Blackout

by Connie Willis

  How long had he slept? He held his arm up to look at his watch, but it was too dark to read it. Whatever time it is, I need to go see if Powney’s back and then go find Jonathan, he thought, and pushed the blanket off. He sat up and stepped down off the bunk.

  Into over a foot of freezing water. The pump obviously wasn’t working, even though it was wheezing away. Its chugging filled the hold, so loud it—

  “Oh, no!” Mike said and flung himself, splashing, across the hold and up the ladder. That wasn’t the bilge pump. It was the engine. They were moving. He jerked the hatch open.

  Onto more darkness. He blinked stupidly at it, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and at the rush of wind and salt spray against his face. “Well, well, what have we here?” Commander Harold’s voice said jovially. “A stowaway?”

  Mike could barely make him out in the darkness. He was at the wheel, in his peacoat and yachting cap. “I had a feeling you’d try to get in on this,” he said.

  “In on what?” Mike said, hauling himself up onto deck. He looked frantically back toward the stern, but he couldn’t see anything, only darkness. “Where are you going?”

  “To bring our boys home.”

  “What do you mean? To Dunkirk?” Mike shouted at him over the wind. “I can’t go to Dunkirk!”

  “Then you’d better start swimming, Kansas, because we’re already halfway across the Channel.”

  “You may go to the ball, Cinderella,” her fairy godmother said, “but you must take care to leave before the clock strikes twelve.” “But what will I wear?” Cinderella asked. “I cannot go in these rags.”

  —“CINDERELLA”

  Dulwich, Surrey—13 June 1944

  IT WAS LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON BY THE TIME SHE reached Dulwich’s First Aid Nursing Yeomanry post. No one answered her knock. Of course not, she thought, annoyed. They’re all out looking for V-1 fragments. She’d planned to arrive on the morning of the eleventh so she’d have time to settle in, meet everyone, and watch them for two full days before the rockets began, but she hadn’t counted on all the delays the invasion would cause.

  The D-Day landings in Normandy might have gone off with scarcely a hitch, but on this side of the Channel, chaos reigned. Every train and bus and road had either been crammed to capacity or restricted to invasion forces. It had taken her a day and a half to arrange transport to London with an American WAC delivering documents to Whitehall, and then at the last moment, the WAC had been ordered to Eisenhower’s headquarters in Portsmouth instead, and when they got there, both car and driver had been commandeered by British Intelligence. She’d spent the next three days in the wilds of Hampshire, vainly attempting to get a seat on a train, and finally hitched a ride to Dulwich in a Jeep with some American GIs, but by then the first V-1s had already fallen, and she’d missed her chance to observe the post in “normal” circumstances.

  Though perhaps not. The government hadn’t yet admitted that the explosions were the result of unmanned rockets, and wouldn’t till three days from now. And none of the four V-1s that had hit last night had landed in Dulwich, so that if their post hadn’t been one of those sent to the crash sites by the Ministry of Home Security to gather fragments so the government could determine exactly what sort of weapon they were dealing with, they still might not know. But they obviously had been sent out because there continued to be no answer to her knocking. The post was deserted.

  It can’t be, she thought. This is an ambulance post. Someone has got to be manning the telephone. She knocked again, more loudly. Still no answer.

  She tried the door. It opened, and she went inside. “Hullo? Anyone here?” she called, and when no one answered, went in search of the despatch room.

  Halfway down the corridor she heard music—the Andrews Sisters singing “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.” She followed the sound along the corridor to a half-open door. Inside, she could see a young girl in pigtails and trousers lying on a sofa reading a film magazine, one leg draped over the arm of the sofa. A girl who obviously doesn’t know about the V-1s yet, she thought. Good. She pushed the door open. “Hullo? I beg your pardon, I’m looking for the officer in charge.”

  The girl shot to her feet, lunging for the phonograph and dropping the film magazine in a splaying of pages, then abandoned the effort and snapped to attention. Which meant she was older than she looked, even though she was standing there like a naughty child about to be sent to bed without supper. “Lieutenant Fairchild, ma’am,” the girl said, saluting. “Can I be of help, ma’am?”

