The Silent War Read Online Free PDF Page B

before they could even reach the door, they were separated by the desperate efforts of the dancers to reach the nearest air-raid shelters.
    In the road outside, hordes of people were streaming out of the dance hall. The colourful dresses and elaborate hairdos were quickly forgotten in the mad rush to get away from the place, and by the time Sunday managed to ease herself out of the hall, there were so many people around her that it was impossible to find Harry. Not that she intended to try too hard. The RAF boy wasn’t a bad bit of trousers, but he wasn’t anything to write home about. Anyway, he had served his purpose.
    Sunday decided to make her way home via Hillmarton Road. It was a bit out of the way, but as there was a public shelter in Caledonian Road, she thought it was probably the safer route. By the time she had gone halfway down the quiet back road, the sound of anxious people rushing out of the dance hall behind her was gradually fading. There was a slight breeze, and as it was still only May, there was a cold nip in the night air. As she hurried along, Sunday could hear the clip-clop of her own high heels on the pavement, but it wasn’t too easy to see where she was going, for, despite the spring moon that was popping in and out of dark night clouds, the blackout was preventing any light from filtering through the windows of the tall, terraced Edwardian houses on each side of the road. After a moment or so, she quickened her pace as she began to hear the distant rumble of ack-ack fire, and was only too relieved to see that the sky was still dotted with the ominous dark shapes of silent, brooding barrage balloons, just waiting to deal with any intruder aircraft that might break through the outer London defences.
    Just before she reached the Caledonian Road, Sunday heard the first sound of approaching aircraft. There weren’t many of them, possibly only a couple, but it was enough to set off the ack-ack guns in nearby Finsbury Park. The sudden blast unnerved her, and her hurried walk quickly became a run. But by the time she had reached the stone walls of the old churchyard, the sky seemed to open up, and all hell was let loose. As she ran, Sunday covered her head with her hands, and would have panicked if someone had not suddenly grabbed hold of her around the waist, and dragged her into the cover of the church portico.
    ‘Wot’s a respectable girl like you doin’ out on a night like this?’
    Although it was pitch-dark, Sunday recognised the voice at once. It was Ernie Mancroft, the boy who worked with her down the Bagwash.
    ‘What’s this all about?’ asked Sunday, shivering with the cold. ‘We haven’t had a raid for months. I thought this rotten war was supposed to be over.’
    ‘Not yet it ain’t.’ Even though Ernie’s voice was low, it echoed in the arch of the portico. ‘But it will be after Ike and Monty start the Second Front.’
    ‘Second Front! Second Front! That’s all people ever talk about.’ Sunday was not only cold, but irritable. ‘It’s about time the Allies stopped yakking, and got on with it.’
    ‘Well, all I ’ope is they get on wiv it before I get called up. I don’t fancy catchin’ a packet at my age.’
    Sunday didn’t bother to answer him. Ernie Mancroft had always let it be known that, in his opinion, only suckers wanted to fight for their country. When she thought of all the good blokes from ‘the Buildings’ who’d gone off to fight in the war, she despised him, and hoped it wouldn’t be long before he got his call-up papers.
    As they stood there in the dark, the sound of the two approaching aircraft drew closer and closer, and Sunday began to feel utterly vulnerable. It was the first time she had been caught outside in an air-raid, and she was nervous. Every so often a flash of gunfire lit up the sky, and each time it did so she caught a momentary glimpse of Ernie’s face, staring at her. She didn’t like it, not because he was bad-looking; in fact, he