Peter's Medals

By Brian Clark

In 1944 Peter Gayford, at the age of seventeen, rescues an airman from a crashed USAAF bomber. The Americans give him a medal. In June, army trucks pass his home; Peter joins them and drives a truck over the Channel to France on D Day.

Peter has a dead soldier’s paybook. His truck is blown up and with multiple burns he is unconscious for days and on return is identified as this man. Difficulties arise when he meets the dead soldier’s family.

Romance develops between Peter, his nurse, the dead soldier’s widow and her mother. Peter eventually receives more medals for his gallantry including a Purple Heart for rescuing an American GI.

The story ends with Peter marrying the dead soldier’s widow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Aug 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543497502

Brian Clark

Having more time now to reflect back on his 40 years as an astrological practitioner, Brian Clark recognizes the value of the mysteries and the imagination that underpin the craft of astrology, ever grateful for the fulfilling lifestyle it has given him. He now lives in Tasmania with his partner Glennys, their dog Rufus and cat André.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

P eter Gayford climbed up into the rolling countryside of the South Downs near the coast of the English Channel. He felt something slithering away under his right foot and looking down saw the tail of an adder disappearing into the deep grass. He lunged to catch it but was too late.

He came up here every morning while visiting his Grandfather during the school holidays. It was chilly and the sun had only just risen but he knew it would get warm shortly and he’d have to remove his shirt.

He carried a flax bag which his Aunt Renie had given him with instructions to fill it with the field mushrooms he could see all round him. He’d do that certainly, but on his way down; he wouldn’t want to miss the breakfast she’d cook; wartime rationing meant he didn’t often get much to eat.

Renie wasn’t his real aunt, she was sort of adopted and lived next door to his real Aunt Winifred who looked after Grandfather. He’d served in the First World War and been awarded the Military Medal at Ypres. That was all Peter ever got out of him, he never talked of his experiences which were obviously too terrible to recall; he had very strong feelings about war.

I’ll tell you this Pete: war is the most stupid solution humans ever thought up to settle differences. It’s the poor bugger who gets slaughtered and the rich who get richer, stay well away from it!

Granddad wasn’t that well and Peter had to use all his strength to assist him as they walked down to the village for church services on Sunday, and Pete was no wimp, he was now over six feet tall and quite hefty with it, hefty enough to be a worthwhile prop in the school first fifteen.

Aunt Renie was a fine countrywoman, she knew all about the wildlife living in fields, trees and under the hedges round the Downs. Where to find a grass adder lurking; this was England’s only poisonous snake, she’d even taught him how to pick one up!

She could almost smell where there might be a badger sett and if they were out walking towards evening they often saw foxes. Peter couldn’t recall the names of all the birds which flew above the countryside but he always remembered the superb peregrine falcon. There was one soaring above him now.

He’d been taught how to move silently so he could put up a hare or a partridge and of course there were rabbits everywhere, Renie had a short bamboo stick weighted with lead at one end which she could throw with sufficient accuracy to stun a rabbit. When she’d done all the mucky stuff of removing the innards and skinning it, the animal would be prepared for a luscious dish, very welcome in these days of rationing. He could throw the stick but wasn’t a patch on her!

There were numerous mysterious dew ponds up here. The name would lead you to believe they were filled with dew but his aunt told him that was a myth, it was just rain trapped by the puddled mud underneath and perhaps helped by straw laid in the base of the pond as the rainwater drained through. Who’d put the mud and straw there in the first place, nobody knew, she told him the ponds could have been there since mediaeval times and you didn’t argue with her over things like that!

It was her home-made flax bag which he’d fill with mushrooms. No way would he forget to do that because she’d cook them with her own home cured bacon and he’d have as good a meal as he ever ate these days. Where the pig meat she used came from he had no idea and he certainly wasn’t going to enquire about its origin.

All he knew was this meal of bacon and mushrooms and the sometimes rabbit dishes were the only times he felt really full these days. It was always accompanied by Renie’s own spuds. The front of her house had seen a neatly trimmed grass lawn before the war but she’d dug it all up and grown potatoes, every crop providing several to be kept as seed for the next planting.

The war seemed to be going on for ever. He’d tried to get into the army earlier in the year but had stuffed up answering questions about his age; what a twit he’d been not to realise it would be the first thing they’d ask him? He remembered every word of the interview in the recruitment office with the Sergeant in charge.

