by Shirley Mann
Chapter 28
Lily woke up, got dressed, saluted every officer that passed and got through the next few weeks. She did her job, watched fresh-faced young men tuck into their egg and bacon breakfasts and tapped relentlessly on her Morse key in renewed determination, as if her concentration could bring her crews home safely. It was accepted that no one ever asked what had happened to those that failed to come back but Lily had to know about Ted. She gleaned bits of information from colleagues who looked at her oddly as she questioned them as casually as she could. Piecing together their reluctant comments, she worked out that Ted’s crew had dropped their bombs but had then been hit by fighters, causing a fuel fire. He had tried to throw the aircraft into a corkscrew to avoid the pursuing enemy, but they were lit up like a flaming comet and the Messerschmitts had honed in on them relentlessly, bringing them down just as they reached the Dutch coast. The whole crew had been lost. The drinks that night had been put on the lost crew’s tabs in the knowledge that the toast would be passed without question by the officer in charge, his mind preoccupied with writing seven letters to seven families.
A welcome letter arrived for Lily. It was from Alice. She was being transferred to Metheringham, just down the road from East Kirkby, and had a forty-eight-hour pass before she had to report for duty, so offered to meet Lily in Lincoln. It was exactly what Lily needed. For the first time since Ted had gone down, she felt a spark of life and raised her head a little higher. Lily was due a day off and almost ran to the bus early the next morning to meet her friend.
Lily hopped up and down outside the station, more excited than she had been in weeks. At the sight of the unruly red hair and the solid frame of Alice coming out from the platform, she rushed forward, gulping in air.
‘Hold on, Mullins, you’ll squash me!’ Alice laughed as she tried to extricate herself from a clinging embrace.
Lily could hardly speak.
‘I am . . . so . . . ridiculously pleased to see you,’ she said finally, grinning from ear-to-ear.
‘Good, glad to hear it. Now where’s the best place for tea in Lincoln? We have some serious catching up to do.’
They headed towards the Bishop’s Pal, a Women’s Voluntary Service canteen in the hallowed surroundings of the Bishop’s Palace. Its chintzy armchairs, polished tables and vases of flowers were complimented by home baked cakes and tea. Alice ordered a scone and settled back luxuriously into the armchair, taking in the November frost on the lawn that sloped down outside the window, showing the rooftops of Lincoln way below. Lily tucked into one of the famous jam tarts and as she wiped away the last crumbs, opened her mouth to speak.
The WVS woman smiled as she brought them their tea, having to wait while the two heads separated for a moment and drew breath. They smiled up at her absent-mindedly, paused for a brief second and then carried on talking.
‘Sounds like this war is getting too much like hard work,’ Alice said, taking in Lily’s pale face and tense expression as she finished her story about Ted, lost crews and Amy.
‘Listen, Lily, no one said this was going to be easy, but we have no choice. I’m not learning to speak German, and I hate sauerkraut, so fighting for our country is what we all have to do. And you, young lady, are going to have to deal with everything it throws at you. There are people all over the place facing much more than you’ve come across so far.’
Lily sat back and nodded slowly. She knew Alice was right and she also knew that the no-nonsense words were exactly what she needed to hear.
‘Now, ACW Mullins, I want to hear all the gossip. I want to hear about the dances, the flirting and the number of times you’ve been put on a charge for not saluting since I let you out of my sight.’
The afternoon passed quickly and the tea cups were constantly replenished as Lily told Alice more about Amy and then made her laugh with stories of Gladys’s antics. In return, Alice told her about Scotland and how she had tried to learn Scottish dancing, causing havoc on the dance floor. Lily started to giggle and then neither of them could stop. The waitress grinned over at them and the elderly couple on the next table smiled indulgently. It was as if laughter in a war-torn world had become a precious commodity.
Lily made her way back to the camp with a lighter heart. Metheringham was not far away from East Kirkby so the girls had plotted regular meetings.
*
The following morning, Lily was summoned to the Admin Office. A stern looking warrant officer handed her a piece of paper. Lily gasped as she read the words ‘Transfer approved.’
