The Ops Room Girls

by Vicki Beeby

  Nothing. He pressed the firing button again. No response.

  His mouth went dry. By this time, he’d overshot the Dornier. Another glance over his shoulder showed him that Milan had hit his mark. Black smoke plumed from the 109’s engine, and flames licked around the engine cowling. One 109 down, but he had no idea how many were left. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he spotted two more Messerschmitts swooping down from above.

  He pulled the joystick back into his right thigh, putting the Hurricane into a tight climbing turn. God help him – what was he supposed to do? He hammered on the button, in the vain hope that it would somehow unstick whatever was jamming his guns. All the while he kept his Hurricane twisting and turning, doing his best not to present an easy shot to the 109s. Without weapons, he needed to get out of the fight, but that was impossible when he could see nothing but hostile aircraft, all seemingly intent on shooting him out of the sky.

  ‘This is Red Leader,’ he yelled into the R/T. ‘My guns have jammed. For God’s sake, someone get these bloody Jerries off my tail.’ His lips twitched at the thought that if he survived, he would have to put himself on a charge for breaking radio protocol. Funny how such absurd thoughts could strike at moments of extreme stress.

  He heaved the Hurricane into another turn, diving to pick up speed, and caught a glimpse of two Hurricanes plunging into the fray. Another Bf 109 appeared to starboard, bursts of flame spewing from its machine guns. His canopy smashed, and there was the tinkle of glass as his compass exploded in minute shards. Then came a sharp sting in his upper arm.

  He pulled up into a twisting turn. Below him, two Messerschmitts collided and disappeared in a ball of flame. He glanced frantically around the sky and exhaled a shaky breath to see his machine was clear of hostile aircraft. He climbed out of the fight, feeling weak now the immediate danger was over. The other Hurricanes were all still in the fight, their vapour trails weaving with those of the enemy, forming a giant cat’s cradle in the sky. He hated to leave but there was nothing he could do to help. His guns weren’t working, and half his instrument panel had been shot out. He would only put the entire squadron in danger if he hung around, forcing the other pilots to protect him. He tried to signal to them that he was leaving, but his radio was dead. All he could do was turn in what he prayed was the direction of Amberton and leave the fight.

  A strange tiredness swept over him. At first, he put it down to a reaction to his narrow escape, but then he felt something warm trickle down his left arm. Glancing at his sleeve, he was shocked to see a red stain blooming upon the fabric. Now he remembered the stinging sensation in his arm when the 109 had attacked. He must have been shot! Strange he hadn’t noticed before.

  His head was starting to swim. The instrument panel blurred in and out of focus, the dials dancing before his eyes. Suddenly his oxygen mask seemed to be smothering him. He tore it off and drew gulping breaths. Grey dots obscured his vision. Hell, he was going to faint. Looking down all he could see was sea, and he realised he had no idea where he was. God help him, if he didn’t land now, he was going to pass out and crash.

  Bail out. He had to bail out. He pulled at the canopy release, but it was stuck. Either that or he didn’t have the strength to open it in his weakened state. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. If he didn’t find land and somewhere to put down his Hurricane, he was going to crash.

  He looked at his oxygen mask, dangling on his chest. When had he taken that off? That was a damn fool thing to do at this height. He fastened it around his face with trembling fingers and drew gulping breaths. His vision cleared and with it came calmer thinking.

  Right. He couldn’t bail out, so he was going to have to find the coast and search for a landing site. If he could avoid running into enemy patrols, all the better. Light clouds obscured his view, so he lost a little height until he was below the cloud base, then scanned the horizon, desperate for the sight of the coastline. Nothing. This was impossible. The Channel wasn’t that wide, and they hadn’t flown far out to sea before they’d met the Dorniers. He felt like he was trapped in some kind of nightmare, doomed to an endless search for land until he ran out of fuel and crashed.

  Evie. He wished he’d kissed her now. He couldn’t make sense of the tangled thought processes that had made him hold back from kissing her at the dance. Now it just looked like he’d been afraid. Afraid she would reject him. He was going to plunge into a watery grave, and he didn’t even have the memory of a kiss from the woman he loved to take with him.

