In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“So what’s the procedure now?” Lord Westerham demanded. “We can’t have him lying here in my field, scaring my deer. Someone’s going to have to remove him. Should we summon the local police and have him taken to the nearest morgue?”

“I hardly think that’s appropriate,” Colonel Pritchard said. “The chap is in uniform, after all. It will be an army matter. Someone will know who he is, or was, rather. Someone will have ordered a bungled parachute jump last night—although why here, I can’t tell you.”

“Perhaps he drifted off course in the wind.”

“Hardly any breeze last night,” Colonel Pritchard said. “Besides, judging by the shape that parachute is in, he didn’t do much drifting. I suppose we could take a look at the poor blighter’s identity discs. Then at least we’ll know who he was and where he came from.” He gave a shudder of supreme distaste at this thought.

Between them, they bent to turn over the body. It felt like moving a bag of odd bits and pieces, as if every bone had been smashed, and even Lord Westerham shuddered this time. The front of the corpse was a bloody mess, his face unrecognisable. The colonel turned away as he opened the top button on the uniform and hauled out the identity tags. It was hard to tell that one had been red and one green, and the cord that held them was now sticky and crusting. Flies had already located the body and were arriving in droves, their buzzing filling the quiet of the meadow. Colonel Pritchard removed a knife from his pocket and cut the cord that held the discs.

“Can’t read anything at the moment. They’ll have to wash away the blood.” He took a starched white handkerchief from his pocket and carefully placed the tags inside it.

“There you are. He was one of yours,” Lord Westerham said, pointing down at the flash on his shoulder. Through the blood and grime they could just make out the words Royal West Kents.

“Good God.” Colonel Pritchard stared. “What did he think he was doing? Out for a joyride or some kind of prank? Had a pal in the RAF and was going to surprise us all by dropping in on morning roll call? Let’s hope his fate dissuades anyone else from such foolishness.”



Diana hurried down the steps and out onto the grounds. She was well aware of the surreptitious looks she was getting from the soldiers she passed and allowed herself a secret smile. She was wearing red linen trousers and a white halter top—a little too cold for the time of day, but highly fashionable. On her feet were rope-soled wedge sandals. By the time she had crossed the first lawns, the sandals were wet with dew, and she rather regretted that she had not put on a cardigan. But such thoughts vanished as she approached the group of soldiers, in the process of lifting the body onto a stretcher. It was already covered with a sheet. An ambulance stood nearby. The men looked up as Diana came toward them, and she saw the astonishment, and appreciation, in their faces.

“You don’t want to come anywhere near here, miss,” one of them said, coming over to intercept her. “There’s been a nasty accident, I’m afraid.”

“She’s not ‘miss.’ That’s his lordship’s daughter,” an older man, wearing sergeant’s stripes, corrected him. “You have to say ‘my lady.’”

“Sorry, I’m sure, my lady,” the young man said.

“Don’t worry about it. I really don’t care about all these silly rules. My name’s Diana. And I came out to see the body.”

“You wouldn’t want to see it, Lady Diana, trust me,” the older man said. “What a mess. Poor bloke.”

“Was he a spy, do you think?” Diana asked. “You hear about German spies parachuting in, don’t you?”

This made them chuckle.

“If he was, he’d got hold of our army uniform,” the older one said. “No, it’s my guess he was on some kind of training mission that went wrong, poor bugger.” Then he remembered to whom he was speaking and grimaced. “Pardon my language, your ladyship.”

“They were probably trying out some new parachute prototype on him,” another soldier agreed. “There’s a lot they don’t tell us, and they use us as guinea pigs.”

His friends nodded agreement.

“He was wearing a ring, bloody poofta,” the young one said with disgust.

“Well, he was married, wasn’t he?”

“He was bloody stupid,” the young one went on.

“Why was that?” Diana asked. “Stupid to get married?”

“No, your ladyship. Stupid because if he got his ring caught during the jump, it would have ripped his finger off.”

Diana shuddered, noticing how easily they spoke of such things. But then they had already fought in France and escaped from Dunkirk. They had seen friends blown up beside them. Another failed parachute jump was nothing to them. The stretcher was loaded into the ambulance and was driven away. The men headed back to the house. Diana fell into step beside them.

“How long do you think you’ll be staying here? Do you know?”

“For the duration, as far as I’m concerned,” the older one said.

“Not me, Smitty. I want to see some action. I wouldn’t mind heading out to North Africa tomorrow and taking on Rommel,” the young soldier who had first spoken to her said.

“You’ve only just joined up, Tom. If you’d been with us at Dunkirk, you wouldn’t feel the same way. Never more grateful in my life to get home. Those blokes in their little boats did an amazing job. I came home on someone’s yacht. This posh bloke crammed about twenty of us on board. Horribly overloaded. I thought we were going to capsize, but we didn’t. And when he dropped us off on the beach, he turned around and went back again. That takes guts, that does.”

Diana nodded. “So what do you do all day when you’re here?” she asked.

“Training. Drilling. Preparing for an invasion.”

“Do you think the Germans will invade?”

“I think it’s only a matter of time,” one of them said. “They’ve got a bloody great war machine. But we’ll be ready for them. They won’t get past us without a fight.”

“I think you all are so brave,” Diana said, watching with amusement as they looked embarrassed.

“You should come down to one of the dances in the village, my lady,” the bold one said. “They’re good fun.”

“I just might do that,” Diana said. She didn’t add “if my father lets me.”

She was rather sorry to have reached the house, and she watched the men moving off toward their quarters.



Back at the house Phoebe went into her bedroom to change clothes. Jodhpurs were not allowed in the dining room, even with the relaxed rules of wartime. Now that she was alone, she found that she felt rather sick, but put it down to the fact that she hadn’t had breakfast yet.