I am determined to do that wedding poem for Maddie. I am afraid it will be inevitably bomb-themed, but I have an idea.
Wartime Wedding
(by Rose Justice. I think this poem is too serious to call it ‘Doodlebug Bride’.)
In a storm of cocktail ice
their silver plane is tossed
from a silver bowl of sky
to a runway rimmed with frost.
The summer evening’s long and cold,
the ground crew shovels snow like glass.
Under their feet the crunching hail
breaks frozen blades of grass.
The house without a roof
seventh along the row
has shed its windowpanes like tears
over the street below.
A woman shovels glass like snow
from the sidewalk as they pass,
under their feet a mirrored hell
of bomb-strewn broken glass.
The dead beloved names
march down the grey and cold
walls of the little church.
He gives her the warm gold.
The loving cup is shared,
the crystal goblet smashed.
Their brave, determined, joyful heels
dance in the broken glass.
It is so hard trying to say what you mean. Of course Maddie and Jamie don’t fly together – I don’t know if they’ve ever flown together – and I’m pretty sure they haven’t been for a walk in London together since the buzz bombs started. But it’s meant to be metaphoric. It never quite comes out the way you want it to, and you always feel it is a little petty to write such floaty stuff about such serious things.
I am going to slam this notebook shut and see if I can raise Nick again on the telephone to plan our Big Date.
August 17, 1944
Hamble
Nick is gone.
We had a wonderful afternoon – he came here and we borrowed the Hatches’ canoe and took it down the Hamble, out into Southampton Water. He brought a bottle of champagne along, booty from one of his secret trips to France, and we drank it on the water. We sort of grazed instead of actually stopping for a picnic – it made the spam sandwiches seem more romantic. We sang camp songs and taught each other rounds. Mine was,
‘My paddle’s keen and bright,
Flashing with silver,
Follow the wild goose flight,
Dip, dip and swing.
Dip, dip and swing her back,
Flashing with silver,
Swift as the wild goose flies,
Dip, dip and swing.’
Nick’s round was,
‘Rose, Rose, Rose, Rose,
Will I ever see thee wed?
I will marry at thy will, sir,
At thy will.’
I refused to sing it until I made him promise it was not a binding contract!
I was in the stern, steering, because he had never been in a canoe. He was a bit of a pill about me being in control – he would not take orders from me at first, and kept trying to stand up when he wanted to point things out, or to climb back to get to the hamper. He can’t swim. I really didn’t want to have to drag him out of Southampton Water before I kissed him goodbye and sent him off to wherever. Why are boys always so sure they’re right about everything?
But I’m not complaining. Because it was so nice. I don’t think I’d have been brave enough to go out into Southampton Water except I knew that Mrs Hatch’s daughter Minna had taken her mother out there a couple of weeks before D-Day, when the harbour and the Solent were PACKED with battleships and landing craft, and they got away with it. We did too. Only one person even bothered to ask what we were up to – everyone else just waved and laughed. I guess the picnic hamper and the bottle of champagne were appropriate non-spy accessories. Nick was wearing his RAF blues and I had on a flowery summer top I’d borrowed from Felicyta and we were clearly on a date.
The one character who did call out to us was a patrolman on a motor launch. It seemed to take about ten minutes for him to putter across to us – exaggeratedly slow once he’d got us in his sights. I had to back-paddle like crazy to stay in the same place. He played Twenty Questions for a while, and told us that the Rules of the Road did not apply to hand-powered pleasure craft in wartime (or something like that), and no one would give way to us when on manoeuvres so we’d better stay out of the way.
Then he tipped his cap to me and told us to enjoy ourselves. The innocent American broad act is always a sure winner for getting out of trouble!
It was actually hard work paddling in Southampton Water and I didn’t need the coastguard’s warning to stay out of the way of the shot-up aircraft carrier that came looming towards the maintenance docks behind a pair of tugboats – even without power it made a wake that tossed us around as if we were on the open sea.
On our way back a trio of Spitfires tore out to sea in formation over our heads – probably just a test flight from Chattis Hill, since most of the squadrons around Southampton have all moved to France now. But the noise was tremendous, echoing on the water. We were working hard to get back upstream and we didn’t dare stop paddling – breathless, arms aching with effort, necks aching too because we couldn’t look away from the planes in the sky.
It was such an adventure of a date!
Oh, I like Nick – and I’ll miss him. He makes me feel so pretty and clever, playing with my hair while he gets me to test him on wind-direction calculations. He is funny and earnest, a bit puppy-like, but game, you know? Ready to do nutty things like try canoeing among the battleships. First time in a canoe.
I wanted to write something for him, to send him off with, but it hasn’t come out as a true-love sonnet. I am always too ambitious, and also I just can’t seem to write about ANYTHING but the darn doodlebugs. I guess I won’t show it to him.
Song of the Modern Warrior
(by Rose Justice)
My paddle’s keen and bright,
flashing with silver,
swift as the Spitfire’s flight –
Dip, dip and swing.
Dip, dip and swing her back,
flashing with silver,
follow the V-1’s track,
dip, dip her wing.
Scour her fuselage,
strip back her paintwork,
pare off her fittings
to keep down her weight,
polish the plane
till she’s slicker than silver,
slicing the sky
with her propeller’s blade.
Smooth as the water’s face,
cannon fire flaming,
follow the V-1’s trace,
dip, dip her wing.
My paddle’s keen and bright,