Victory for the Ops Room Girls

by Vicki Beeby

  She was distracted from her dark thoughts when the woman Jess recognised as the president of the Messing Committee rose. ‘I see we have two new officers who need to be formally introduced to the mess,’ she said, speaking in a refined accent that must surely have been polished at a finishing school.

  A murmur of approval greeted those words and a reluctant grin tugged at the corners of Jess’s mouth. She knew what was coming. She and May were to be initiated through whatever ceremony had been devised by this particular mess. A bit of fun was exactly what she needed.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ she asked Evie.

  Evie pointed at the ceiling. Jess looked and saw black footprints decorating the white paint of the ceiling between the beams. Each footprint was signed.

  ‘How do they get up there?’

  ‘You’ll find out. Take off your shoes and stockings, both of you.’

  Jess obeyed, seeing May do the same. When they stood in bare feet, the officer who had spoken first said, ‘Bring the ashes.’

  A more junior member of the mess dashed to the fireplace and returned with a tray of cold ashes, grinning broadly.

  Beginning to understand, Jess dipped her right foot into the ashes, then suppressed a squeal as she found herself lifted upside down. She giggled as the blood rushed to her head, and she felt hairpins flying out. She clutched at her skirt. ‘Wait, ’ave a care,’ she cried. ‘I don’t want to go flashing my unmentionables to all and sundry.’ Thank heavens she was wearing her more respectable knickers today and her racy French lace creations were safely folded in her suitcase, waiting to be unpacked. She giggled again as many hands rotated her until her feet pointed towards the ceiling. Angling her head so she could see where there was a clear white space, she pressed the sole of her foot onto the ceiling, leaving a slightly smudged black footprint. Then the room spun around as the hands turned her the right way up and her feet met the polished floorboards. One of the waiting staff hurried forward with a bowl of water and a towel. As Jess washed the soot off her foot and dried it, she saw May plant her own footprint onto the ceiling. Finally they were handed pencils and climbed onto chairs to sign their names.

  ‘There,’ said Evie, handing Jess her hairpins, you’re both officially inducted into the mess.

  Jess and May tidied their hair and sank into armchairs in a quiet corner, joined by Evie. Soon the chatter and laughter from other officers died down as those on night watch drifted off to their rooms to get a couple of hours’ sleep before they needed to leave. Others picked up books or letters and peace descended.

  ‘What watches are you in?’ Evie asked, glancing between Jess and May.

  ‘A Watch,’ both said simultaneously.

  ‘Me too,’ they both said again, then burst out laughing.

  ‘Well, if that isn’t the icing on the cake,’ Evie said. ‘That’s my watch.’ Then she paused and wrinkled her forehead. ‘Unless… will that be too strange?’

  ‘Are you joking?’ Aware of the presence of some very senior officers, Jess resisted the urge to dance a pirouette. ‘It’s wonderful. We’ll be off duty at the same time.’

  May gave an emphatic nod. ‘And I won’t be nearly so nervous tomorrow with you looking out for us.’ Evie squeezed May’s arm. ‘I’ll always look out for you. Both of you.’

  Jess was nothing but pleased for Evie; her friend had earned her position by sheer flair and hard work. ‘We’ve got your back too. Never doubt it.’

  * * *

  ‘Did you say your aunt was back in London?’ Evie asked Jess after a short silence. When Jess nodded, Evie went on, ‘It would be lovely to meet her after all you’ve told us about her. And your cousin. What did you say her name was?’

  Jess tensed. ‘Hannah.’ She didn’t know why, but she’d never expected this. Never thought her friends might want to meet her family. She couldn’t imagine why this hadn’t occurred to her. She had visited Evie’s home in Cowley a few times when she and Evie had managed to arrange forty-eight-hour passes at the same time. It was only natural that Evie would be curious to meet Jess’s family now she had met Evie’s mother. It was different for Evie, though. She had nothing to hide.

  ‘Better let me see them alone the first time,’ Jess said. ‘Hannah’s rather shy, so I wouldn’t want her to be overwhelmed.’