Her hand shook as she looked up at the officer who was staring impatiently back at her.
‘A transfer, sir? Where to?’
For a moment, she had forgotten the cardinal rule. No questions.
The officer looked at her with raised eyebrows and Lily started to stutter.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I just . . .’ She trailed off, gradually accepting the inevitable.
‘When do I go?’ she said flatly.
‘Get your things and meet the transport at the gate at 1100 hours.’
Lily tried to focus on the piece of paper but the rising panic meant her eyes darted meaninglessly across the black type. She focused. Upper Heyford, Oxfordshire.
She looked at her watch and broke into a run, realising she only had one hour to spare.
As she raced across the compound, she had an imaginary conversation with Alice, bemoaning the fates that were conspiring to deliver yet another blow to their friendship. She could have wept with frustration and muttered up to the sky in angry protest. ‘How could you? Just as I was beginning to feel I belonged. Just as Alice had come back on the scene.’ The clouds continued to float by with casual abandon, uncaring and unconcerned.
‘Damn,’ she said as she threw open the door to the hut. Gladys was curled up on her bunk reading a magazine but looked up as the November air wafted into the room. Lily grabbed her kit bag and tried to remember the order everything had to go in.
First shoes, then underclothes, all her toiletries, books, letters, then her RAF shirt and on top the tin hat.
She had almost finished packing when she realised she had forgotten the shoes that were under her bed and had to start from scratch. All the time, Gladys was plying her with questions that she did not know the answer to.
As the clock ticked on towards the hour, she ran out of time and patience. ’Darn it, where’s my gas mask?’ She scrabbled under the bed. Everyone kept their makeup and hair rollers in their gas mask container so she hurriedly had to unpack the top half of her bag to squash them in the middle.
‘Glad, I haven’t got time to say goodbye to everyone. Will you tell them for me? I’ll write and let you know how I’m doing.’
Glad sighed. ‘And I was just about gettin’ used to yous. Now, I’ll have some snotty-nosed rookie next to me.’
‘Yes, and they’ll have to get used to you,’ Lily smiled. ‘Good job we’ve got you civilised, ready for her.’
‘Hah! It’ll take more than a lassie from Manchester to civilise me. I only let you think you’ve tamed me so’s I can pinch your mam’s fruit cake.’
‘This darned war, it just gets in the way of everything! And just as my best friend’s been posted down the road.’
Lily stood for a moment, bag in hand, almost on the verge of tears. Gladys got up and strode over to her. She took her by the shoulders and looked steadily into her eyes.
‘So, you’re off. Well, all I can say is, you’ll be fed, you’ll have a bed to lie in and you’ll not be facing a German soldier at the end of a bayonet, so I’m nay exactly sure what it is you’re fussing about. Now take care of yourself and come and see me when you get up to Glasgow when this is all over.’
With that pronouncement, she plonked back on her bed, stuffed a biscuit in her mouth and carried on reading her magazine.
Lily smiled weakly, nodded and walked out of the hut.
Chapter 29
The four men had almost stopped breathin
g. The tiny crack of a twig outside their hidey-hole had put them on full alert. A grubby face peered in through the bushes – it was a child. A boy of about eight years of age, dressed in rags and very thin. He stared in disbelief at the four soldiers who were cowering in his hideaway.
They beckoned him in and Frank put his finger to his lips to warn him to be quiet. Danny signalled that the Germans were just over the hill by imitating a moustache above his mouth and pointing. The boy nodded and crouched down beside Frank and the other private, Charlie. They stayed like that until they finally heard the engines of the jeeps start up as the sun started to pierce the foliage. The purr of the motors faded into the distance. Alan used sign language to tell the rest to stay where they were, bayoneted his gun and edged on his stomach out of the copse. Nobody moved until they heard Alan’s voice calling to give them the ‘All Clear.’
They moved slowly and gingerly, their muscles contracted in pain from being immobile and Danny steered the young boy out of the den. As they stretched and stamped their feet, they delved into their packs to find the welcome water and rations, offering them to the boy, who took them greedily.
