disabled local chappie.’
‘Nat Bunting?’
Tony’s eyes widened. ‘You have done your research, haven’t you?’
‘His name’s cropped up once or twice. What did your grandfather say?’
Tony shrugged. ‘He said he’d seen this Bunting fellow inside the Kilnsgate compound, beyond the barbed wire. As I said, Grandad was annoyed most of all because he used to have free access to that land himself. To see someone else there… well, it naturally annoyed him.’
‘What did he do about it?’
‘Do? Nothing. What could you do? This was wartime. The military could do whatever they wanted and shoot you if you got in their way. No, he just grumbled, and eventually people got tired of listening to him.’
‘Any idea what Nat Bunting might have been doing in there? I mean, from what I’ve heard, it was well guarded, and he was hardly a fifth columnist.’
‘No idea. I never heard any more about it.’
‘Do you remember your grandad saying when this happened?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t. I’m not even sure that he did. I mean, when he went into his rants, they were hardly dated and timed.’
‘Of course not. What about the foot-and-mouth outbreak?’
‘Now that I do know. It was April 1942. Things like that tend to be etched in the family’s collective memory. Grandad lost his whole herd. I don’t even know if he got much compensation. And, of course, he blamed the military for that, too.’ Tony frowned. ‘But from what I can piece together, he ought to have thanked them. It was them that saved our bacon.’ He laughed. ‘Well, beef, I suppose I should say.’
‘How?’
‘He had to destroy all his livestock, true enough, but that’s as far as it went. The military acted fast and put a stop to the outbreak before it spread around the county, or the country – and you know how fast foot-and-mouth can spread. If that had happened, a lot more people would have lost their livelihoods, and nobody would have been in a position to help Grandad get back on his feet again, which is what they did. Whatever the military were doing, they acted quickly and decisively, and we were lucky they were there. It’s not often you can say that.’
‘I’ll say. Did no one else do medical checks? The Ministry of Agriculture? The local vet?’
‘From what I could gather from Grandad between his rants, we were quarantined immediately, and the people from Kilnsgate took care of everything. Slaughter, disposal, the lot.’
‘How did they dispose of the bodies? Fire?’
‘Apparently they put them in pits and scattered quicklime over them. Of course, they didn’t have all those European Union rules and regulations to deal with back then. You saw a problem, you dealt with it.’
‘Now, darling…’ said Jill, giving him a playful tap on the arm. ‘Don’t you get on your hobby-horse. I’m sure Mr Lowndes doesn’t want to hear your opinions on the EU.’
I smiled. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind,’ I said, glancing at my watch, ‘but I’m afraid I do have to be going.’
We all stood up, and Jill said we would have to get together again, for a longer and more leisurely chat next time, perhaps over dinner. I said that would be a wonderful idea, then, after saying goodbye to them both, the dog and the children, I made it past the barking collies to my car without slipping and breaking my neck, and headed back to Kilnsgate.