  “Lieutenant Kent reporting for duty.” She handed her her transfer papers. “I’ve just been assigned to this post.”

  “Assigned? The Major didn’t say anything about…” The girl frowned at the papers, and then grinned. “Headquarters finally sent someone. I don’t believe it. We’d given up all hope. Welcome to the post, Lieutenant—sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “Kent. Mary Kent.”

  “Welcome, Lieutenant Kent,” Fairchild said, and extended her hand. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know who you were, but we’ve been shorthanded for months, and the Major’s been fighting to get HQ to send someone, but we’d given up hope of your ever arriving.”

  So had I, Mary thought.

  “I do wish you’d been here a month ago. We were absolutely swamped with officers who needed driving, what with the invasion and all. We weren’t supposed to know what was going on—it was all terribly hush-hush—but it was obvious the balloon was about to go up. I got to drive General Patton,” she said proudly. “But now they’re all in France, and we haven’t a thing to do. Not that we aren’t glad to have you. And we shan’t be idle long.”

  No, Mary thought.

  “The Major will see to that. There’s no slacking off allowed at this post.” She glanced guiltily at the film magazine on the sofa. “She insists we do our bit to win the war every moment of every day. And she’ll have my head if she comes back and finds I haven’t done my bit and shown you round the post. Hang on.” She laid the papers on the desk and went over to the door. “Talbot!” she called down the corridor.

  There was no answer. “She must have changed her mind,” Fairchild said. “And gone with the others to the applecart upset.”

  What was an applecart upset? Some sort of ambulance call? She was obviously expected to know, but in all her researching of World War II slang she’d never heard the term.

  “I should have thought they’d be back by now,” Fairchild said. “Hang on.” She wedged the door open with her rolled-up magazine. “So I’ll be able to hear the telephone, though I doubt if it’s needed. No one’s rung up all day. This way, Kent.”

  If no one had telephoned, then an applecart upset couldn’t be a type of ambulance call. Could it be slang for an incident?

  “This is our mess,” Fairchild said, opening a door, and she knew that term at least. “And the kitchen’s through there. And out here”—she propped open a side door and led her through—“is our garage, though there’s not much to see at the moment, I’m afraid. We’ve two ambulances, a Bentley and a Daimler. Have you ever driven a Daimler, Kent?” she asked, and when Mary nodded, “What year was it?”

  2060. “I think it was a thirty-eight,” she said.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be much help, then. Our Daimler’s positively ancient. I’m convinced Florence Nightingale drove it in the Crimean War. It’s ghastly to start and worse to drive. And nearly impossible to turn in a tight space. The Major’s put in for a new one, but no luck yet. This is the log,” she said, walking over to a clipboard hanging on the wall. She showed her the spaces for time, destination, and distance driven. “And no detours for errand running allowed. The Major’s an absolute bear about wasting petrol. And about failing to sign the log before you take a vehicle out.”

  “What if you’re going to an incident?”

  “An incident? Oh, you mean if a Spitfire crashes or something? Well, then of course one would go to it straightaway and fill out the lo
g when one came back, but we get scarcely any of those. Most of our ambulance calls are for soldiers who’ve got in a fight or fallen down a flight of stairs when they were sloshed. The remainder of the time we drive officers. After you sign in, you take the keys to the despatch room,” she led her back inside to the room with the sofa and the phonograph, “and hang them up here.” She showed her three hooks labeled, “Ronald Colman,” “Clark Gable,” and “Bela Lugosi.” “We thought since the RAF crews name their aeroplanes, we’d name our ambulances.”

  “I thought you said you had two ambulances.”

  “We do. Ronald Colman is the Major’s personal Bentley. She lets us use it when both ambulances are out or when we’re to drive someone important.”

  “Oh. I assume Bela Lugosi is the Daimler?”

