Only Silence by Connor Hansford
Picture of John 'Jack' Hansford, taken 1963
There were still some sloe berries about but apart from that the bushes were bare. A thick load of cloud, like a pall, sat upon the distant sea. Cars were rarer then and the only sounds were the caws of rooks and gulls seeking sustenance amid the empty fields. Even under the bobble hat Grandma had knitted for me, my ears were bitter cold. Dad wore gloves and a hat and a scarf, but he was old and felt the cold more keenly.
We had come to the lagoon where the old church was to pick laurel leaves for a blancmange. Luckily, it was not necessary to enter the churchyard, as the laurel bush protruded over the dry-stone wall leading from the church to the lagoon. I looked at Dad, then at the water, then back at Dad. He laughed.
'Fine,' he said, 'but don't get too muddy or they'll be hell to pay from your grandma when we get home.'
With Dad's permission and with his laughter still ringing in my ears, I ran along the muddy path that wound through the field to the beach. The rector of our parish, Mr Barry, had been hard at work throughout Autumn, burning leaves and other waste in the bottom left-hand corner of the graveyard. I assumed the line of smoke I saw hanging over the embankment was from Mr Barry’s bonfire, but when I crossed the bridge into the field I saw the black mark where it had been. I didn’t think anything of it until later, after all back then fires were common. Mrs Willis, our neighbour, took in three little boys from London who claimed that some nights it was like the whole city was on fire.
In the weeks since Dad and I had last been here, the Home Guard had built pillboxes all along the cliff edge, with barbed wire in between to stop the Nazis coming ashore. Signs every few feet warned people to avoid straying from the path. The remains of a cow hanging from a tree was all the explanation I needed. Despite this, I saw a shadowy figure making his way haphazardly along the shore, where the low tide revealed miles of black seaweed. The stranger looked at me before falling face first into the sludge.
‘Dad,’ I yelled, ‘there’s someone in the water.’
‘Dad,’ I cried again, but it was no use. Knowing it was only a matter of time before the stranger drowned, I turned and raced towards my father, nearly falling in the river as I skidded to a stop beside the bridge.
‘Man – there’s a man – in the water,’ I said breathlessly.
‘Slow down,’ said Dad. ‘What do you mean? What man?’
I took a deep breath. ‘A man – on the beach,’ I said. ‘He’s face-down. I think he might drown.’
As soon as he heard the word ‘drown’, Dad stopped what he was doing and ran towards the beach. His favourite grey trilby blew off his head and landed upside down in the river. Although I had a painful stitch, I soon caught up with him. In a dip in the cliff there was a stile. We paused by this to take off our shoes and socks, each of us keeping one eye on the stranger. This done, we climbed over the stile and made our way to his location, the rising tide threatening to drag him even further out into the lagoon.
My progress was slow, having only little legs. Dad reached him first, calling out, ‘he’s still alive!’
He flipped the stranger onto his back, but something about his face startled my dad and he fell backwards onto his bum. I scrambled to help but he called out, ‘stop! Don’t come any closer.’
But curiosity got the better of me and soon I found out why Dad asked me to stay back. The stranger was wearing a brown leather flight jacket, cargo trousers, and black lace-up boots. A pilot, then. I could tell from the outstretched wings of an eagle over his right breast pocket that he was not British.
‘He’s German,’ I exclaimed. Dad nodded, still sitting in the pool where he had fallen.
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, son,’ said Dad.
Suddenly the stranger coughed, bringing up all the water he had consumed when he was unconscious. His breathing was heavy, his eyes wide and watchful. Without taking his eyes off him, Dad got slowly to his feet. A flock of gulls passing overhead screeched in chorus.
‘Who are you?’ Dad asked.
The stranger laughed and said something in German.
‘Do you speak English?’ Dad asked. The stranger shook his head.
‘No English,’ he said.
‘What happened? Are you hurt?’ asked Dad.
The stranger looked at me and said something, and although I did not understand the language, I knew it was along the lines of, ‘is he an idiot? I just said I don’t speak English.’
‘Dad,’ I said, ‘he doesn’t speak English.’
‘I know,’ said Dad.
‘Then how is he going to understand the question?’ I asked. The stranger looked at me and nodded. He had a strong jaw and short blond hair, making him the epitome of the Aryan race and the perfect poster boy for Hitler’s Third Reich.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Dad.
