Diary Of A War Bride. Lauri Robinson
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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 stomach at what he’d said about her cargo. Food was tightly rationed and what the girl lost wouldn’t be replaced easily. ‘Would this family have more food to sell? To others besides you?’
Oscar shook his head. ‘Not enough to make a dent in what you need at the base, but you can always come here. We don’t have to abide by the ration portions for you.’
‘We’ll remember that,’ Dale said.
The brother, Ed, who was as stocky and dark haired as Oscar, but also sported a thick moustache, carried two steaming cups out of the back room and set them on the table while saying, ‘Nice to see you boys. We got plenty of coffee, so hope you’ll visit regularly.’
The cups were white and the coffee so weak Dale could see the bottom of the cup. The exact opposite of his father’s. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Smells great.’
Evidently mid-afternoon was a slow time for the pub. He and Sanders were the only two customers and Ed and Oscar sat down at the table next to them. By the time his coffee cup was empty, Dale knew the girl’s name and where she lived. He also knew what he had to do.
After paying for their coffee, he and Sanders climbed back in the Jeep and once again, as they approached the road to the base, he told Sanders to drive past.
‘We going to that woman’s place now?’ Sanders asked.
Dale grasped the top of the windscreen as the rough road jostled the Jeep about. Once the ride smoothed out, he replied, ‘Yes, and we’re going to pay her for the eggs.’
‘Why? We didn’t break them on purpose.’
‘No, we didn’t, but we are going to pay her just the same,’ Dale answered. ‘Watch for a road to the right, we’ll need to take it.’
* * *
It turned out to be several miles from the pub to the small house Dale presumed was where Kathryn Harris lived. Like many others, the base of the house was made of stones and the rest wood. The siding went vertical instead of horizontal, which made the two-storey home look taller than it was. There was also a barn and several separate fenced-in areas that housed chickens, rabbits and a large garden. The pen near the barn held a couple of cows and goats. All in all, the site gave him his first real bout of homesickness. Until enlisting, he’d rarely left the farm. Unlike his brother, Ralph, he’d never had a hankering to go elsewhere. Also unlike Ralph, he let his parents know where he was. Another reason he had to make things right with this girl. If headquarters learned about it, they could put a stop to his search for Ralph. His mother had already lost one child. His sister, Judy, had died from dust pneumonia before the war had even started and he’d promised his father that Mother would not lose another one. Not him or Ralph.
‘This it?’
‘Yes,’ Dale answered, recognising the bicycle leaning against the barn. ‘Pull up next to the house.’
An older, slightly stooped man with a mop of dull grey hair walked out the door before Sanders had cut the engine.
‘Hello!’ the man shouted. ‘Welcome!’
Dale climbed out of the Jeep and walked to the gate, where he waited for the man to walk to the end of the cobblestone walkway.
‘Norman Harris,’ the man said, holding out one hand while opening the gate with the other. His round face looked jovial and one eye squinted