Diary Of A War Bride. Lauri Robinson

       Chapter One

       26th of April, 1942

       Dear Diary,

       Our life in the country has been so very different from those who remained in the cities, where bombs have destroyed so much and killed so many, and I fear all that is about to change. Lately, I’ve insisted that the children sleep holding on to their gas masks, ready to put them on at my command, and wear their clothes to bed so they’ll be somewhat warm if we need to run to the bomb shelter. It’s so very frightening.

       I wrote about the arrival of American troops back in January. How everyone claimed the Americans will help us give the Nazis what they deserve. I can’t say that has happened, but I can tell you this. They built a Bomber Command Station right here in High Wycombe!

      Shortly after the American servicemen arrived, the headmistress of Wycombe Abbey girls’ school received an official notice to evacuate all the girls within a fortnight to make room for the United States Army Eighth Air Force. That caused a tremendous influx of students into the small village school. Local children now attend lessons in the mornings and the evacuees in the afternoons, which includes all of the nine children living here with Norman and Charlotte. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the past week planes started flying in and out of the base like flocks of birds. There is nothing to stop the German bombers from following those planes, intent upon dropping bombs on the base, which would have them flying directly over the farm!

       Norman insists Father assured him there is nothing to worry about, that having the base so near should make us feel safer and that air raid sirens would sound if the German planes flew near, but there are no sirens close by us. Furthermore, by the time the sirens sound, it could be too late. That has happened elsewhere. No one can say it hasn’t.

       When I was evacuated out of London, here to Norman and Charlotte’s, I did feel safe and have continued to for the past couple of years, but I truly fear there is no safe place in our country right now. Nowhere that families are safe. I also fear there soon won’t be anything left of the country we are all working so hard to protect.

       I also wonder why we are expected to put so much faith in the Americans. These aren’t their homes. Their families. Their children.

       I don’t mean to sound so harsh, but I am weary, Dear Diary, and dare only share these thoughts with you. Unlike so many others, I can’t put all my faith in the Americans. If they really cared about us, about what has been happening the past two years, they would have arrived long ago. Long before our cities and villages were little more than piles of rubble and long before our children became orphans.

       Those planes flying overhead scare me, almost as if I somehow know one of those planes will change my life for ever.

      The rumble of planes growing nearer sent Kathryn’s nerves on edge. She tried to pedal faster, but the road was rutted and wet from the heavy spring rains that had fallen the night before. Her hands and arms, even her legs, shook as the noise overhead grew louder. Afraid to look, but unable to stop herself, she twisted enough to glance towards the sky behind her.

      Fear grasped her entire body. Not only was the sound deafening, she’d never seen a plane so close. It was flying right at her, would hit her. Frantic, she tried to steer the bicycle off the road, but it wobbled uncontrollably and then toppled.

      She hit the ground so hard, the air was knocked out of her. It was a moment before she could gather the gumption to cover her head as a powerful gust of wind tugged at her scarf and coat.

      The noise was so great that her ears were ringing and she felt as if time had stopped, or wondered perhaps if this was how it felt when time ends. Life ends.

      It was a moment or two before she realised the noise was fading and another before she concluded the plane hadn’t landed on her. That it was still in the sky, flying higher now and away from her.

      A sense of relief washed over her, until she saw the contents lying around her. The eggs, cheese and milk that had been in the wicker basket attached to the handlebars of her bicycle. Anger began to coil its way through her system. Every morsel of food was precious right now.

      She scrambled on to her knees, reaching for an egg, hoping to salvage at least a few, when a powerful force grasped her from behind and lifted her completely off the ground.

      ‘Miss, are you hurt?’

      The egg she’d been about to save tumbled to the ground, cracking and oozing into the muddy gravel.

      ‘Are you hurt?’

      A boot, a man’s boot, stepped right on the egg she’d been hoping to rescue and a shiver raced over her as her gaze travelled upwards, over the brown trousers tucked into the boots, a waist-length leather jacket and finally a billed hat that sat a bit off-kilter atop a short-cropped head of brown hair.

      Twisting, she broke the hold he had on her and stepped aside, trying hard to swallow. ‘N-no, I’m not hurt.’ He was tall, very tall. She had to swallow again.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ He gestured towards the plane disappearing into the horizon. ‘Rooster wasn’t trying to scare you. He was fooling with us.’

      ‘Fooling?’

      He pointed towards an army vehicle. An American one. ‘Yes, the pilots do that once in a while, fly low over one of the Jeeps, just as a joke.’ The two dimples that formed, one in each cheek as his grin grew wider, showed just how humorous he found the situation. She didn’t find anything about any of this funny. Not in the least.

      ‘A joke?’ Anger rippled every nerve in her body. ‘With an aeroplane?’

      He shrugged slightly. ‘Yes. I’m really sorry. I’m sure he didn’t see you.’

      So mad she wanted to scream, Kathryn took a deep breath and glanced towards the ground, trying to gather her wits and nerves into some sort of semblance.

      ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Nothing’s broken, is it?’

       No! She wasn’t all right. She’d nearly been scared to death.

      He frowned as he gazed to the ground near his feet.

      Anger had her hands balling into fists. Disgusted, she snapped, ‘What’s broken—ruined—is a week’s worth of food!’

      ‘That’s hardly a week’s worth of food,’ he said.

      She pulled the scarf off her head and used that to wipe some of the dirt off her hands. ‘It is when every single egg is rationed.’ Mud covered her hands, her coat, everything. A fresh bout of anger joined what was already boiling inside her. Clothes were rationed as tightly as food. ‘Oh, you Americans. You’re as bad as they say.’

      ‘Who says?’ He’d picked up her bike and set the brace so it would stand on its own before bending down to pick up the two crocks of cheese. ‘I thought all you Brits were happy we’d arrived.’

      Arrogant fool. ‘Not all of us.’ She snatched the crocks out of his hands. They were unbroken, but mud had saturated the cheese cloth as deeply as it had her coat. She’d known this was how it would be. That the Americans would do more harm than good. ‘I assure you. Not all of us are happy in