  ‘Nothing like you, then,’ Evie said with a smile. Then, thankfully, she let the matter drop. ‘Anyway, I’ve had some good news from Alex. Guess what?’

  ‘Don’t tell me, he’s been made Air Vice Marshall.’

  Evie punched Jess on the arm. ‘Idiot. No, but he’s been transferred to Intelligence.’

  ‘So he’s not doing operational flying?’

  Evie nodded, beaming. ‘It’s such a relief not to have to worry about him every day. And he’s based nearby.’

  Jess raised an eyebrow, something she’d practised in front of a mirror for hours when she’d been an aspiring actress. ‘Dare I suggest we might soon be hearing wedding bells?’

  Evie’s cheeks flushed. ‘We haven’t spoken of it.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time. You mark my words.’

  There was silence for a moment, and Jess picked up a newspaper. She found she couldn’t focus on any of the articles as the news about Alex sank in. Her dreams of the three friends returning to the same comradeship they had known in Amberton seemed to be dying. Evie wouldn’t be spending much time with her friends now Alex was within easy reach. And May would probably spend as much of her free time as possible with Peter.

  Of course, Alex and Peter had both been at Amberton, but it hadn’t seemed to matter so much. Not with Milan there.

  Jess had done her best not to think of Milan in the years since she had left Amberton. Now, with all the talk of Alex and Peter, she found herself wondering where he was.

  ‘Do you know what the other members of Brimstone are up to?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘They were rotated to a quieter area for a while – somewhere up in Scotland. I only managed to see Alex once while they were up there.’ Evie’s lips twitched. ‘And before you come up with some feeble excuse for asking after Milan, he’s absolutely fine. Although he and Jiří were posted to RAF Benson.’

  ‘Benson?’ Jess couldn’t hide her surprise. As far as she knew, RAF Benson was a reconnaissance base. ‘What are they doing there?’

  ‘Apparently they complained when they were sent to Scotland. Said they wanted to be on active duty, not kick their heels doing training flights in the Highlands. Next thing they knew, they were being transferred. At any rate—’ Evie shot Jess a sly smile ‘—Benson’s not too far away.’

  Jess pulled out her compact and made a pretence of examining her hair. ‘Can’t think why I’d be interested. I haven’t thought of Milan in years.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind if we run into him in London sometimes? He and Alex still meet.’

  The compact slipped from Jess’s fingers onto her lap. She managed to grab it before it fell to the floor. ‘Doesn’t bother me.’ Jess smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear before closing the compact with a snap and replacing it in her pocket. She gave Evie a bright smile. ‘Reconnaissance, eh? I doubt Milan’s happy with that.’

  Chapter Two

  He was home, walking through his hometown. It was full summer, and the sun beat down on him, warming his back. This wasn’t the feeble sunshine you got in England but the strong heat of a Czechoslovakian summer. It threw the terracotta tiles on all the roofs into sharp relief, the waves of each one marked by clear light and shade. The smell of resin from the sun-warmed pine trees beyond the buildings filled the air. Hens scratched the dry soil in the front yards he passed, their soft clucks mingling with the deep grunts of the few pigs to form the background noises of his childhood.

  The road sloped downhill and soon he had left behind the small town and had turned onto the track leading into the woods. The track where his home lay. He strained to look ahead, seeking out his childhood house. The house wher
e Eliška and Franta lived. Were they still there? He quickened his pace.

  Neighbours called out to him as he passed: ‘Milan – welcome home!’

  He nodded to them and said a brief hello in return but didn’t slow his pace. His heart sped up as he followed the track around the bend. There it was! The large, solidly built house with its white walls, deep-set windows and terracotta roof. Were they there?

  He pushed open the gate, dry mouthed.

  A high, piping voice called out. ‘Strejdo Milane!’ Then Milan saw the tiny figure of his nephew running down the path, kicking up puffs of dust with each step. Eliška followed. Even from this distance Milan could see the tears running down her cheeks.