Danny tried to communicate, ‘Come ti chiami?’
‘Georgio.’
‘Cosa . . . stai . . . fare qui?’ Danny was struggling now. His grammar and vocabulary were not up to this. How did the Italians say ‘doing here’?
A torrent of Italian came out of the boy’s mouth as he looked from one to the other of the men.
‘Lentamente,’ Danny urged, trying to slow him down.
Piecing together a few words here and there, he gathered that the boy’s whole family had been killed in a bombing raid by the allies and that he had been living alone in the woods for the last four months. To realise that the ‘good guys’ had caused the obliteration of this boy’s family was a shock to the British Tommies and Alan handed over some valuable chocolate that he had hidden in the bottom of his pack.
They tried to persuade Georgio to come with them back to camp but he vehemently shook his head. He pointed north, explaining he was going to find his aunt and uncle. When Frank tried to take his arm, he pushed it roughly away and sped off up the hill. When he got to the top, he turned, saluted, grinned and then disappeared over the top.
Chapter 30
‘Come on, Gorgeous,’ the driver said, helping her to swing her bag under the tarpaulin covering the back of the truck. ‘You’re the only one. I’ve got to get these supplies there PDQ.’
‘Pretty Damned Quick’ turned out to be a ride on a rollercoaster and Lily was bounced unceremoniously around in the back of the truck as it swung around corners on its way to Oxfordshire. Lily closed her eyes to hold onto her last sight of East Kirkby and had to concentrate hard so as not to be sick over the boxes of food supplies.
‘Just as Alice had come almost within cycling distance, wouldn’t you know it?’ she challenged the box of cornflour next to her.
Upper Heyford was a very different camp and, as a peacetime base, was established with trees and mature hedges. Lily could see it was bigger than East Kirkby. An OTU – Operational Training Unit – she hoped it might be calmer, but she also suspected it would be more boring. She was told to report for equipment at 1500 hours which gave her time for a quick bite to eat in the cookhouse and its clean, pastel walls with paintings of fruit, vegetables and flowers made her feel quite cheerful. After a passable macaroni cheese, Lily was marched towards the WAAF guard-room where they allocated her a billet and gave her some bedding. She was then marched to her hut by a squat corporal who swung her arms stiffly by her sides and Lily almost had to run to keep up with her. In the entrance to the hut, she spotted some notices about dances, cinema, theatre performances and events in the mess. Thinking that Upper Heyford might not be as bad as she had thought, she was shown her bed and started to put out her things in the regimental order that was finally becoming second nature to her.
At just before three o’clock, Lily went to the Watch Office and then up to Flying Control. She saluted and introduced herself to the corporal who was in charge. Her name was Barbara and she showed Lily round the now familiar equipment that she would be using. She also told Lily about Upper Heyford’s gruesome nickname – the Rhodesian Graveyard – which came from one course of trainee pilots who had suffered such heavy losses during training that they were almost wiped out.
Lily’s shift began immediately and she realised that the base’s status as a training unit meant that there was not the camaraderie of an operational station. It was a busy but mundane night as she helped new navigators find their way to pre-established coordinates and back to the base. The hesitant Morse from the other end made her aware just how new to the job these young men were, but there was no adrenaline, no cheering groups as the planes flew off or landed safely, but, she hoped, no deaths either.
The following morning, she woke with a bad neck and back. She had not had time to rearrange the three biscuit mattresses and they had parted underneath her so that parts of her were hitting the cold, wiry springs underneath. She groaned.
The girl in the next bed turned to her and whispered, ‘Hi, I’m Hilda. Welcome to Upper Heyford.’
‘I’m Lily,’ she replied, ‘been transferred from East Kirkby. I have no idea why or what for but that’s normal these days, isn’t it?’
They both grinned just as the loudspeaker announced reveille to get them up.
Following the crowd of girls to the ablutions, Lily heard a familiar voice.
‘I really can’t abide this cold water any more. My maid would die rather than expect me to wash in cold water.’