Yes, young fellow, what do you want?

Please Sir, my enlistment papers haven’t arrived yet so I’ve come to volunteer for the army.

Good, we need all the young men we can get. How old are you?

Eighteen, Sir.

When’s your birthday?

11th July Sir.

What year?

Nineteen twenty…..sev….no six Sir.

"Well? What year is it?’

Definitely nineteen twenty six Sir, yes.

So you’re over eighteen and your enlistment papers haven’t arrived. Looks like the War Office has stuffed up somewhere doesn’t it, what dye reckon?

Yes, Sir.

Are you still at school?

Yes Sir.

At your age I presume you’ve got School C?

Er…..No…… I haven’t taken it yet. I’ll take it later this year.

Haven’t taken your school C yet? What? Are you a bit slow or something? And you’ve reached the age of eighteen?

Er…yes…er..That’s right.

Look young fellow, I admire your attempt, but in the army we at least need soldiers who can count. Go away, get your School C, then come back when you really are eighteen and I’ll sign you up. Now on your way and stop wasting my time!

Peter walked out feeling an absolute clot. Oh well, it would only be another month or so before he could join up, meanwhile here he was paying his usual visit to Grandfather during the school holidays, having to behave himself and knowing he couldn’t be found smoking in or near the house.

He escorted the old fella down to church twice every Sunday and Granddad relied more and more each week on Pete’s shoulder to help him along. Then he’d have to sit with him while the vicar droned on about all the sins he accused his congregation of committing.

For some reason Peter didn’t feel personally guilty about most of those sins. Although he felt a bit rebellious at times he did honour his father and mother most of the time, he hadn’t committed murder recently, he hadn’t coveted his brother’s ox or his ass, in fact he hadn’t got a brother anyway and even if he had, he didn’t think it very likely he’d have oxes and asses in the suburb of Eltham where he and his parents lived, there would be some council restriction to that sort of thing he was sure. He didn’t swear, well, not much unless he was really provoked.

He wasn’t married, so adultery was out, although he had to admit to a few lustful thought about Madeleine Pert in the upper sixth of their sister college. He’d seen her several times when her college had been visiting his. She really was gorgeous with long blonde hair, beautifully built with legs up to there and those tits! She was so pretty with it, but the chances of her ever taking a second look at him were slim indeed.

He’d been up and about since very early and this always surprised him; back home it was always a bit of a pain having to get up to go to school. Even up here he thought he could hear his mother yelling: Peter, you’re going to be late; your breakfast is on the table, now shake it up!

That’s how it was at home but here, he always wanted to be out in the country from early in the morning, often he beat the dawn which could be magical.

He knew his father wanted him to go into law or medicine but quite honestly he hoped he’d wind up out here, farming or something like it, he wanted to be out in the fresh air. First off he had to pass School C, whatever career he finished up with.

The view from the top of the Downs was spectacular. He could see right across the Willingdon villages almost out to Eastbourne. Though he couldn’t see it he knew the English Channel was just out of view and a few miles further on would be the enemy, the Germans. The Nazis were there; surely they couldn’t last much longer? This blasted war had now been going on for four years. Quite regularly these days he saw and heard squadrons of RAF and American bombers flying overhead on their way to plaster German cities.

It brought back memories of the time he’d spent earlier in the war sitting crouched in a Morrison shelter listening to the crunch of bombs falling and the crack of anti-aircraft guns. The Morrison had been a great improvement on the Anderson shelter of the first days of the war. He remembered digging out the soil to make a hole big enough to fit the corrugated iron sheets which made up the construction.

Unfortunately in those days, before they got bombed out, they lived down by the Surrey docks and when they dug down just a couple of feet the hole filled with water from the Thames so the shelter was useless from day one. Some authority had recognised the problem and an air raid shelter which could accommodate all the street’s inhabitants had been built in the road.

He and his mates at school had become pretty good at identifying the various German bombers. There was quite definitely a different sound their engines made as they flew over London on their bombing raids. The Dorniers sounded different from the Junkers and the Heinkels and then there were the Focke- Wulf fighters and the Messerschmitts which had a totally different drone, if that was the word.

Like most of the youngsters he’d been evacuated at the beginning of the war but had returned to London in time to hear and see much of the devastation caused by the Blitz. Riding their bikes on the way to school they’d offer to skip school and help the police and air raid wardens but were told pretty smartly to get off to school and leave it to the experts.

