The Ops Room Girls

by Vicki Beeby

  By the time August arrived, Evie’s nerves were stretched to the limit. She almost wished that the threatened invasion would start, and put an end to the awful waiting. Just when it seemed that the Germans were ready to unleash their full force, the weather broke, and they were given a reprieve. At least it gave her and Jess more time to drill the required English into the Czech pilots. Their English was now much improved, so to practise their radio skills, they were given bikes and radio sets and sent over the grounds of High Chalk House, with Alex giving them orders over the radio. She could tell from the black looks and mutterings of the Czech pilots that they regarded this as childish and beneath them. They were all impatient to join the other operational squadrons and start fighting Nazis.

  In the second week of August, the weather cleared to cloudless skies and sunshine. Evie, on early watch, was aware of high tension in the Operations Room. Popcorn squadron was already assembled at readiness in their dispersal hut, awaiting the order to scramble. As she took her place at the plotting table, the Ops ‘B’ officer relayed orders to Wagtail squadron warning them to be at readiness in fifteen minutes. She cast a quick glance over the map to catch up with the situation. At the moment it was clear of hostile plots, but she had no doubt that would change. The sun had risen, and the weather was fine. A year ago, she would have rejoiced at the prospect of a perfect summer’s day. Now it meant ideal weather for raids.

  She had scarcely taken her seat when the chatter came through on her headset, giving the position and approximate numbers of a hostile plot. With trembling fingers, she slid the correct details into a wooden block and pushed it into place on the map. Around her other plotters were also moving more hostile plots into place. Evie’s stomach tightened. There had been the odd raid in previous days, but nothing like this.

  Above her, she was aware of Peter Travis frowning down at the map.

  ‘Scramble “A” flight, and put “B” flight on standby,’ Peter ordered. ‘And I want Catseye at readiness now.’

  A hush fell over the room. It was as though everyone held their breath. All eyes were on the table, gazing at the plots, which were frozen in time. It was hard to imagine they represented dozens of hostile aircraft, all intent on wreaking destruction upon England’s shores. But exactly what part of England they were aiming for wasn’t yet clear.

  An update came through her headset and she moved the block to its new position and placed a yellow arrow showing the direction it had moved. The other plotters were doing similar, and when Evie sat back and looked at all the hostile plots, she felt a wave of nausea. If they continued along the same path, they would converge over Amberton.

  Peter broke the silence. ‘Looks like we’re in for a bumpy ride.’ The understatement made Evie smile, and the ripple of laughter eased the tension. Just as Peter had intended, she supposed. ‘Stay calm and concentrate on your own tasks, and we’ll be fine.’

  Then Evie was too busy to think. It was all she could do to manage her plots accurately. The past few weeks had been busy, but this was another level altogether, and instead of targeting shipping convoys, it was clear German strategy had changed and they were aiming for the RAF stations.

  Those manning the desks were also more busy than usual. There was a flurry of activity as reports came in from observer stations, communications came in from the airborne squadrons and Peter got on the phone to Group.

  ‘It’s the same everywhere,’ Peter reported when he finished. ‘Group can’t send any reinforcements because there aren’t any to spare. We’re on our own.’

  By this time the station commander had joined them. ‘If we send all our operational squadrons out to intercept, we’ll have nothing left to protect the station from the hostiles that get through,’ he said.

  Peter pointed at the table. ‘If we don’t throw all available aircraft at that lot, they’ll all get through.’ Even Evie, inexperienced as she was with the tactics of air battles, understood the dilemma. The numbers on the block she was currently moving read 30+: that plot alone represented at least thirty hostile aircraft heading for Amberton, and there were two other hostile plots on the table, one showing 25+ and the other 10+. Their three operational squadrons consisted of twelve Hurricanes each. Thirty-six against sixty-five, possibly more. Every one of their Hurricanes would be needed to be sent out if they were to have a hope of stopping the enemy wave from reaching Amberton, but that would leave the station undefended from any bombers that broke through.

  Bob Law glanced at the board summarising the readiness state of each squadron. ‘What about Brimstone?’