  No. That wasn’t going to happen. He must be flying in the wrong direction. He performed a wide, banking turn, and peered out, praying the coastline would come into view. Then he saw it – a faint line on the horizon to starboard. He went cold with the realisation that he’d been flying parallel to the coast all this time. If he’d continued in that direction, he’d have ended up in the Atlantic if his tanks hadn’t run dry first. He gave a grim smile. If he made it back in one piece, he would be sure to tell Evie it was the thought of her that had helped him find land.

  Now he had a landmark to steer by, he set a course, then examined his arm. If he was going to make it to land, he had to stop the bleeding, or no amount of oxygen would keep him from losing consciousness. There was no room in the cramped cockpit to remove his jacket, even if he could have done so without getting hopelessly tangled with his oxygen feed, Mae West and parachute. He would just have to do what he could. Judging from the tears in his upper sleeve, the bullet had passed straight through the flesh of his upper arm. He could move his arm, so didn’t think the bone was broken. Doing his best to hold the control column steady with his knees, he pulled off his scarf and combined it with his handkerchief for a makeshift pad and bandage.

  By the time he’d finished, the coast was almost below him. He gazed down to see a strange spit of land with water on either side. He followed the line to the right, to see it led to an island. Of course – it must be Portland Island. He fumbled to shake out his chart across his knees and peered down at it. Yes! He blessed whatever guardian angel had led him to cross the coast at such a distinctive location. Now all he had to do was follow the coast to Chichester Harbour, and he could find his way back to Amberton from there. He glanced at his fuel gauge – thankfully one of the few instruments still working –and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw he had enough fuel to get him back. The first thing he was going to do when he landed was find Evie and kiss her.

  It was only when his wheels touched down that he remembered Evie was home on sick leave.

  * * *

  ‘Sir!’

  Alex, returning to dispersal after being patched up by the MO, glanced around to see who was calling. To his dismay, the MO had grounded him for at least a week. He’d threatened to order him to bed in the infirmary, but Alex had refused point blank. It had done no good to tell the MO he’d had no trouble flying after he’d been hit; the MO wouldn’t let him return to combat flying until he was fully fit. That left him stuck behind a desk for at least a week.

  Chief Technician Rawlins caught Alex up just as he reached the dispersal hut. He saluted then glanced to his right and left before saying, ‘I checked your guns as you asked, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I couldn’t find anything wrong until—’

  ‘Impossible! They wouldn’t fire at all.’

  ‘I know, sir. The patches were all intact.’ Rawlins was referring to fabric patches taped over the gun ports after rearming to keep out moisture. They would be blown off the first time the guns were fired. ‘That’s why I looked more closely. I found these.’ Rawlins held out an oil-stained hand with a few slivers of wood resting on his palm.

  Alex frowned down at them. ‘Matchsticks?’

  ‘They’d been rammed into the air feeds. A bloody pain in the arse to prise them free, sir.’

  Icy cold fingers stroked the nape of his neck. ‘Is there any way they could have got there accidentally?’ Although he already knew the answer.

  �
��No, sir. This was sabotage.’

  It was as though the heat was sucked out of the air. Alex was prepared for death at the hands of the Germans, but to know he’d nearly been killed by the malicious actions of someone on the station made him feel sick.

  Thoughts whirled through his head. His first impulse was to order all the fitters to examine each Hurricane for signs of tampering, but that would surely alert the saboteur.

  ‘Don’t mention this to anyone else,’ he said in the end. ‘I need to report this to the station commander before we take any action.’ Then it occurred to him that the saboteur would be on the alert now that Alex had managed to return his Hurricane in one piece, or near enough. He would be waiting for the alert to be raised now it was certain the sabotage would be discovered. ‘No, wait. Say you think I must be losing it. You checked the guns and they’re in perfect working order. Let the saboteur think the matchsticks must have worked free in the flight. I don’t want him to know we’re after him.’