Now miles away from London and memories of the raids, everything was as quiet as a mouse. He could hear a few birds twittering but nothing else disturbed the peace, you really couldn’t believe a war was going on somewhere.

He sat down and like a rural emperor surveyed the kingdom below him.

Although he’d only been up an hour or so his eyelids began to droop. He could imagine Madeleine Pert alongside him with her arms round his shoulders. She was going to kiss him!

He came too with a start, he’d been dreaming, still it had been a pretty pleasant dream but it couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes. The countryside was so quiet it wasn’t surprising he’d dozed off.

He got up and continued towards the top. Over his head that wonderful peregrine falcon kept circling. Renie had told him these birds had magnificent eyesight and could spot prey miles away. What was it trying to find now?

In the distance the quiet was broken by the noise of an engine. It was a bit early for a farmer to be working with a tractor, no, it wasn’t a farm engine. It had a totally different sound.

That was an aircraft engine, but it didn’t sound right, in fact it sounded downright not right. It kept on stopping, revving up and starting again. There was something very wrong about this aircraft, but where was it? He couldn’t spot it, it was somewhere behind him so he turned and scanned the sky… he could see nothing.

The noise was coming from across the sea out to the east but there was still no sign of the plane. He kept looking up into the sky, but couldn’t see anything! That engine noise sounded very near, where the blazes was it coming from?

He was about half way to the top of the peak when he saw it, just about the same height as he was. He’d been looking far too high, now he could see it flying low and coming straight for him. Only one engine seemed to be operating, the other three had smoke pouring from them. This plane was in serious trouble!

It was the first time he’d ever seen an aircraft coming towards him like this. He could identify it immediately, he’d seen many of them; it was an American Air Force Flying Fortress. There was nothing he could do but stand there mesmerised as it careered through the sky right above him, it certainly wasn’t being flown competently, perhaps the pilot was wounded or maybe there was no pilot!

CHAPTER TWO

T he aircraft flew on, passing so low above him he could see a man struggling in a gun turret under the aircraft; he’d never been so close to an aeroplane before! The Fortress looked as though it might clear the highest point of the Downs just above him, but it wasn’t to be. With a sickening crash it hit the hill, parts of it flew off in all directions and it slid up the slope, stopped and burst into flames!

It wasn’t much more than a hundred yards away from him but he could feel the heat of the fire already, and he could see the man he’d spotted before, still doing his best to climb out of the gun position under the plane. Should he go and help?

He had to!

He ran hard towards the plane and as he got nearer could see that the airman was having trouble freeing his legs.

The heat from the fire was intense and Peter’s instinct was to turn and run as far away as he could but that wouldn’t help the bloke in the plane. He thought there might be some way he could lever the man out if he could get underneath him and start pulling. He yelled!

Hold on! I’ll try and give you a hand!

My legs are stuck, I can’t move! Shit! That hurts!

There was no way Peter could get to him standing up, so he sat down on his bum, and slid forward along the grass. He stuck his feet under the airman and against the metal of the turret and heaved with his hands underneath the man’s armpits.

He could feel the heat through his trainers burning the soles of his shoes, they felt as though they were melting.

Very gradually and though the airman was screaming with pain he dragged him clear. Half the turret window had given way and both Peter and the airman were nearly out of the fortress when the machine gun in the turret dropped and hit Peter’s leg. He could feel the hot metal burning him and thought blood was running down his legs but there was no time to think about that. He got his right hand under the airman’s belt and with another good heave managed to get both of them clear of the plane.

From what he could see, the airman’s leg looked to be in a ghastly state, covered in blood and at quite the wrong angle, no doubt about it, it was broken. Still yelling with pain he gasped out:

Quick buddy, you’ve done enough, now get the hell out of here, save yourself, don’t hang about any longer, get as far away as you can, she could blow any time!

I’m not going without you so hang on and I’ll drag you!

Slowly Peter got his hands round the airman’s wrists and tugged him over the grass, fortunately the slope of the hill was in their favour and made things a bit easier. It was such slow going it seemed to take hours but they were finally a decent distance away from the plane when, with a mighty roar, it exploded.

There seemed to be a bit of a breeze up there and it must have taken most of the blast and the smoke away from the desperate couple. They lay there wrapped up together expecting their time on earth had finally ended.