  The blue arrow Evie was about to place dropped from suddenly uncooperative fingers and clattered on the floor tiles. She picked it up, praying no one had noticed. Brimstone had been placed at readiness, waiting for permission to go out on a training flight. While she nudged the arrow into position, she strained to hear Peter’s reply.

  ‘It’s your call, sir. Their flying isn’t a problem, but they still start gabbling Czech over the R/T when they get excited. Which is most of the time.’

  ‘Get them in the air now.’

  Evie’s stomach twisted as she heard the Ops ‘B’ give the scramble order. Scarcely two minutes had passed before the observer’s report crackled through the speakers: ‘Twelve Hurricanes taking off. Initial M for Mother.’

  This was the moment Evie had dreaded. The plots on the table had changed from just a series of numbers to friends. The voices that filtered through the R/T might be the very last time she heard some of them speak.

  And Alex was up there with them.

  The room became a blur, and a strange buzzing filled her ears. She was vaguely aware of a voice giving the order for all non-essential station personnel to take shelter. Then another voice – Peter’s – ordering Brimstone to climb to Angels two-zero and patrol.

  A sharp voice sliced through her daze: ‘Three colours on the table! Bishop, concentrate!’

  Evie jumped. Her vision cleared, and she saw that she had, indeed, forgotten to remove the outdated information that threatened to create confusion. Her cheeks burning with mortification, she hurriedly swept the yellow arrows from the map. It was a mistake only an inexperienced plotter should make. Just because Alex was going into action, it didn’t mean she had an excuse to neglect her duty. If anything, she should be more focused than ever. Alex’s safety and that of everyone on the base depended upon her accuracy. Her only comfort was that Section Officer Ellerby wasn’t present; she’d have never heard the last of it from acid-tongued Hellerby.

  As soon as another update came through her headset, she was ready. She moved the block showing the hostile aircraft were now nearly at the coast. From now on, the Chain Home stations would be unable to track them, as they looked out to sea. Ops would rely solely on observer posts reporting what they could see in the skies.

  Evie’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The war had finally reached Amberton.

  Peter’s calm voice broke the tense silence. ‘Focus on your work, everyone, and we’ll be fine.’ He addressed the plotters. ‘Remember, whatever you hear, you’re safe down here.’

  But Evie couldn’t help thinking of May – was she on the station or out driving? And what about Jess? She had gone off duty only half an hour ago. As she watched the plots converge upon Amberton, she breathed a soft prayer for her friends.

  * * *

  Jess strolled towards the NAAFI, rolling her neck and shoulders to relieve her aching muscles. With the change in Ops Room watches to four hours on, two hours off, it wasn’t worth returning to High Chalk House. She’d had a bit of a walk around the base to stretch her legs, now she needed breakfast. She closed her eyes, dreaming of the cups of steaming coffee she’d drunk when living in London. If she kept that rich aroma, that taste in her mind, maybe she could make herself believe the NAAFI was serving up delicious coffee like that instead of what she could only imagine was mud mixed with hot water.

  She had her hand on the door handle, her sto
mach rumbling with the anticipation of food, when the wail of a siren started up. A voice came over the tannoy, telling everyone to take cover.

  ‘Helmets on!’ a voice snapped behind her.

  Her gut twisted as she fumbled to put on her helmet and fasten the strap under her chin. It was starting. They’d had a few air raid warnings at night, but nothing had attacked the base. This time Jess’s instincts told her they would be in the line of fire. This was what the senior staff had been muttering dire warnings about for the past few weeks. Her knees feeling weak, she was about to turn right to make a dash for the nearest shelter when she happened to glance left and see May running towards a different shelter. Poor May would be terrified. Jess wasn’t aware of making any decision, but her feet moved of their own accord, and she was sprinting after May.

