Now then, he continued, I usually see each new boy separately, but since you’re both here, I’ll tell you a few things about Markham College and our traditions.

Harry and Bulman heard about virtually every facet of school life in a condensed lecture that Mr. Hutchison must have given hundreds of times. Afterwards, he warned them that there might be night raids and they should be ready to go to the shelter at any time.

Back in their study, Harry sat at his desk for a while, deep in thought. It had been quite a day. It might not be so bad here after all, even allowing for the dreadful Parnaby. His study mate seemed a good sort of bloke. Who was it that he reminded him of, with that battered-looking face and bent nose? Oh yes, that was it.

He turned to Bulman. "If you don’t mind, I’d like to call you Captain. You remind me of Captain Bligh in Mutiny on the Bounty."

In that case, what am I supposed to call you? Bulman asked.

I was Woody at my prep school. It seemed okay.

Then Woody it shall be.

Chapter Two

Autumn Term, September 1941

Harry and the Captain spent much of Sunday exploring the grounds and buildings of Markham College, but on Monday morning they were faced with their first full day of classes. Since arriving, they had been almost inseparable, but today this was not to be. In one period, they took different subjects.

I suppose it will do us both good, Harry thought as he walked back from a geography class for lunch. In a place like this you can’t get too dependent on one person. I should diversify my circle of friends.

The corridor was quite crowded and noisy as Harry made his way to the study and pushed the door open. He caught his breath when he saw a lanky character with straight brown hair looking out of the window. He seemed bewildered. This fellow had to be the third occupant of their tiny room. Too bad he was so tall—he wasn’t thin enough to make up for it. There would be a tight squeeze when all three were in the place at the same time.

Harry greeted the new occupant with a smile. "You