The Daughter of Victory Lights

by Kerri Turner

  He ran his hands through his sweat-dampened hair, then buried his face in his palms and let out a long, low moan.

  The wait for more information was interminable. Every second seemed to last an hour; every breath a reminder to Flynn that he was safe and in one piece, and absolutely no help to anyone at all. Finally, the words he was waiting for came. The bombing had stopped. Rescue operations and firefighting were underway.

  Flynn grabbed the keys to the bar and ran to the door, ready to help, but the urgent voice of the radio presenter pulled him up. He was instructing all citizens to stay inside unless they had medical expertise. His stomach sank. As much as he wanted to do something, Flynn would only get in the way of those equipped to handle such a situation.

  He returned to his seat at the bar, hating himself for being useless, for only knowing how to pour a beer and lindy hop with the ladies. Why hadn’t he learned any practical skills?

  He kept seeing the faces of the navy men from last night. Would the bombing mean fatalities? It seemed impossible in this place of palm trees and beaches. Yet if medical assistance was needed … Perhaps it was only for injuries. Yet even as he thought this, Flynn knew it was a naive hope.

  He was silently calling himself a fool when the radio announcer spoke again, his static-filled voice making Flynn jump.

  ‘Eyewitness accounts have told us of catastrophic hits to numerous battleships and destroyers. Many are still ablaze, although the USS Arizona has been completely lost.’

  A rough sound escaped Flynn’s lips. His knuckles were white around the edge of the bar, and he pressed his face hard against the wood, inhaling the scent of stale beer. The Arizona. His men, his customers. The kid from last night.

  Tears stung his eyes. How could this have happened?

  America would have to retaliate. Flynn knew it as clearly as if the voice on the radio had already confirmed it. There was no way their nation could ignore the insult of this sneak attack, the cowardice of an enemy bombing them without a declaration of war. This was the end of counting themselves lucky to not be a part of the war. The end of complacency.

  America was going to fight back. And when she did, Flynn was not going to sit around like a useless lump, allowing better men to take on all the risk. He was going to be a part of it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1942: London, England

  Evelyn stood next to the searchlight, her shoulder gently touching the thick metal. The skies were clear tonight, which meant they all had to stand to. She could make out the quiet breathing of the thirteen other khaki-clad women, the occasional snort of laughter. It was a quiet moment; not quite lazy, for they’d been trained to be always alert, but something akin to that.

  They were stationed near Hemel Hempstead as part of the outer defences of London. The world was as dark as spilled ink, the sunset-to-sunrise blackout designed to hinder the navigation of Luftwaffe pilots. A nearby spot of orange, dancing up and down, showed that one of the girls was smoking; and behind her, set much further back, Evelyn saw the occasional faint glow of green from the radar equipment when one of the three women monitoring it opened the tent flap to step outside. Otherwise, nothing but tiny stars and a sliver of moon to allow the women to see the equipment they’d been trained to operate.

  Evelyn had missed the first intake to the searchlight regiments. After she’d completed the trial, the ATS had assigned her to food store management and cookery for the Inglis Barracks, a position that didn’t feel as though it utilised her new skills. She was given one day and night off every week, when she took the Mill Hill East train back to Cynthia, who was happy that Evelyn’s ATS enrolment had landed her with a safe position after all. But it was on one of these trips home that Evelyn was caught in a blast.

  She’d disembarked the train but was forced to stay inside the station when the air raid siren went off. The London Underground was used by many as a shelter, and she found herself part of a crowd crammed against the tiled walls, faces and hands showing marks of dirt and soot from their panicked rush there. Some played card games, using battered briefcases as a table. Children slept in the laps of their mothers, exhausted by the only life they knew. By the time the all-clear sounded, it was nearing dark and Evelyn had to hurry to make it home before the blackout made vision near impossible. The Underground station had disappeared from sight when the second air raid siren went off. She didn’t know where a nearer shelter was, if there even was one; running to the closest house, she pounded on its door with the palm of her hand. The next second, her feet had left the ground and she was flying through the air. Her back slammed against a wall and she fell, broken bricks and hundreds of printed pages from the bookstore that had been hit tumbling over the top of her.

