Part 19 (2/2)

The RAF were free to continue their raid unmolested.

Fires had broken out by now in dozens of places all over the town. These lit the battlefield for the air force, allowing them a much clearer view. As yet, there wasn't any thick smoke to blot out the view.

It was time for the RAF to consolidate their position. It was time to drop the incendiaries. Thousands upon thousands of tiny devices were dropped, each one bursting into flame as it hit the ground. Before long, these little fires had joined up, and the whole of central Granville was ablaze.

Fire tore through the shopping streets.

'Run, Chris, run!'

All around was choking black smoke. Chris could hear the Doctor's voice, but couldn't see him. The ground rocked with each detonation. The bombardment was concentrated a little way behind them, but the explosions came as rapid as machine-gun fire, and were getting nearer. The sky was filled with incendiaries, pouring over the town like a rainstorm.

The Doctor was suddenly standing in front of him.

'It's too heavy. We won't reach the townhouse. We need to get into a shelter,' he was saying. 'Follow me.'

Chris was a pilot, he'd fought in simulated combat missions. Down here, though, he found it impossible to find his bearings: the planes seemed to be coming from all directions at once. They roared overhead, almost impossibly low.

There were screams to their right. The Doctor stopped in mid-step. He looked back at Chris. They had to help.

Edging across the rubble, they found a man trapped under a chunk of masonry. Chris looked around, trying to see if the slab had come from a building or from the road itself.

The Doctor motioned to him, and together they tried to move the slab away. After a moment, the little man let go.

'We're too late,' he said sadly.

Chris looked around. Why were there so many people on the streets? There were soldiers and firemen, but also civilians: a small crowd of men, women and children, all heading in one direction. As he watched some were blown off their feet, others were pelted with rubble. Why weren't they under cover?

'Doctor. They're heading for a public shelter!' he shouted over the clamour.

'It's our only chance!' replied the Doctor.

Together, they followed the stream of people.

The townhouse used by the Luftwaffe zbV as their regional headquarters had been completed in 1715. It was referred to by the experts as one of the finest of the early works of the architect Jean La.s.surance. It had been ordered by a wealthy naval officer, and had taken eight months to build.

It was partially demolished when a two-thousand-pound bomb exploded in the street outside. The facade of the house shattered, as did all the gla.s.s. The statues on the roof fell through the rafters. Shrapnel and debris tore holes in the walls in the rooms that faced the sea. There was no time for a fire to start: twenty seconds after the first explosion, the RAF scored a direct hit, and the building was blown apart. It had been built before the age of high explosive, and so not even the wine cellars were safe. The walls were thrown outwards, the roof collapsing to the ground. Fire swept through the wreckage, consuming every piece of antique furniture, every book in the library, every painting and tapestry.

They dashed across the park, which exploded around them.

Ahead was the entrance to the public shelter. A woman with a baby in her arms was at the entrance, being ushered in.

Thirty feet from the entrance, Chris tripped, stumbling on the broken ground. The Doctor hesitated, then turned back to help pull the large man to his feet.

And then the shelter was. .h.i.t.

It happened in slow motion. The plane swooping over their heads, deafening them. The black shape of a bomb the size of a car falling. Hurtling through the roof of the shelter, which splintered under the pressure. The searing flash, radiating outwards. The explosion deep below them. The violence as the shelter was blown apart. A storm of concrete, iron, brick and mud. Relief: I wasn't in there. The realization that everyone who had been in there was dead. Memories of the mother and her child.

The Doctor was shouting instructions to those who hadn't reached the shelter. Stay calm. Stay still. This park was safer than the streets: there was no risk here of collapsing walls or flying gla.s.s. The strongest men were to help cover the shelter with earth, put out the fire. Use the litter bins as buckets, fill them with water from the duckpond, use them to extinguish any incendiaries that dropped. No, there weren't any survivors down there. No, don't look.

The raid lasted a little under three hours. At half-past nine, the squadon leader ordered his group to break off. The mission had been a total success, the commander reported, he hadn't lost a single plane, every major target was confirmed destroyed. Granville was a dead city.

10 Blind Justice

Dampness on her face. Water.

Benny Summerfield was awake. Benny Summerfield was alive. Benny Summerfield was relieved. She opened her eyes and was surprised how quickly they focused. The nurse, Kitzel, was on the other side of the room, her back towards her. The nurse was hunched over something on the table.

They were alone. Benny pulled herself upright. Hearing the movement, Kitzel looked over her shoulder, a wave of blonde hair falling over the epaulette of her uniform. The nurse had Slavic features and grey eyes. In other surroundings, in different clothes, she would be beautiful. She reminded Benny a little of an old friend from her early teens. She had been beautiful, too.

'You are awake?' Kitzel spoke in stilted English.

'I can tell you've got medical training.' Benny wasn't surprised when the nurse failed to recognize the sarcasm.

They were in her cell. Where was that? An underground complex, Steinmann had said. There was a bed here, a chair, an empty bucket in the corner. The door was ever so slightly ajar.

'I have prepared you some food,' the nurse droned. She had brought over a metal tray with a steaming bowl of tomato soup and a hunk of bread. There was even a k.n.o.b of b.u.t.ter on the side of the plate. Benny took it from her, resting the tray on her pillow.

'There isn't a spoon. I haven't anything to spread the b.u.t.ter with,' Benny snapped. The nurse pa.s.sed the cutlery over, her face impa.s.sive. She stood, watching her prisoner.

Benny sipped at her soup. It had been watered down, but it was still too rich for her palate after so many days without proper food. The hot food burnt her tongue and the taste stung the side of her mouth.

She found the bread easier to digest, but could only nibble at it. It would be a while before she could hold down a full meal.

Pausing between bites, she made conversation. 'Do you know where the Doctor is?'

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