  Milan dropped his case, grabbed Franta and swung him around, whooping and laughing. He was home, and everything was exactly as he remembered it. Nothing had changed. His fears had come to naught.

  Franta was speaking again but a bell jangled in his ear, making it impossible to hear.

  Milan opened his eyes and fumbled his arm free of the bed covers to turn off his alarm. Then he stared up at the ceiling, disoriented.

  He would have thought by now that he would have got used to the dream, wouldn’t experience the horrible lurch of realisation when it hit him that he wasn’t home. He was in England, the war still raged, and he had not heard from his sister and nephew since the Nazis invaded and he had been forced to flee. He couldn’t understand how he could dream the same dream night after night and awaken every time with a fleeting sense of lightness until reality crashed in.

  Half an hour later, having been to the station Met Office to confirm the weather was suitable for flying and then eaten a light breakfast, he went to the Ops Room to check out what missions were on. While he studied the blackboard where the flying programme was listed, Jiří arrived.

  ‘Nothing for me,’ he said, sounding disgruntled.

  Their flight commander chose that moment to arrive. ‘Should have returned your Spitfire in one piece yesterday instead of full of holes,’ he told Jiří. Then he turned to Milan. ‘You’re doing a run to the Netherlands.’ He handed Milan instructions on the target to be photographed.

  ‘Sounds like a milk run,’ Jiří said, once the flight commander had moved off.

  ‘Should be. See you at lunch.’ Milan gave Jiří a casual wave and headed outside to where the Humber Snipes were waiting to transport the pilots to the Intelligence Room for the briefing.

  Concentrating on the briefing and then marking up his course on his chart, Milan was able to push his dream from his mind. However, once he was alone at the controls of his Spitfire, up in the air and watching the coast of Northern France coming into view, it all came back to him. He gazed east across the rolling landscape, straining his eyes until the horizon met the sky. That was the way to Czechoslovakia and home. Somewhere out there were his sister and young nephew. Pray God they were still alive. If only he could keep on flying, he would get there eventually.

  A futile wish, of course. Even though his Spitfire was fitted with extra fuel tanks to give him the range, he would be shot out of the sky long before he got there. The modifications that transformed his Spitfire into a reconnaissance plane left no room for guns.

  Yet again he marvelled at the irony that had brought this change of fortune. When he and Jiří had protested against being rotated to quieter duties, they had done so because they wanted to continue the fight. What on earth had possessed Fighter Command to decide some of their best pilots should be moved to reconnaissance? He didn’t want to shoot pictures; he wanted to shoot Nazis. He wanted to kill and keep killing until he’d cleared a path for the Allied Advance all the way to Prague.

  The Allies would be somewhere on the ground, far below. Not that he could see them from this height, but they would be there, strengthening their grip on the territory they had already taken back from the Nazis and chipping away at the retreating forces where they were trying to dig in. Too slow, though. They hadn’t even succeeded in liberating Paris yet and they’d been in France since May. At this rate it would be months, maybe years before they reached Czechoslovakia.

  Milan clenched his jaw. If only his Spitfire was carrying machine guns instead of cameras, he’d do his bit to oust the Nazis. But he didn’t have so much as a pea-shooter.

  A glance at the coastline and then the chart on his knees told him he was now over Belgium and therefore enemy territory. He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Anyone who thought reconnaissance flying was a safe option needed their heads testing. If the Luftwaffe sent planes after him he had nothing with which to defend himself. All he’d be able to do was take some nice photos of the scenery as it came rushing up to meet him.

  His collar chafed his neck as he turned his head to scan the skies. No sign of enemy aircraft, and the Spitfire wasn’t leaving a vapour trail, so the blue plane would be difficult to see against the sky. He could only hope the Luftwaffe was too busy defending the German troops in Paris to bother about a single RAF plane making its way to the Belgium–Netherlands border. He consulted his chart again then looked at the ground, looking for the Scheldt. Once there, he needed to fly due east to the area of woodland he’d been sent to photograph. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he spotted the ribbon of blue threading its way inland, and adjusted his course. Not long now and he should be at his target.