‘Marion!’ Lily exclaimed to herself, edging her way around the group in front of her to where the voice had come from. She was almost pleased to see such a familiar face.
‘Well, if it isn’t Lily Mullins,’ Marion said. ‘Who’d have thought you would still be in this war? I thought they’d have sent you home by now.’
The initial pleasure at seeing Marion was replaced by memories of that vicious tongue and catty comments and Lily stopped in her step forward to give Marion a hug.
‘Hello Marion,’ she said, looking at the soft, white dressing gown and pink fluffy slippers that made Marion stand out from the crowd like a white swan amidst brown mallard ducks. The rest of the girls had stopped too and crowded round to see the newcomer who seemed to know the most unpopular girl in the camp.
‘I thought all your insurrections would have guaranteed you a place in the munitions factory by now,’ Marion said haughtily.
‘Strangely, no. I seem to have survived the RAF’s efforts to suppress my spirit,’ Lily replied with more confidence than she had shown against this imperious being when they were both in Blackpool.
‘Well, you’ll love it here. It’s right up your street. It’s very frivolous and full of people who drink too much.’
Lily gasped. ‘It’s good to see you too, Marion.’ She turned away and started to brush her teeth furiously. Hilda looked at her curiously but didn’t say anything until they got back into the hut to get dressed.
‘Know her, do you? The princess? ‘
Lily smiled. ‘Yes, and we used to call her that too. I was at Blackpool with her – billeted in the same room.’
‘Poor you. Must have been a nightmare.’
‘Yes, it was, but she seems to have got worse,’ Lily said as she pushed her hair under her cap to try to keep the odd strands from touching her collar.
‘Oh yes, she keeps us all on our toes’ Hilda said. ‘I’ve met her type before. I used to work in a haberdashery shop on the Wirral and the women from the posh houses in West Kirby would come in, lording it over us but I soon learned to ignore them. So, I’ve loads of practice dealing with the Marions of this world but for some strange reason my vast experience with ribbons and bows doesn’t help nearly as much in this stupid war!’ Both girls started to laugh and by the time they had got to the NAAFI, Hilda and Lily had become good friends. A tall, athletic girl wi
th brown hair, who strode everywhere, Hilda towered over Lily. She seemed to have the knack of getting to the front of the canteen queue which Lily decided was a definite advantage in a friend. Hilda had been sports captain at school and was constantly cajoling the girls to join her in a jog before breakfast. She had a brother who was a footballer for Tranmere Rovers. He was in the Middle East and Hilda was constantly worrying whether he was getting any food.
‘Things seem to be hotting up,’ she confided in Lily when they manoeuvred their trays through the tables to find an empty space. ‘We’re on the edge of it all here, but they are training more and more pilots. Something is definitely happening.’
Lily frowned, trying to remember something her dad had said in his last letter. Always hearing titbits of news that may or may not find their way into the papers, he had hinted that 1944 was likely to bring some major push into Europe. For a moment, Lily had a pang that she was on a training base and not in the thick of the action.
‘We had so many courses last month that the whole airfield felt as if it was in a plane on circuits and bumps,’ Hilda said. ‘The noise every night was deafening; it was impossible to sleep.’
Circuits and bumps were the endless takings off and landings that every pilot had to do before qualifying and many of them were noisy and messy affairs. Hilda told Lily tales of how rookie pilots made mistakes, including one who had managed to select ‘undercarriage up’ instead of ‘flaps down’ as he came into land, gracefully sinking to the floor. He blocked the intersection of the runways, effectively bringing the airfield to a standstill and had to suffer endless ribbing in the mess as a result. Hilda did not add that such mistakes also cost lives.
The shifts were relentless but quite boring. Fortunately, the social life was making up for it. Hilda had taken Lily in hand and helped her to organise her shifts so she could attend the dances at Oxford Town Hall on a Saturday night. In preparation, she gave an enthusiastic lesson on how to jitterbug in the hut beforehand, causing hilarity and mayhem amongst the bunks as the floor vibrated with the girls’ heavy shoes leaping backwards and forwards.