  She was lucky; her injuries were relatively minor compared to so many others. They meant she missed the first call-up of searchlight women—a full year after the successful Newark Experiment—but as soon as she’d recovered she applied for a transfer and was accepted into the newly formed all-female 93rd Searchlight Regiment.

  The radio transmitter crackled, and all heads turned to the tent. The woman smoking dropped her cigarette and ground it out. Evelyn could see the ramrod-straight spine of number five, the woman wearing the head and chest set. Her eyes were closed to better listen to the rusty voice from the radar equipment tent transmitting in her ear. Evelyn stopped herself from breathing as though that way she too might be able to hear what was being said.

  She needn’t have bothered; a second later the alarm sounded, letting them all know a plane had been spotted. A frisson of energy skittered through Evelyn’s veins.

  As she turned to her position, she heard the Lister Twister starting up the Lister generator. The woman on the radio was asking, ‘Friendly or enemy?’

  The tension of the group heightened as they all waited for the relayed answer from the Lance Corporal which would dictate their next actions.

  ‘Enemy,’ the number five said. Seconds later, confirmation came from the Corporal and Sergeant, the other spotters.

  Evelyn’s knuckles went white on the long arm of the one-hundred-and-fifty-centimetre light. She was number four; it was her responsibility to control the elevation of the light beam. Although she moved the spotlight arm as practised, she couldn’t help feeling that she was doing it too slowly. It was like being underwater—everything a little muffled and resistant. But the strong gold beam was suddenly there, carving a line through the sky, searching the area the officer on the radio had communicated.

  And there was the plane. A small shape from where they stood, like a toy a child would play with. Inside was a man, or men, looking to rain destruction on England. And he wouldn’t have come alone.

  The women worked together, all moving and thinking as one to hold the plane in their light, waiting for the anti-aircraft gunners—set at a distance so any return fire directed at the light wouldn’t destroy their ammunition—to open fire. A drop of sweat ran into Evelyn’s right eye, but she dared not wipe it away. She even resisted the urge to blink in case she missed anything. The light had become an extension of her body.

  The pilot tried an evasive manoeuvre, helped by another which quickly darted into their beam then away again. But the women had trained for this too, and the pilot wasn’t able to shake them.

  Evelyn knew the three women at the radar equipment would be calculating the approximate speed the plane was travelling at, the distance it would cover in the few seconds it would take to radio the message to the gunners, and thus the approximate elevation and aim the anti-aircraft guns would need.

  A line of dirt sprayed up in the ground before them. Return fire. Evelyn flinched, only just swallowing her cry of fear. Her steel helmet would be useless if those bullets came any closer. Instinct told her to shrink back, but she held firm, hoping the light would blind the pilot enough to keep his aim poor. Her fingers cramped with nervous energy, more tense than they’d ever been in practice.

  The night sky shattered. A noise—lik
e thunder but so much more unnatural—made Evelyn gasp, but her hands were well-trained and didn’t leave the light.

  ‘We got him!’ someone shouted.

  Evelyn didn’t turn to see who. She was watching the tumbling mass of metal and fire in the sky, her mouth open in awe of what they had done. Her eyes wanted to follow the destroyed plane as it plummeted downwards, wanted to note the exact moment it hit the British soil it had aimed to tear up, but more instructions were coming through from the radio transmitter and there wasn’t time to think, only to respond.

  They repeated the process three more times, catching a plane in their beam, waiting for the night to split with the sound of gunfire and a fireworks display of shattered enemy aircraft. Finally, when there were either no more planes, or the remainder had turned tail to retreat, jubilant shouts went skyward.

  ‘Fine job, girls,’ the Sergeant said, going around to pat each of them on the shoulder. Evelyn’s limbs were weak, the way they had been after the first days of training, and the Sergeant’s firm grip felt as though it might topple her. ‘Who knows how many lives we’ve saved tonight. You all did well.’