  “Yes, though the name doesn’t begin to describe its evil nature. I wanted to name it Heinrich Himmler.” She led Mary down another corridor and opened the door on a long room with six neatly made cots. “You’ll bunk in here,” she said, walking over to the second cot to the right. “This one’s yours.” She patted it, then walked over to a wardrobe and opened its door. “You can stow your things in here. You’re allowed half, so don’t let Sutcliffe-Hythe take more than her share. And don’t pick up after her. She tends to strew her things about and expect other people to put them away. She only joined up four months ago, and before that, of course, she had servants to do for her.”

  The casual way in which Fairchild said it confirmed what Mary’d already deduced—that in spite of the pigtails and film magazine, Fairchild was from an upper-class family, as was Sutcliffe-Hythe, and most of the young women in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. They’d qualified for the FANYs because, unlike lower-class girls, they’d known how to drive. They’d also possessed the social skills to mingle with officers, which was why they’d ended up chauffeuring generals as well as driving ambulances.

  “Let’s see, what else do you need to know?” Fairchild said. “Breakfast’s at six, lights out at eleven. No borrowing someone else’s towel or beau, and no discussing Italy. Grenville’s fiancé’s there, and she hasn’t heard from him in three weeks. Oh, and don’t mention anything to do with getting engaged to Maitland—you’re not engaged, are you?”

  “No,” she said, setting her duffel bag down on the bed.

  “Good. Engaged girls are rather a sore point with Maitland just now. She’s been trying to persuade the pilot she’s seeing to propose, but so far she’s not having any luck. I told her she should take lessons from Talbot. She’s been engaged four times since I’ve been here. Were you seeing anyone in—where were you stationed before this?”

  “Oxford.”

  “Oxford? Oh, then you must know—” She stopped and cocked her head alertly as a door slammed somewhere.

  “Fairchild!” a voice called, and a vividly pretty brunette in a FANY uniform and cap burst in. “You will not believe what I just heard.”

  And so much for my observing pre-rocket behavior, Mary thought.

  “What are you doing here, Talbot?” Fairchild said. “I thought you’d gone with Maitland and the others to the applecart upset.”

  “No, but I should have done. I’m so sick of the Yellow Peril, I could scream.”

  The Yellow Peril? What did Japan have to do with an ambulance post? I should definitely have done more research on World War II slang.

  “I was at the motor pool,” Talbot said. “The Major insisted I go pick up Bela Lugosi,” and thank goodness Fairchild had explained about the ambulance names, or she’d be completely lost. Could the Yellow Peril be some sort of vehicle as well?

  “I told the Major it wouldn’t be ready,” Talbot went on, “but she—who’s this?”

  “Mary Kent,” Fairchild said. “She’s our new driver.”

  “But you can’t be!” Talbot cried, and Mary looked up sharply. “Sorry. It’s only that I had a wager with Camberley that even the Major couldn’t get a new driver out of HQ. For a pair of stockings. Now what am I going to do? I lent my only good pair to Jitters, and she simply shredded them.”

  “She means Lieutenant Parrish,” Fairchild explained. “She’s keen on jitterbugging.”

  “I simply must have stockings. Philip’s taking me to the Ritz on Saturday.”

  No, he’s not, Mary thought. There’ll be more than a hundred V-1s coming over on Saturday. You’ll be transporting the wounded.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve an extra pair you’d be willing to lend me, have you, Kent?” Talbot asked.

  No, and even if I had, I wouldn’t admit it. It would instantly expose her as the impostor she was. No woman in England had had presentable stockings by this point in the war. “Sorry,” she said, pointing down at her much-mended cotton stockings. “I’m sorry if I caused you to lose your wager.”

  “Oh, well, it’s my own fault for betting against the Major. I should know better. Have you met the Major yet, Kent?”

  “No, she hasn’t,” Fairchild said. “The Major’s in London. She was called to a meeting at HQ.”

  “Well, when you do, you’ll find she’s extremely determined, particularly when it comes to obtaining equipment and supplies—and personnel—for our post.”

  Fairchild nodded. “She’s convinced that the winning of the war rests entirely on our shoulders.”