  Alex turned to go and find Bob Law, when another thought occurred. ‘And for God’s sake, go over all the Hurricanes with a fine-toothed comb when they return. I don’t know how you’re going to do it without raising suspicion, and I don’t care. Say it’s a random inspection, or something. Just make sure they’re safe to fly before they’re scrambled again.’ Right now, Rawlins was the only man he could trust.

  ‘Then you haven’t heard?’ There was no mistaking the bad news in the sergeant’s ominous tone.

  Alex clenched his fists. ‘Who?’

  ‘Sergeant Pilot Josef Kaspar, sir.’ Rawlins’ voice seemed to come from a great distance. Kaspar was a member of ‘B’ flight. They must have been scrambled shortly after ‘A’ flight. ‘They were sent to intercept a hostile flight shortly after you left. The other pilots say he was shot down in the first attack. None of them saw him fire a shot.’ Through a roaring in the ears, Alex heard Rawlins’ final words. ‘He didn’t bail out, and his kite burned up before it crashed.’

  Josef’s ghost hovered by his shoulder all the way to the station commander’s office. Find the bastard who did this to me, he seemed to be saying. Alex had no idea if it was his own imagination or if Josef really had come back to haunt him. Either way, it made little difference. Alex had every intention of seeing the traitor hang. Rawlins’ words beat through his head with each step. Josef had died in the worst possible way. He had an image of burning hands clawing at the canopy of a blazing Hurricane. It was every pilot’s nightmare, and thanks to the saboteur, it had come true for Josef.

  Alex was shaking with anger and horror by the time he reached the Admin block. He stormed through the station commander’s ante room.

  ‘Wait. You can’t go in there,’ the adjutant cried when Alex strode to the station commander’s door without pausing. ‘He’s in a—’

  Alex ignored him and flung open the door. The MO was inside, his back to the door. For a split second, Alex hesitated. No doubt the MO was here to make his report on Alex’s injury. But his rage carried him through. ‘Leave,’ he said to the MO. ‘I have to speak to Bob. Now.’

  ‘If this is about your—’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with it. Go.’

  The MO rose and, after a significant look at Bob, he left.

  ‘Now, listen, Alex,’ Bob began, ‘the MO said to expect you to protest, but I really can’t allow you to—’

  ‘This is nothing to do with my arm.’ Alex marched up to the desk and dropped the matchsticks in front of Bob. ‘Rawlins fished these out of my guns’ air feeds.’

  Bob stared at the tiny pieces of wood then back at Alex’s face. ‘You mean—’

  ‘Sabotage.’ Then he added a belated, ‘Sir.’

  Bob’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘Any suspects?’

  Alex went to rake his fingers through his hair, only to drop his arm with a wince. ‘It’d be quicker to list who I don’t suspect.’ He paced in front of the desk. ‘Rawlins is in the clear – he found the matchsticks and showed them to me. If he’d been the saboteur, he could have chucked them away, and nobody would be any the wiser.’

  ‘Anyone else? Oh, for God’s sake, sit down before you pass out.’

  Alex dropped into the chair. The fight seemed to drain out of him, and only now he realised he was shivering and felt sick. ‘There’s only one other I know for sure can’t have done it, and that’s poor Josef. But any of the Erks could have done it.’

  ‘Or a pilot.’

  Alex gazed at Bob, dry mouthed. ‘I can’t believe a pilot would knowingly do that to a fellow pilot.’

  Yet you shoot down German pilots without a thought. He swore he could see the retort forming on Bob’s lips. Or was it his own conscience? In his mind he saw a flash of wide eyes in a pale face: the German he had shot down yesterday. Or was it the day before? He’d made so many flights in the past weeks, his memories were merging.

  Bob seemed to understand his conflict, for he said nothing for a while, just picked up one of the matchsticks and studied it, twisting it between thumb and forefinger. ‘I don’t want to suspect a pilot any more than you do,’ he said finally in a heavy voice. ‘But we can’t afford to rule anyone out. This is too serious a crime. It’s bad enough I have to write letters to wives and mothers of pilots shot down by Germans’ – he jabbed with the match towards a half-written letter on his desk – ‘without wondering if they were shot down as a result of sabotage.’