The stranger winked and rolled his eyes, and I sensed Dad reminded him of his own father back home in Germany. A wistful look came into his eyes as he thought about his family and whether he would ever see them again, at least that was my impression.
By this time, the clouds had turned dark grey. There were no streetlamps this far from the village, and the wind coming from the sea was cold and fierce.
Dad pointed to his chest and said his name, then I did the same.
‘Hans,’ said the stranger. That he was a pilot was clear from his uniform, but of his plane we saw no sign. From the smoke I saw earlier I deduced he had swum ashore from the breakwater, having crashed over open sea. His sorrowful looks from left to right suggested he was not the only one aboard when it went down. Dad scoured the area to see whether anyone else had made it out alive. Finally, he shook his head.
‘Looks like you’re the only one left,’ he said.
‘Dad!’ I said.
‘What? He can’t understand me. And anyway, he’s still a Nazi.’
Dad and I stared at the swastika emblazoned like a scar on Hans’ chest. Hans saw us looking and lowered his head, ashamed.
‘What’s going to happen to him?’ I asked.
‘It won’t be long before the Air Force get here, when he’ll be taken away and questioned,’ said Dad.
Hans looked at us uncomprehendingly.
‘And after that?’ I asked.
‘After that, I don’t know,’ said Dad. He looked searchingly at Hans for a while. Eventually he said, ‘come on, let’s get out of here.’
Dad helped him up and together we headed back across the field to the church. Halfway there, the air raid siren sounded, and the searchlights flickered on, illuminating flocks of enemy aircraft heading straight for us. Anxiously we doubled our pace and before long we arrived at the church. Although we were in the countryside, there were one or two major ports on either side of us, making us a prime target for aerial bombardment.
I heard Dad praying the church door was open. As if in answer to his prayer, seconds later it was flung open from within, revealing our rector Mr Barry, his clerical collar stained yellow with sweat.
‘Gentlemen,’ he exclaimed, ‘what are you doing here?’
Before either of us had a chance to answer, Mr Barry caught sight of our companion and gasped.
‘Is that… Is he…?’
‘He is, Vicar,’ said Dad.
‘Well you can’t bring him in here,’ said Mr Barry.
‘I can’t very well take him to the air raid shelter neither,’ said Dad.
Mr Barry was a young man, and I could tell he was eager to find out what happened however he had a responsibility to his flock, currently holed up inside the shelter.
‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘You may hide out here until I get back, but not a moment longer, do you understand? God knows what would happen if anyone found out he was here.’
‘Thank you, Vicar,’ said Dad.
‘There is a thermos of tea in my bag,’ said Mr Barry. ‘I left it on the floor near the altar. The milk is powdered I’m afraid, but needs must when the devil drives. Good luck,’ he added, ‘and God bless. Lord knows whatever our differences, we will all be glad when this is over. And remember, not a trace.’
Mr Barry took one last look at us before hurrying off.
The inside of the church was cold and damp. Thick black curtains obscured the stained-glass window at the far end, and the thick stone walls, built over a millennium ago, kept out the sound of planes passing overhead. Though we all called it the old church, it was not really a church at all. Most of it was destroyed during the Great Storm of 1824, leaving only the nave, a square room about ten feet long. Garlands of holly and ivy glistened in the candlelight. Hans made the sign of the cross, meanwhile Dad unscrewed the top from Mr Barry’s thermos and poured us each a drink.
We sat in silence for a while, thinking about the people trapped underground and hoping they’d be ok. By the look on Hans’ face, I could tell he was glad we could not speak German. The bombers overhead were his friends, their victims ours.
I wish I could tell you he regretted what he had done, that he was no more a Nazi than me or Dad, but the truth is all I knew about him was his first name. Whether or not he believed in what he was doing will forever remain a mystery. There was no football, no singing, only silence.
Dad was a good man, with a good heart, but he was also a nationalist. He would never confess his uncertainty out loud however I could tell from his face he was unsure what our next move should be. Suddenly, Hans stood up and clicked his heels, signalling his intention to depart. Before doing so, he handed me a slip of paper with some numbers on.
I didn’t tell the authorities about this when they questioned me, nor have I ever figured out what they meant. Hans’ plane was never discovered, and I never found out what happened to him after he left. The following September, the war finally came to an end. There were no more lights in the sky, no more sirens. Only silence, and a very Merry Christmas.
The End.
Words by Connor Hansford
Edited by Klaudia Hanssen