  She had the airfield in view and now she could see the pilots of Brimstone squadron climbing into their Hurricanes, bright yellow Mae Wests flapping on their chests and parachutes strapped on behind. Dear God, no! She stopped dead and stared, her gaze instinctively seeking out Milan’s Hurricane. There he was, standing beside the machine while an Erk helped him put on his parachute. The propeller was already spinning. As she watched, Milan climbed into the cockpit. It was too far to see what he was doing, but she knew he’d be running through the cockpit drill she and Evie had included in their lessons. The words marched through her brain now, meaningless but persistent: hydraulics, trim, mixture, pneumatics, fuel, flaps, trim and switches.

  Someone grabbed her arm – Flight Officer Ellerby. ‘Get a move on, Halloway. You’re in the way.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Somehow, Jess managed to get her frozen limbs to move. The last thing she saw before she ducked into the shelter was Milan giving the ‘chocks away’ signal.

  ‘Jess!’

  It was May’s voice, but it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light of the single lantern swinging from the apex of the curved corrugated iron ceiling. Then she made out figures sitting on wooden benches lining the walls, and she saw May, huddled near the rear of the shelter, beckoning to her. The other WAAFs around her obligingly shuffled up, so Jess could sit next to her friend.

  ‘You can squeeze in next to me, love.’ It was a corporal driver who spoke. When Jess had first arrived at Amberton, she’d enjoyed flirting with him. Now she couldn’t imagine what she’d seen in him. He was good looking, but it was Milan’s intense blue gaze, the cheekbones that could slice through steel, that filled her thoughts.

  She forced a grin, not at all in the mood for flirting. ‘In your dreams, Corp.’ A ripple of laughter ran around the shelter as she sat next to May instead. ‘You all right, May?’

  May sucked in a deep breath. ‘Do you think they’re going to bomb us?’

  Jess hesitated. She couldn’t repeat any of the talk she’d heard in Ops, and anyway, she didn’t want to frighten the poor girl more than she was already. ‘They can try, but our boys will stop them.’

  That earned her a cheer from all in the cramped shelter.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Halloway.’ It was Jean Ellerby who spoke. Jess was so shocked to receive praise from Hellerby she nearly slipped off the bench.

  ‘Where’s Evie?’ May asked, looking around as though expecting to see her there.

  ‘On duty. She’ll be fine. Ops must be the safest place on the whole station.’ Then, guessing who else May would be worried for, she lowered her voice so no one else would overhear. ‘Peter’s there, too.’

  She gave May’s hand a squeeze and was rewarded by a tremulous smile.

  ‘I think I’d rather be out there, doing something,’ May said. ‘I wouldn’t be so nervous if I had something to occupy my mind.’

  ‘Same here,’ muttered Jess. She envied Evie. If Jess was on duty now, she wouldn’t have time to worry about Milan or any of the other pilots she’d come to regard as friends.

  Or maybe not. In Ops, they would hear the R/T communications with the pilots. She thought of Evie, listening to Alex while he was up there, fighting for his life. No, maybe it was better not to hear.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ May was gazing at Jess with concern.

  ‘Brimstone squadron is up there.’

  She didn’t need to say any more. May would understand her worries, just as she understood May’s concern for Peter. Both had declared they wouldn’t act on their feelings, but it didn’t stop them having the feelings in the first place.

  A deep, ominous throb of multiple engines that Jess felt rather than heard came from outside. Not the growling Merlin engines of a Spitfire or Hurricane.

  ‘Here they come,’ muttered one of the men.

  Jess squeezed May’s hand and could only pray that Milan and his squadron had been able to climb to a great enough altitude before the Germans arrived. She’d listened in on enough attacks to know that having the advantage of height was key to a successful attack. Around her she was aware of people crossing themselves and muttering prayers. She could feel the rapid beat of May’s pulse through their clasped palms. Or was it her own?

  Then there was no more time for thinking. There was a high-pitched whistle followed by a loud crash that made the ground quake beneath them. Several people cried out or screamed. Jess opened her mouth and choked as gritty dust rasped in the back of her throat. Then another crash, and another. Jess and May clung on to each other, flinching with each bang. The lantern dangling from the ceiling swung drunkenly, making the shadows shrink and expand in a nightmarish fashion.