  Alex looked at the letter. In the normal course of things, he should write to Josef’s family. But they were in Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia; no letter would get through.

  Bob’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘I’ll start by interviewing Rawlins.’

  ‘You? Oh no. It was my kite that was sabotaged, a pilot in my squadron killed. This is my investigation.’

  ‘Which is precisely why I’m sending you on a week’s leave.’

  ‘What? You can’t—’ Alex half-rose, but his legs shook so hard he quickly dropped back into the seat.

  ‘Listen to me, Alex. For a start you’ve been injured; you need time to recover.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Look at you – you’re as white as a sheet. You’ll be lucky if you’ve got the strength to drag yourself up to your bed, let alone chase round the station looking for a saboteur.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘I’m sure you would. You’re a stubborn fool when you’ve got a bee in your bonnet. But you’re missing the point.’

  ‘Which is?’ It was a good thing Bob wasn’t a stickler for formalities, or he’d be up on a charge for addressing a superior officer in such a belligerent tone.

  ‘If you go blundering around the station in your state, asking questions, when you should be on sick leave, everyone will realise you suspect foul play. Everyone, including the saboteur. Our only hope of flushing him out is if he doesn’t suspect we’re on to him. By rights, I should leave it to the RAF Police, but that would send the saboteur to ground, and we’d never know who it was.’

  Alex subsided. He could see the sense in what Bob was saying, much as he burned to expose the traitor and wring his neck with his own hands.

  Bob continued. ‘If I haven’t made any progress by the time you get back, you can take over, but until then I want you out of it.’

  ‘Wait. Get back?’ While some officers counted down the days until they could see their families again, Alex had no wish to see his grandparents, and all his friends were serving in various locations. Or dead.

  Bob gazed levelly at Alex. ‘I’ve had a report that your Hurricane is too damaged to fix on the station, but it’s flyable. Tomorrow morning, you’re to fly it to No 1 CRU. I don’t want to see you back for a week.’

  ‘But…’ Alex paused. The Civilian Repair Unit was in Oxford. Evie was in Oxford.

  He rose and saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

  If he couldn’t join the hunt for the saboteur, he would find Evie and fulfil the promise he’d made to himself when he’d thought he was going t
o die. He wouldn’t return to Amberton until he’d told Evie he loved her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Evie had hoped the train journey to Oxford would give her the space to work out what to say to her mother. However, the train was so crowded and noisy, she hadn’t been able to think at all. By the time she climbed off the bus on Hollow Way, her stomach was tied in knots. Her feet dragged as she turned into George Street and saw the familiar green gate halfway up the street. She didn’t have a key to the front door, so she squeezed through the narrow side passage and into the back garden.

  Her mother was standing outside the back door, running clothes through the ancient mangle. She had her back to Evie, and as the handle of the mangle made an ear-splitting shriek, she obviously hadn’t heard her shut the gate.

  Evie stood and watched her in silence for a moment. Dora seemed to have shrunk in the intervening months. She was hunched over the mangle, wearing a faded pinny, her salt-and-pepper hair scraped into a straggly bun. She looked tired and old. A wave of sorrow swept over Evie at the sight of her brisk, active mother so reduced.

  She slung her kit bag down and took off her tunic. ‘Here, let me do that, Mum. You look all in.’

  Dora had been about to wring a tattered pillowcase. She dropped it onto the paving slabs and straightened with a gasp. ‘Evie!’ She looked her daughter up and down, her mouth working. ‘Oh, look at you, all grown up.’

  She seized Evie in a hug. Evie returned it, swallowing back the tightness in her throat. Dora’s damp hands left clammy patches on the back of Evie’s shirt, but Evie didn’t care. For now she could forget her anger and simply enjoy the comfort of being held by her mother again. ‘It’s good to be back.’

  Dora eventually released Evie and stepped back, subjecting her daughter to an assessing gaze. ‘You’re too thin. What have they been doing to you?’