Peter realised they were still in danger so he eased his patient further away down the field again. It seemed like an eternity but eventually the American raised his head.

You alright fella?

I think so. My feet are burnt and there’s blood running down my legs but I’m fine compared with you, your legs look a right mess.

I’m pretty sure both my legs are busted, I can’t feel my feet at all and I can’t put any pressure on either of them, I think I’ve burnt my hands too. I’ll try to last a bit longer but d’ye reckon you could get us some help?

Yep. On my way, don’t try to move.

Don’t think I could if I wanted to. You’re a great guy, saved my life; I’d never have got out of that without your help, gee thanks, you’re a hero!

Peter started down the hill but realised quickly he wasn’t going fast enough. He kicked his burnt trainers off and although his feet were very painful he began to run. The cool grass felt somehow soothing and helped him to sprint. Thank the Lord he was pretty fit.

On the way he spotted the flax bag which Renie had given him, he picked it up and just as he reached the bottom of the lower field he saw an ambulance, a fire engine and a police car coming down the road towards the fence gate, they’d obviously seen what was happening and were already on the job. A fireman jumped off the engine.

Hey fella, were you in that plane?

No I was near where it crashed. There’s a very badly injured airman up there, he can’t walk, he’s burnt, and needs help urgently, I’m pretty sure both his legs are broken. It’s an American aircraft, a flying fortress and there may be other airmen onboard who may need help, it crashed right alongside me. You’ll need a stretcher ’cos there’s no way he can help himself. I didn’t see any of the other airmen.

A policeman had joined the fireman.

Poor blokes. We can’t get any vehicles up there so we’ll make our way on foot, see if there’s anything we can do. You look pretty done up yourself, did the plane hit you?

No, it crashed close by and I had to try and help this chap out, I think I got him clear.

Well, that leg looks a mess, it’s covered in blood. Hang on to me and I’ll help you over to the ambulance, they’ll look after you. Do you live handy?

Yep, just along the road.

When they’ve fixed you up, you’d better get on home and to bed, you look as though you need it. Look, we’ve been tracking that aircraft since it crossed the coast and we were given prior notice that it would crash. Apparently there’s something highly secret about it. It’s become a security business so just tell your folks what you saw but don’t let it go any further, O.K?

Here’s the ambulance man he’ll sort you out. Can you manage to make your way without any further help?

Yes Sir.

The Medics in the ambulance looked after him well.

That’s a nasty wound, young man, you won’t be running any marathons for a while. I’m putting this ointment on it and I’ll cover your leg with a bandage. You must stay off that leg for a while if you can. What happened up there?

A Flying fortress crashed and I was in time to help an airman get clear.

I don’t like the look of that injury so I’m going to give you a couple of pills. Where’s home?

Just along the road.

Well, when you get there, straight to bed and stay for at least a couple of days, got that? Now take these.

Yes, Nurse.

I could get the ambulance to take you home.

Peter thought it might scare the living daylights out of his Aunt and Grandfather if they saw him arriving in an ambulance, so he told them he was quite capable of walking.

I’ve got a pair of trainers here which might fit you, now take care.

Will do, and thank you.

As he left he didn’t hear the nurse turn to her colleague and say: ‘I suspect that young man has just saved the life of a man he’ll probably never see again. He’s another of this war’s unsung heroes.’

Peter trudged across the grass slowly thinking about the poor airman he’d helped, he didn’t look much older than Peter himself. Fancy being called a hero? Was he? ’Course not. If he’d been just a bit more senior that could have been him flying in an aircraft like that. Oh, well, he supposed, that’s what war was all about.

When he thought about the injured man it was obvious they’d take him to hospital. It’d be good if he could go and talk to him and find out what had happened while they were on their bombing run over Germany. Had they been attacked by German fighters or were they hit by ack-ack fire? What had happened to the rest of the crew and were there any others in the aircraft when it crashed? He really would like to know the answers to all those questions.

As he walked through the field he could see numerous rabbits; they weren’t in the least worried about a crashed aeroplane or his wounded leg. As far as they were concerned, war was something those stupid human-beings got themselves involved in. Chewing on grass and mating was much more important for far more intelligent rabbits.

He spotted the white caps of the mushrooms and realised he still had the flax bag in his hands. It took no time to fill it and finally he made it back across the road which fronted Granddad’s garden and knocked on Renie’s back door.

