Chapter Text
April 1943.
Spring crept into the Dales at last. Roads were still muddy, half-frozen quagmires and the winds were both damp and bone-chilling, but it was spring. Lemon and orange buds burst open in brave columns across newly greening lawns and spirits lifted at the courageous sight of the nodding ranks of tender daffodils.
And spirits lifted at the sudden arrival of ranks of olive and drab green troops. They drilled or drove in endless columns along Yorkshire's narrow byways, clogging bridges and filling the fresh spring air with the stench of gasoline and diesel exhaust and the quiet villages with military bellows, honking horns and the grind and squeal of vehicles burning untold amounts of petrol that, for locals, was strictly rationed. So, while local hopes soared at the foreign sights and smells, actual joy was somewhat muted over the American invasion.
Siegfried Farnon did his best to hold his temper at the inconvenience caused by the Americans’ arrival on his home turf. It was a blessing, as Mrs Hall reminded one and all, to have the American Army ‘over here’ at long last. Surely it meant local lads, James, Tristan and her beloved son Edward, might return home sooner with peace restored.
Siegfried agreed, in principle. Once again, however, America had left it a bit overlong in his opinion. Worse, the newcomers, from the lads right up to the officers, acted like guardian angels from on high come to save humanity from the Nazi threat. That might be true, but Britain’s lads and civilians had held that torch of freedom on high, and did so alone for nearly four long years. Respect was due and, it seemed, in damned short supply.
As Siegfried pelted down the mountain from the Henshaw place heading for the Aldersons, his mind was on lambing season. He had Carmody and the student had grown into a fine practitioner in his years under Siegfried’s tender tutelage. Carmody wasn’t enough, however. With James and Tristan still serving, Siegfried struggled to meet the farmers’ needs.
He was losing the battle.
Only today, he’d barely managed to save the Henshaw ewe, blessed as she was with a tangle of four lambs. The poor sheep was fit to burst and, tired as he was, Siegfried had come close to taking drastic measures. In the end, he’d delivered quadruplets and the ewe had survived her ordeal. It had taken far too long. Worse, his professional standards had slipped and Siegfried knew he was going to make a mistake and cost some animal in need its life, unless things changed, drastically.
Lost as he was in his pondering how to improve efficiency, Siegfried never saw the American quarter-ton truck as it rounded the curve on the wrong bloody side of the road, not until the last moment.
By then it was too late.