  For some reason the cockpit drill ran through her head over and over: hydraulics, trim, mixture, pneumatics, fuel, flaps, trim and switches. Another whistle. Jess ducked her head instinctively. May’s fingernails dug into the back of her hand. Another crash. The whole shelter shook. Hydraulics, trim, mixture, pneumatics, fuel, flaps, trim and switches. Oh, God. She was going to go mad if this kept up. If only there was something she could do to occupy her mind.

  Then Jess remembered her training as an actress, how performing always swept away her stage fright. She drew a deep breath and tried to pretend she was on stage. ‘Come on, we can’t let the Germans frighten us,’ she called out. ‘Who knows “Roll Out the Barrel”?’ She sang the first line in a quavering voice too feeble to compete with the blasts and machine gun fire coming from outside. She cleared her throat and tried again, her voice stronger now. Then May and two others picked up the next line. ‘That’s right, join in, everyone.’ A few more joined in and the singers’ voices swelled in volume. Finally, everyone was singing. Jess flung the words as loud and clear as she could, each one a defiance of the Germans and their attempt to batter Britain into submission. She smiled at everyone as she sang, encouraging them to put their whole heart into it, to refuse to let the Germans win.

  When the song ended, Jess didn’t waver, but plunged into ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’. If she closed her eyes she could almost believe she was in the pub, singing along to the piano, instead of stuck in a cramped shelter, surrounded by the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke rather than the musty tang of damp earth combined with sweat and fear.

  Then a shrieking whistle sounded directly overhead. Jess carried on singing, but others faltered and clamped hands to their ears. Jess didn’t hear an explosion, but the force of it knocked her back against the wall. The lights blinked out, and everything went black.

  Chapter Eleven

  Alex’s nerves thrilled as he put his Hurricane into a climbing turn. Looking out on either side, he could see the other members of his squadron doing the same.

  Only yesterday evening he’d demanded to know when Brimstone would be sent on operational flights, and Bob Law had told him it would be when his pilots had learned not to fill the airwaves with ‘that damned Czech chatter’. Well, his pilots hadn’t improved overnight, so it could only mean they were being sent to intercept a threat that was too great for Amberton’s other three squadrons to handle alone. The fact that they’d been scrambled with no warning could only mean the threat w
as nearly here.

  He checked his altimeter. Still too low. Would they have time to climb higher than any hostiles before they arrived? A brief flash of memory struck – Bf 109s screaming down upon his squadron from the sun.

  The R/T crackled, and Peter’s voice came through his headset. ‘Red Leader, this is Belfry. We have hostiles approaching at zero-niner-fife. Do you see them?’

  Momentarily disoriented by his spiralling climb, Alex needed to check his compass to pinpoint the bearing. He checked his altitude again: nearly fifteen thousand feet.

  Then he saw them – a black cloud casting a fast-moving shadow over the patchwork of fields and woods. Heinkels. And they were heading straight for the base. His instincts screamed to dive after them, but remembering France, he glanced around the sky before giving the order. There they were – four Bf 109s about a thousand feet above the Heinkels.

  ‘Belfry, this is Red Leader. I see them. Heinkels heading right for you.’ He relayed orders to Blue, Yellow and Green sections to take the Heinkels, but the 109s were his. ‘Red two, Red three, this is Red Leader. 109s at two o’clock. Tally ho!’ He repeated the order in Czech for good measure, then aimed for the 109s and dived. This was for the men he had lost in France.

  Checking to see that his wingmen were following, he braced himself for the moment when the 109s would see them. He became aware that his fingers were clenched so tight around the control column that his knuckles were white. He forced himself to relax, but kept his thumb poised over the firing button, ready to send his chosen target plummeting from the sky. Another quick glance around showed him his wingmen diving to intercept two of the other 109s. Good. They weren’t firing too early. Wasting ammunition was not an option; if the station was under attack it would make landing to rearm difficult to say the least. The remainder of his squadron was swooping down to meet the Heinkels. Even as he watched, the first wave of German bombers reached the station and unleashed their cargo. Bastards! Evie was down there!