Peter, you’re back, I thought you must have got lost. Did you see all that smoke? Was it a fire up there? Good heavens! What on earth have you done to your leg?

Yes Renie, it was a Flying Fortress which crashed near where I was standing. I’ve spoken to the fire people about it and they are on their way to help a badly injured airman up there. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anymore because they tell me it is now a security business. I’ve just scratched myself a bit.

I don’t think I want to know anymore thank you. That looks like much more than a scratch to me. You’d better come in and sit down. I know your Granddad wouldn’t approve but I think you could do with a wee nip of something; I’ve got just the right stuff.

She rustled under the dresser and produced a bottle.

Here drink this. I’ll just run over and tell Winnie you’re home and you’re alright, then I’ll come back and get your breakfast.

Peter sat nursing the considerable nip of whiskey Renie had poured, it was just what he felt like and no-one would ever know it wasn’t the first time he’d tasted spirits.

Aunt Win and Granddad came over to have a look, she was very worried about Peter’s leg but it was obvious the ambulance men had done a good job dressing it.

What happened to you Pete?

There was a chap in the plane and I helped to get him out. The copper tells me this crash is considered a security affair and I’m not supposed to talk about it too much.

That copper wouldn’t know which side was up. How was the bloke you pulled out?

I think he’ll be alright although both his legs looked to be broken.

Lucky you were handy. So long as you’re alright we’ll let you get on with your breakfast, thanks Renie.

No problem, he’ll be O.K.

Peter ate his breakfast of thick slices of bacon looking more like steaks than rashers, and mushrooms cooked in the bacon fat. It was delicious.

He was used to the meat ration at home being filled with mince and sausages and perhaps a few cheap cuts of offal like liver and kidneys. With rationing and coupons, his mother had to be careful, but she always tried to make the meals taste as good as she could, but there was never enough for a bloke of his size.

When he’d finished, he thanked his aunt and walked next door. Quite suddenly he didn’t feel very well and was glad to find his way up to his bedroom. He was aware that his Grandfather was keen to hear about the crash but whether it was the whiskey or the pills or perhaps both, within seconds he was fast asleep. He dreamt that he was the pilot of the Flying Fortress telling his crew to save themselves while he flew bravely to his death crashing on top of a monster adder on the downs.

Several times he woke to find his aunt sitting by his bedside but sleep overtook him again quite rapidly.

It was two days later that Peter finally regained complete consciousness. He tried to get out of bed but his legs collapsed under him and he managed to scramble back. After a few more attempts he was successful and could stand although his wounded leg was still mighty painful. When his aunt returned she told him that the ambulance nurse had returned twice while he was asleep to dress his leg and had told her that it was looking satisfactory and free of infection. Yet again he was advised the crash was a security event and should be kept confidential.

It was another full day and a half before Peter really felt good. He knew that his Granddad was dying to go for his weekly walk into Eastbourne. They usually did it twice a week and strolled along the front by all the old Victorian hotels. Grandpa had a number of mates from the first war who’d retired to the south coast town, and they’d sit in the shelters and talk about old times while Peter went off for a swim if he could find a way round the defensive barbed wire on the beach.

Another visit from his nurse, another dressing and she decided that he might try a short walk or two, so long as he didn’t overdo it. Peter had tried to find out if she knew anything about the airman from the Flying Fortress, but all she knew was that he’d been taken off in the ambulance and was probably in hospital somewhere, more likely to be Portsmouth than anywhere else.

A day later he felt much better and agreed to accompany his Grandfather; so off they went. They walked down to the village, it was always quite a slow walk anyway with Granddad’s hand on his shoulder, his arm was weighing heavier every time they went out, but for the first time Peter was quite happy about the speed of their walk, his feet and legs were still pretty painful.

They caught the bus for the pleasant scenic drive alighting near the esplanade at Eastbourne. All those fine hotels stood proudly along the front, the Palm Court, the Grand and the Strand, many of them being repaired after enemy attacks by German aircraft.

There was much evidence of the war in the coastal town, it was known as the most bombed town on the south coast of England. German bombers often attacked and their fighters swooped on the town frequently. For most of the war years the nearest air-raid warning had been at Dover, it was only this year that one had been installed at Eastbourne.

They walked for a while and then Granddad said he was tired and would like to sit down and look at the sea, there were a number of his elderly mates