It was a large-scale plan of Jude’s Ferry, each building etched in, complete with ground-floor windows, doors, yards and gates.
‘Only you and I have one of these today. The red dots show the exact positions of the defending targets – the cutout soldiers. That way, hopefully, you can see if these guys can do their job. The dotted lines mark cellars, and they’ll need to flush out targets during house-to-house searches. Clearing, entering and making safe, that kind of thing – all vital skills.’
He scanned the horizon ahead with binoculars. ‘So you can see that the last thing we want is to flatten the place. Artillery targets today are the old vicarage and the factory: not for the first time. Ordnance is light, even if they hit they won’t wipe anything out. Plus the engineers go in every few months and replace basic structures – nothing fancy, just so the cover is there. And there’s a network of water pipes which were fed from that water tower, so we’ve always been able to fight fires.’ He licked his upper lip. ‘We’ve got a new pump now, by the river, so the water tower’s redundant – which is a good job coz the water stank. The rats up there are the size of dogs.’
He scanned the village with the glasses again. ‘When you get up close you’ll see that the years have taken their toll all right. It ain’t Merrie England, believe me.’ He turned aside, adding quietly. ‘Never was.’
A radio operator ran up, bent double. A request had been made for permission for another bombardment. Broderick surveyed the line of men along the dyke and the village ahead before giving his OK and sending a command along the ditch to sit tight until the signal to advance was given by word. Then he knelt down in the grass and gave Dryden his field glasses.
‘Try looking – the shells can spook people out, but watching helps.’
Dryden smiled, accepting, studying the outline of the village church, the distant rooftops beyond down by the river. Above them the maroon thudded a third time. Broderick rolled over and lay on his back, checking his watch, a pair of swifts engaged in a dogfight high above them.
‘So,’ he said, finally. ‘This is big news, is it?’
‘Jude’s Ferry?’ said Dryden. ‘Sure. It’s been a big story since the start. When the villagers were shifted out in 1990 they were told they might be back in a year – not just for the annual church service on St Swithun’s Day, but back for good. They moved out in the July and the Gulf War started in August – so that was the end of that optimistic scenario. It was never going to happen. They tried everything they could to get back. Now the legal action in the High Court’s been thrown out it’s finally over. Frankly, I’m amazed the courts stopped the shelling while the case was still live… how long’s it been?’
Broderick twiddled a fen violet: ‘Must be eighteen months since we’ve been on the range – perhaps more.’
Dryden nodded. ‘You know the rest. The MoD’s announced there’ll be no return to Jude’s Ferry – not even for the annual service. But they rang us, wanted to know if we’d like to interview the top brass – why the village was a vital resource for training in the modern army – the familiar pitch. Charm offensive. Least they could do was let us go in one last time. So here I am.’
Broderick laughed. ‘We’ve been using a range up near Lincoln, so the lads are pleased to be back – most of ’em are local and this way they get home for tea.’
‘Yeah,’ said Dryden, failing to smile.
‘You think it was rough justice?’ asked Broderick.
‘At the time, a lot of people didn’t see why the army couldn’t go back to using the range half a dozen times a year like they had done since – what did you say? – 1907. The village was never a target. They’d always made sure the damage to agricultural land was minimal – most of the big exercises were timed for after the harvest. They’d close the road in for a day, clear livestock, but otherwise it didn’t make much odds to the village.’
Broderick sighed. ‘I’ll think you’ll find that no definite promises were made, you know, when we moved them out…’
‘I was there,’ said Dryden, cutting in.
The major’s eyes, watery brown, failed to hold Dryden’s. He bit his lip and, flipping over on to his stomach, checked his watch again. ‘Thirty seconds,’ he said.
‘I was there the day of the evacuation,’ Dryden repeated. ‘My first paper was over at Bedford, it was a big story so I went in to do a colour piece. There were promises made all right, otherwise they wouldn’t have got some of them out. Nothing in writing, of course. White lies. Khaki lies.’
The major stayed silent, outranked by an eyewitness.
‘Anyway, that’s history now,’ continued Dryden. ‘Nine/eleven, Madrid, London, the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, who knows where next… ? They need the village. And the Americans want to join the party too. So game, set and match. Like you said, urban warfare. Jude’s Ferry’s too valuable to give back.’
Before the major could reply another gout of flame erupted briefly at the edge of the churchyard, and then they heard the scream of the shell overhead.
‘Shite,’ said Broderick, waving up the company radio operator. ‘Tell ’em they’re fifty yards off the vicarage to the west. Tell ’em quick.’
Dryden used the digital camera and a telephoto to get some snaps. He had the church in centre focus when the final volley came in, and he saw clearly the moment when a shell punched a hole through the roof before exploding in the nave; a window of multicoloured glass bursting out into the churchyard, a flame glimpsed within.
Broderick was standing: ‘Last sodding shell. Typical.’ He glanced at the reporter and Dryden guessed he was weighing up the possibility of sending him back. But Dryden, they both knew, had seen enough.
‘Right. Radio Red Centre, tell ’em the urban phase is off. We’ll assess the damage, report back.’ He stood, produced an umpire’s whistle and blew it. Along the line of the dyke the men stood, stretching, and a few removed their tin hats. Dryden half expected them to start playing football in no-man’s-land. Broderick jogged down the dyke bank and vaulted the drain below, leading the way across a field pitted with old shell holes and thorn bushes.
It took them twenty minutes to reach the church. As the village unfolded itself to Dryden he kept expecting to see movement: washing perhaps, flapping on a line, a stooped figure hoeing in a garden, a trundling tractor encircled by seagulls. But except for the rooks over the water tower and the limp target flags the village was lifeless, the shadows untroubled.