  From his height of thirty thousand feet, the ground looked like a piece of green pottery, with roads and canals appearing like cracks in the glaze. As he studied the ground, he was aware of his hands growing uncomfortably cold. He warmed his hands against his neck in turn, wishing someone would invent a pair of gloves that didn’t make his hands feel too clumsy to handle the aircraft.

  Glancing at the ground again, he saw a patch of darker green, roughly trapezoidal in shape, and knew he’d reached his destination. He relaxed slightly. All he had to do now was take the photographs and head for home on a direct course. He banked until the target disappeared beneath the Spitfire’s nose then straightened and turned the cameras on. This was the best way to capture the target, as the cameras were mounted behind the cockpit. Thankfully there was no cloud cover so once he was past the target he knew he would have taken clear images of the ground. It was strange to be taking photographs of woodland. He could see nothing but trees with just a single straight line cutting through them marking a road. At his briefing he’d been told it was a possible launch site for flying bombs, but he could see nothing to indicate anything suspicious. He ground his teeth. Here he was photographing trees when he should be fighting Nazis.

  By this time he was past the target so he turned off the cameras and checked his compass, preparing to turn and plot his return course. It was as he banked that he saw them: three Messerschmitts maybe ten thousand feet below, climbing in his direction. Then a glance over his shoulder turned his heart to lead. He had been so occupied in photographing the target that he had neglected to check if he was leaving a vapour trail, and now a white ribbon stretched out behind, guiding the Messerschmitts straight to him. If they caught him up, he didn’t stand a chance.

  Although he had no weapons, he had one advantage: his Spitfire’s greater manoeuvrability. If he could prevent the formation of a vapour trail, he would have the best chance of escape. Making sure he was on a course heading for the sea, he dived to lose height, continuously switching his gaze between the enemy planes and the treacherous trail. He could only pray he didn’t have too much height to lose before the atmospherics were right to prevent formation of a contrail. The Messerschmitts came closer as he lost height. He held his breath, heart hammering. At last the white trail faded and petered out. Immediately he banked sharply, veering away from the fading contrail. Just as he did so, something struck his machine, and he knew he’d been hit. He could only pray the bullets had struck nothing vital. He changed direction again and again, all the while checking that his general course was bringing him closer to England. No further bullets struck, and after another series o
f course changes, he looked out to see the Messerschmitts were tiny dots far behind.

  Milan slumped in his seat, the tension draining. They wouldn’t catch him now. They certainly wouldn’t chase him across the channel where they would be likely to run into RAF patrols.

  It was only when he crossed the coastline that he thought to check his fuel gauge. It was low and sinking fast. The strike he’d felt must have holed his fuel tank. The question was, did he have enough fuel to get back to England?

  Moments later the engine spluttered and died.

  * * *

  ‘Feels like the first day at school, doesn’t it?’ Jess said to May as they set off after breakfast with the other officers of A Watch. A heavy dew lay on the grass and the early morning sunlight lit the garden with a golden glow, shining on dew-beaded cobwebs that decked the towering runner beans on their canes. Despite it being only mid-August, there was an autumnal feel to the morning that intensified the back-to-school feeling.

  May nodded. ‘I just hope I don’t do something stupid.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Evie told them. ‘But any problems or questions, just ask me.’

  They set off at a brisk pace down the road, passing several large houses behind high walls or hedges. ‘You certainly see how the other half live around here,’ Jess muttered. It was a far cry from the narrow, crowded streets where she had grown up. It was hard to believe they were in the same city.

  Before long they arrived at an imposing red brick house set behind a high wall. Beyond it the road ran downhill, and for the first time Jess could see they were situated on top of a hill. Through gaps in trees and buildings, she could catch glimpses of London spread out below. She would have loved to walk further to get a better view, but the others turned through the gateway, showing their passes to the guard at the entrance. To Jess’s surprise, however, they didn’t enter the house – more a stately home, Jess thought, gazing up at it. Instead, they skirted the buildings, taking a path that led into extensive grounds.