‘I appeal to the mercy of the court, but I stand ready to meet whatever sentence it adjudges against me with a humble and contrite heart, and regardless of the sentence, with a firm resolution that I shall never again give way to the temptation that put me in such difficulties.’
It was a moving speech, and Lawrence seemed genuinely regretful. Despite her shock and anger over what he had done, Margaret couldn’t help feeling sorry for him as she thought of the mental anguish he had been going through.
Nevertheless, the judge decided not to grant his request to save his job. Lawrence was found guilty, and sentenced to be dismissed from the Army. He was to be repatriated as soon as possible.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he told Margaret at the end of the trial. ‘Can you forgive me? I told the judge I would never give way again, and I meant it. I’ll never touch another drop of alcohol. If you come with me to Georgia we can start afresh – as a family. Promise me you’ll follow me to America. Promise me.’
Margaret had no idea what to do. How could she trust Lawrence’s words after what he had done? But then, what kind of life would she have if she stayed behind? She had no one in England to support her, and now with another baby on the way, who knew what would become of her? She didn’t want to end up like her mother, raising her children alone, and she couldn’t bear the thought of telling her father that her marriage had ended in failure.
Lawrence’s dark eyes looked at her earnestly. Maybe he just wasn’t cut out for this war, she thought. Back in Georgia, with his family around him, things would be different. She had to hope so.
‘All right then, I promise,’ she said.
8
Early one morning towards the end of May 1944, Lyn woke to a rumbling noise outside her window. She leaped out of bed and flung open the curtains.
In the street below, an endless column of American tanks trundled along at a glacial speed, while dozens of jeeps were parked up on the pavement.
One was sitting right in Lyn’s front garden, and when she went out to investigate, the driver smiled at her. ‘Want a doughnut?’ he asked, gesturing to a Red Cross van up the street.
‘Yes, please,’ she replied.
The man went and fetched a couple of doughnuts, handing one to Lyn. She had never tried this particular American delicacy before, and the moist, sugary dough tasted like heaven.
She learned that the young man’s name was Eugene Gidcombe – ‘from Hermiston, Oregon, ma’am’ – and that he was passing through the town on his way to a staging area further down the coast.
From the build-up of troops and vehicles in Southampton it was obvious that the long-awaited D-Day was imminent, although officially the plans remained top-secret. Lyn knew that Eugene would soon be fighting in France.
‘Are you scared?’ she asked him.
‘Of what?’
‘Going to war.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Were you scared when the Germans bombed Southampton?’
‘Not really,’ Lyn replied honestly.
Eugene laughed. ‘Hey, do all limey girls talk funny like you?’
‘You’re the ones who talk funny!’ Lyn replied.
They sat chatting for a while, until the time came for him to move on. ‘Can you do something for me?’ he asked her.
‘Of course,’ Lyn said.
‘Scratch your name on the side of my jeep. It’ll give me something to remind me of you when I’m on the other side.’
Eugene offered her a pocketknife and she carved a shaky ‘Lyn’ on the side of the vehicle. He took down her address and promised to write to her.
Lyn waved goodbye to Eugene and he went on his way, but she found that every new jeep that stopped outside her door contained a young man equally eager for a little conversation before he went off to face the war. Soon Lyn had given out her address to half a dozen GIs, all of them promising to write.
As the vehicles trundled out of Southampton, she wondered if she would hear from any of them again.
On the morning of 6 June, the sky above Southampton was filled with planes heading towards the Continent. Meanwhile, a body of men and machines comparable in size to the city of Birmingham was making its way across the Channel.
Lyn sat glued to the wireless, desperate for news of the invasion. At 8 a.m., the BBC announced that paratroopers had landed in France overnight, and just after 10 a.m. news broke that ground troops had landed in Normandy. A lump formed in Lyn’s throat as she thought of Eugene and the other GIs who had pulled up outside her door.
On the first day of the invasion more than 4,000 Allied soldiers were killed, among them 2,500 Americans. Many never even made it ashore.
Over the next few weeks, Lyn was surprised to receive letters from all the GIs who had asked for her address. Eugene wrote most vividly, describing the liberation of Paris and the hordes of young French girls weeping and throwing flowers on his jeep.
For Lyn, the letters were a welcome distraction from thoughts of another GI. She was still struggling with her feelings for Russ, the charming Mexican-American who was so devoted to his wife. They had continued to spend tantalising yet chaste evenings together under the supervision of her parents, who believed they were doing their patriotic duty in welcoming a GI into their house.
One day, Russ surprised Lyn by presenting her with a gold bracelet. ‘Could you take it to a jeweller’s and have it inscribed?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Lyn replied excitedly. ‘What should it say?’
‘To Larina, from Russ,’ he said wistfully.
Lyn hid her disappointment and dutifully took the bracelet to the shop. She watched as the words were carved into the metal, wishing the bracelet bore her name instead of Larina’s.
As more and more Americans arrived in Southampton after D-Day, the city was soon even busier than it had been before. Over 60 per cent of all American personnel and equipment shipped to the Continent came through the town.
The Polygon Hotel, where the American officers stayed, was busier than ever, and Lyn and her workmates were there every Saturday night. One evening, they were eating dinner before the dancing began when she heard a commotion by the entrance.
‘I’m sorry,’ the maître d’ was saying, ‘but it would disturb our clientele.’
Standing behind him was a group of men in RAF uniform, their faces severely disfigured by burns, like those of many pilots who had survived the Battle of Britain.
Lyn’s heart went out to them. Her older siblings, Bunty and Ron, were in the Air Force, so she felt a natural sympathy towards the men.
But the maître d’ was resolute, and the group reluctantly shuffled away.
As they left, a young American lieutenant stood up from his table and followed after them. He didn’t look much like the typical GI Joe – he was slim, dark and delicate looking – but something about him caught Lyn’s attention.
‘You should be ashamed,’ he told the maître d’ on his way out.
A few minutes later he was back, but there was no sign of the disfigured young airmen.
‘Excuse me,’ Lyn said as he passed her table. ‘Wouldn’t they come back?’
‘No,’ the American replied. ‘And to be honest I don’t blame them.’ He returned to his table just long enough to pay for his food, before leaving.
Lyn went