  The Lister Twister, whose name was Gussie, turned the generator off. Evelyn finally let her hands slide off the grey-green metal, which was warm and slippery from her sweaty palms. She wiped them down her thighs, grinning as she joined the others at the entrance of the radar tent. They were cheering and laughing, and Evelyn herself clapped one or two on the back.

  The celebration couldn’t last long—they were still on duty and had to continue manning their posts. As she was turning back to the searchlight, Evelyn saw the Lance Corporal. She stood aside from the celebration, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line that reminded Evelyn of Cynthia. She knew a look of disapproval when she saw one.

  ‘Aren’t you happy we succeeded in bringing the planes down, Lance Corporal?’ Evelyn asked, hoping not to sound impertinent. She couldn’t understand why the woman didn’t want to jump in the air and pump her fists, the way Evelyn had been resisting doing. This was what they’d come here for: they’d been put in the path of the enemy and not only survived without injury but had eliminated four planes, letting through only one. That was surely something to be proud of.

  ‘We did our job, and did it well,’ the Lance Corporal confirmed, pulling a battered packet of cigarettes out of her pocket. She lit one, and let out a long stream of smoke. ‘And yes, it is kill or be killed out here. But I’ll not celebrate causing death, no matter how needed or provoked it was. Tonight we ended the lives of at least four men whose loved ones will soon be receiving notice that they’ll never be coming back.’

  It was like having an icy bucket of water thrown over her. The thrill that had been making Evelyn’s feet dance on the spot disappeared. The Lance Corporal was right. The men in those planes were the enemy, but also just men. How many widows or mothers would be crying through the night, cursing the British people who had killed their husbands or sons, never knowing a group of women had been integral to it? Had Evelyn just orphaned children with her actions?

  She swallowed the rising sick feeling. She didn’t know what was more unsettling: this new understanding of what she’d done, or the realisation that she wouldn’t change her actions given the chance. The Lance Corporal had said it herself. It was kill or be killed. Those were the rules of war.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Evelyn sat in the bathtub, toes rubbing at the line Cynthia had been forced to paint on it to mark the allowable level of water. The water didn’t even cover her knees, but it felt luxurious all the same for it was hot and fragranced with a tiny amount of soap from the rationed bar. In her hands she held a strip of metal. The Germans had taken to dropping these strips, which disrupted the radar equipment, every night. In the mornings the searchlight women took turns plucking them from the tree branches. Evelyn had pocketed one, thinking she would show it to her sister, but knew as soon as she arrived home for her week’s leave that she never would.

  She could hear Cynthia downstairs now, impatiently clattering plates and cutlery onto the table. Evelyn was sure the noise was for her benefit, an attempt to get her to hurry up and help. She sighed and tilted her head back, closing her eyes. Just thirty seconds of rebellion, and then she would go.

  Back downstairs, in a matching skirt and cardigan set Cynthia deemed more suitable for tea than her regiment uniform, Evelyn took the National Loaf to the table. No one really enjoyed the taste of the brown bread with its added calcium and vitamins compared to the fluffy white loaves they’d had in abundance prior to the war. Cynthia served up boiled potatoes grown in their own garden, putting a tiny dish of precious butter in pride of place in the middle of the table. Compared to Evelyn’s regiment rations, Cynthia’s cooking was a treat. Tonight she’d somehow procured a rabbit, and Evelyn was grateful for the meat.

  Just before sitting down, Evelyn switched on the wireless so they could listen to Home Service while they ate.

  ‘Must you have that playing?’ Cynthia asked, her hands flat on either side of her plate. The corners of her mouth looked tight. ‘Couldn’t you at least turn it to Light Programme?’

  ‘I like to know what’s happening in the war,’ Evelyn said. ‘Don’t you? I mean, with Charles out there …’

  ‘Charles will tell me everything I need to know in his letters. In the meantime I’d rather not frighten myself further.’

  Evelyn got up and dutifully turned the wireless off. It was too quiet without it, and she wished she had taken Cynthia’s suggestion to listen to Light Programme instead. But she found it hard to listen to chatter designed not to tax the mind, as though there wasn’t a war going on outside.