  “Though I’d scarcely call driving officers with roving hands vital to the war’s outcome,” Talbot said. “I hope you’re skilled at fending off amorous advances, Kent.” She turned to Fairchild. “When do you expect Maitland and the others back?”

  “I rather expected they’d be back by now,” Fairchild said.

  “Where was this applecart upset?”

  “Bethnal Green.”

  “Oh. I’m going to go bathe before they get back.” She took off her jacket and started for the door.

  “Wait,” Fairchild said. “You can’t go yet. You still haven’t told us what you heard.”

  “Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. I went to the motor pool, and they told me Bela would be ready tomorrow, which is what they always say.” She undid her skirt, stepped out of it, and began unbuttoning her blouse. “And I said we must have it today, and that I’d be willing to wait.” She shrugged out of her blouse and stood there in her slip, her arms akimbo. “But that was a mistake. All they wanted to do then was stand about and chat me up.”

  I can imagine, Mary thought. Talbot was not only pretty, she had a stunning figure. It was easy to see why she’d been engaged four times. “So I finally went across to the canteen to have a cup of tea, and Lyttelton was there waiting to drive a captain assigned to Coastal Defences back to Dover—”

  She definitely knew about the V-1s. Coastal Defences had known that the Germans were planning to send over unmanned rockets for weeks. They’d been sworn to secrecy, but obviously the captain had told his driver, and she’d told Talbot.

  “And you won’t believe what she told me,” Talbot went on. “She said that Captain Eden’s married. To a WAAF.”

  “Captain Eden who took you to Quaglino’s last week?”

  “And to the Savoy the week before that, and rang me up three days ago to ask me to a play.”

  “The cad,” Fairchild said fervently.

  “A complete bounder,” Talbot agreed. “And it was a play I desperately wanted to see. On the other hand, he was a dreadful dancer, and this will give me a chance to go out with an American who hopefully will be so smitten he’ll present me with a pair of nylon stockings.” She slung a towel over her shoulder. “Ta ta, I’m off to bathe,” she said and left.

  “And I need to show you the rest of the post,” Fairchild said. “You can unpack later. We haven’t much time.”

  And I haven’t either, Mary thought, following her, because even though Talbot hadn’t known about the V-1s, the returning girls definitely would. Fairchild had said they’d gone to Bethnal Green, and that was where the second V-1 had fallen, damaging a railway bridge. So she’d been right, they had been sent out to col
lect fragments. That meant an “applecart upset” must be an incident. But why would Talbot have said she wished she’d gone with them?

  “This is the common room,” Fairchild was saying, “and that’s the door to the cellar. Our air-raid shelter is down there.” She opened a door onto a steep descending staircase. “Though we never use it. The siren’s only sounded once in the past three months, and that was when some children broke into the Civil Defence post and cranked it up for a lark.”

  There hadn’t been any sirens last night? But that couldn’t be right. The sirens had definitely sounded for all four V-1s. A ten-year-old planespotter had carefully written down the times of every alert and all clear in his log. They must not have been able to hear them here in Dulwich.

  “And now that our boys are in France, we shan’t have to worry about any more air raids,” Fairchild said. “The war can’t last much longer—” She stopped, listening. Mary heard the slam of a car door and then voices.

  “The girls are back,” Fairchild said, hurrying into the corridor.

  A trio of young women in FANY uniform were coming in from the garage, their arms full of clothing. “I still say we should have got that ecru lace,” the first one, a chunky blonde, was saying to a tall redhead.

  “It was too small,” the redhead said. “Even Camberley couldn’t get the slide fastener up.”

  “Grenville might have been able to let it out for her,” the blonde said.

  “Were you successful, Reed?” Fairchild asked.

  “Only partly,” the redhead said, coming into the despatch room and dumping the clothes she held onto the sofa. “We were only able to snag one evening frock.”

  “And Camberley was nearly killed getting that,” the blonde said. “She had to fight two girls from Croydon’s St. John’s Ambulance for it.”

  “But I won,” the third one, a tiny elfin-looking girl, said. She pulled a floor-length pink net frock out of the pile and held it up triumphantly. “Champion of the St. Ethelred Applecart Upset.”