People have started moving away. The Dunns have gone to Wales, as Lizzie is deaf and Hitler doesn’t like children like that. The synagogue where we take Silvie is looking rather empty as many Jewish people are moving away from the coast, even though the synagogue is determined to stay open for the Jewish people in the troops. We’re petrified about Silvie, of course. Mama wanted us to go and stay with a cousin in Scotland, but Daddy refused.
“I have complete confidence that we’ll always remain British, even if those Nazis try anything silly.” He looked all gruff and proud, thwacking his horsewhip against the unsuspecting leg of an armchair, and I felt at once glad to be part of such a fearless national spirit and frightened to death that it’s no help at all when you have half a dozen Nazi guns pointing at you.
Everyone’s going mad accusing people of being spies. They’ve rounded up all the Germans and Italians and sent them to camps on the Isle of Man, even Mama’s frightfully nice bridge partner, Mrs. Barone. I can’t imagine her in a camp at all—where would she store all her fur coats and fancy hats? We’ve been told to look out for spies among us, keep an eye on our neighbors and turn in anyone doing anything suspicious. I considered telling someone about Proggett, as he’s forever sneaking around—I even found him in Daddy’s study last week, leafing through a few papers, telling me he was trying to locate a lost cuff link—but Daddy would beat me if they carted off Proggett. He’s got to be the last available butler this side of London.
We’ve been told there’ll probably be Nazi planes coming over to drop bombs on us soon, and the Vicar’s taken the job of Air Raid Warden. Most people have dug great holes in their gardens to put in Anderson bomb shelters, which are little metal huts that look far too flimsy to survive a bomb. I’m glad we’ve got a cellar that’s big enough to sleep in, even though it’s thick with dust and home to a highly prolific spider community.
The Government has circulated leaflets about what to do when the Nazis invade (stay calm) and what we’re not to do (panic and run away). There are pictures of Nazi soldiers and a list of what to do if we find one (go to the police) and what not to do (try to reason with them and get shot as a result). We’ve been busy removing signposts so that when they arrive at least they won’t know where they are.
Apparently the rest of Europe was overrun easily because the people weren’t prepared and they simply panicked. I’m not entirely certain how the Government intends us to stop a cavalry of well-equipped Huns, but this is what they have told us to do.
Preparation for Invasion
Keep calm—don’t run away
Don’t believe rumors and be distrustful of orders—check that orders are from the Government
Hide all maps, food, fuel, tools, and other supplies—a parachutist will prey on you for these items
Put concrete pillboxes, land mines, or barbed wire defenses on beaches, fields, and roads
Dig anti-tank ditches on roads and tracks—a line across the country stops the Nazis from going north
Block the roads with motorcars and other big obstacles, or by felling trees
If necessary, use wire or chains to block a road with an imitation bomb (box with cable)
Only ring church bells to warn of invasion
Form a group of Local Defense Volunteers from men still in the village—Daddy is organizing the few men left
Form a village Invasion Committee to work out how your village aims to defend itself
The Chilbury Invasion Committee (CIC)
Mrs. B. has taken it upon herself to coordinate the CIC (everything is abbreviated nowadays because it sounds more official). She’s been especially bossy as her remaining servants have left, so now she’s fending for herself, asking for recipes from Mrs. Tilling (although we suspect she’s living off hampers sent down from Claridges). She called the WVS ladies for a special CIC meeting in the village hall this afternoon.
“As your leader, I feel it my duty to prepare our ladies for the coming invasion. First of all, I’d like some suggestions for what we can do if a troop of abominable Nazi thugs stomps into the village square tomorrow morning.”
“But we don’t know it’s going to happen for certain, do we?” Mrs. Gibbs stammered. A haunted look has overtaken her face since Ralph’s been back. I’m not sure if she’s more scared of Ralph or the Nazis.
Mrs. B. marched up to her, putting her face close like a sergeant major. “We have to be ready,” she roared. Then, turning to the rest of us, she continued, “I’m looking for serious suggestions.”