  ‘We shot down another plane two days ago,’ she told her sister, helping herself to a large chunk of potato. ‘It came in right after a damaged friendly plane that we were helping get back home. I suppose it must’ve been the same one that caused the damage and was hoping to finish the job. They strafed us before we were able to—’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Evelyn!’ Cynthia dropped her cutlery so it clattered against the china plate. Evelyn, used to loud unexpected noises, didn’t jump, but her hand did pause on its way back to the potatoes. ‘That’s hardly appropriate conversation for the dinner table.’

  ‘It’s only you and me, Cynthia. And this is my work.’

  ‘I’ve made my feelings about your work clear. As if I don’t have enough to worry about with Charles away fighting and Maureen being with who-knows-what class of stranger. Why must you insist on bringing further danger to our family? I would have thought one near-death experience enough to make you come to your senses.’

  Evelyn could have pointed out that they were in danger just sitting here eating their tea, for any moment a bomb could obliterate them. There was no safe place, no safe job. Not in London. Perhaps not in all of Britain. It wasn’t worth it though. It would only cause a fight, and she didn’t have the energy for that tonight.

  Instead she said, ‘I have two clothing coupons I was going to use on a pair of stockings, but given how much I’m wearing a uniform these days I don’t see the point. I was thinking perhaps you’d like them? Then you’d finally have enough for a new dress.’

  Evelyn knew how much her sister had been aching for one. Saving the eleven clothing coupons needed was nigh on impossible when there were always stockings beyond the point of darning or shoes that had been worn completely through. The corners of Cynthia’s mouth relaxed a fraction and Evelyn smiled at her, knowing she’d said the right thing.

  ‘If I can even find one to purchase,’ Cynthia muttered, picking her fork back up and attacking the rabbit as though it weren’t yet dead. ‘It’ll be just my luck that every place will be out now.’

  Evelyn was debating the merits of delivering a sarcastic ‘You’re welcome’, but all sound and thought were cut off by the blast of an air raid siren.

  The sisters’ eyes met. Evelyn was the first to her feet, round the table and hauling Cynthia up by
the elbow before she’d even had a chance to react. She swiped their gasmasks from the stand near the door, then they were outside, bent double as they raced the short distance to the Anderson shelter.

  Down the steps and into the shelter they went, Evelyn closing the door behind them. They huddled at the back of the small room, a blanket Cynthia had placed in there earlier over their knees. They had some supplies—a paraffin lamp and stove, a couple of books, Cynthia’s knitting—but neither bothered with them tonight. There was one thing and one thing only they could concentrate on: the distant, unmistakable drone of planes in flight.

  Cynthia was shivering. Evelyn shuffled closer. She knew it wasn’t the cold of the corrugated iron shelter that was bothering her sister. It was fear. Never before had they been able to hear planes. The enemy aircraft must be close.

  Cynthia’s slender fingers snaked their way between Evelyn’s, and they held hands in a grip so tight it was almost painful. Three booms echoed in a row, making them both jump. To Evelyn they sounded distant enough not to be a direct threat, but in the dark she could hear Cynthia’s gasp, feel the way she shrank further back against the wall. How she wished she could race out there and point her accusing beam in the sky, blind the pilots until their boys were able to bring the planes down and restore safety to the civilians.

  ‘This is what I’m working against,’ Evelyn whispered to her sister. ‘This is what I’m stopping with my lights.’

  Cynthia didn’t answer.

  Evelyn turned the wooden pickaxe handle in her mitten-clad hand. It, and a whistle, were the closest things to a weapon she’d been given. Despite teaching the women to fire guns in their training, the army had ruled that they weren’t allowed to carry them. Evelyn knew neither the blunt stick nor the whistle would be of any use should she come under attack. At best, she might be able to use the whistle to alert the others, if she wasn’t killed before she could get it to her lips. The thought didn’t disturb her the way it should have. She was becoming used to the knowledge that every minute here might be her last. Really, the same could be said for most people these days. What was important now was doing her duty so that if Germany brought Britain down, they would know it hadn’t been without a damned good fight.