22
Extract from the journal of Grace Elizabeth Fox (ed. Louise King), June, 1944. Normandy
Friday, 30th June, 1944 A curious thing happened today. Lt. Maddox, one of the surgeons, chose Dorothy and me to accompany him on a special mission. In charge was a man introduced to us only as Meers, and a couple of strong, silent corporals I can only describe as thugs. I did not like Meers. I did not even recognise the uniform he was wearing. He was cold and had a cruel twist to his mouth. I could tell by the way he acted towards Dorothy and me that he does not like women and would not have taken us with him if he had his way. He hardly spoke, and when he did, he only talked to Lt. Maddox. He did not even look at Dorothy or me. I made certain he never spotted my journal. He was the kind of man who would have confiscated and destroyed it with great pleasure. We could see the devastation of the beautiful French countryside from the jeep. Roofless farmhouses, fields full of bomb and shell craters, dead livestock scattered everywhere. How the poor French people must hate us all, Allies and Germans alike. Even in freeing them we are destroying their homes and livelihoods. Still, I suppose these can be rebuilt, whereas a future of Nazi rule is not something to be contemplated with equanimity. We arrived at a grand chateau, which reminded me of one of our English stately homes, surrounded by a high wall with wrought-iron gates, an arched entrance and acres of grounds. Here and there lay a dead cow, and someone had dug a pit in which more bodies of livestock were burning. The smell was terrible. There was some bomb damage to one of the wings, and the ruins were still smouldering. Meers spoke to the officer at the gate, who scrutinised all our identity cards before letting us through. Dot and I had butterflies in our stomachs. There were a number of military vehicles in the grounds, and groups of soldiers standing around smoking, as if detailed to be there simply to keep an eye on things. Without a word, Meers jumped out of the jeep the moment it came to a halt. Lt. Maddox shrugged, and we all followed Meers and the corporals inside. We were issued face masks and surgical gloves as we entered. It was a grand place, full of vast echoing halls, wainscoting, gold leaf, ornate cornices and chandeliers, broad, curving staircases with thick patterned carpets. The one odd thing I noticed was there were no paintings on the walls. It was clear that there had once been some by the discoloration in certain areas, so perhaps the owners had hidden them in the cellar to prevent them from being damaged. In many of the rooms and halls were rows of empty makeshift cots and beds, which made me think the place had been used as a hospital of some kind. Meers led us through a maze of imposing corridors, down some stone stairs, and we ended up at a reinforced door with a black skull and crossbones, like the Jolly Roger, on it, and a sign that read EINGANG VERBOTEN. Even I knew enough German to realise that meant NO ENTRY. As Meers started to open the door, he turned to Lt. Maddox and told him there were some men inside the room, and if anything could be done for them, especially anything that might make them capable of talking, we should do it. That was why we had been brought here. Lt. Maddox looked at us and nodded. This was our job, after all, no matter who they were. It soon became obvious, however, that there was nothing to be done for anyone in that room. It was large and cool, with damp stone walls, and had perhaps once been a wine cellar or some sort of storage area, but now it was a makeshift hospital ward, with rows of beds full of dead patients, about thirty or more of them, all men, and all emaciated. Some lay half out of bed, some completely on the floor. We checked them all, and not one showed signs of life. It was not immediately clear what had killed them. There were no signs of bullet wounds or the usual battlefield injuries. Many had terrible rashes and what looked like scald marks or electrode burns on their skin, sores and pustules, but nothing that appeared serious enough to have caused death. Still, we were not there to perform autopsies; we were there to see what could be done, and clearly nothing could. While we were checking the men, I noticed that the corporals had turned up with a handcart, and Meers was tossing the contents of the filing cabinets into it. Some of the files lay strewn on the floor, some partially burned, so it looked as if the Germans had tried to destroy them before deciding that a quick flight was the better option. Meers also forced open the medicine cabinets and added their contents to the cart. I noticed a bottle labelled SARIN and another TABUN. I had never heard of these medicines, but then my German was not that good. Meers was very careful in his handling of them, though, and he managed to find a compartmented wooden box of the kind used for shipping wine, and slotted each bottle in an individual compartment. After a brief consultation with Lt. Maddox about the hopeless state of the patients, Meers called over one of the corporals to take us back to the hospital. That was all. We were dismissed. Lt. Maddox said something about finding a cause of death, but Meers told him that was not his problem. As long as no one could be saved, then we had done our jobs and we could go. Lt. Maddox insisted that we should at least try to identify the men, so that we could inform their next of kin. Meers said that was not important, that they were probably just Jews or Polish slave labourers. The lieutenant argued that he would have to conduct more extensive tests to make sure they were not the victims of infectious diseases, but Meers would have none of it. He said that the bodies would be burned and gave the corporal a brisk nod. I felt that if we did not do as we were told, and leave now, the corporal would pull out their sidearms. Things were that tense. So we left. When we got back to the hospital, they were packing up for a move,
