The Light Over London

by Julia Kelly

  He dipped his head, but not so fast that she missed the little smile that played over his lips. “I’d be happy to help, Cara. That’s what friends do.”

  As he pulled down the gate and secured the locks, she wondered if friends was what she really wanted to be.

  19 August 1941

  Another long night at the top of the Ack-Ack Shack, as all of us have taken to calling our little patch of roof. The sirens went just after nine tonight, but there were no planes spotted over our part of the Thames, even though we could see the orange glow of the fires to the south near Croydon.

  It seems strange, but those nights are worse than the ones when we see bombers flying right into range. We spend all our time on alert, knowing that at any moment Mary could yell out the name of a German plane and we’ll have to jump into action. There’s no time for hesitation when seconds mean the difference between a direct hit and a far-off miss. Still, it can make for long nights and frayed nerves. It’s those times Charlie says she wishes we were allowed to smoke, “damn the RA and ATS regulations.”

  We could’ve all done with a drink by the time the sun came up this morning. Mary was exhausted, and Williams and Hatfield’s teasing of everyone had become a little too pointed. When Charlie snapped at them, they set about sulking, and then Lizzie tried to sing and Cartruse told her off. As for me—well, I was in my own foul mood.

  It was yesterday’s letter from Paul that set me off. I still can’t believe the gall of him.

  16 August 1941

  My darling,

  I must say, I’m surprised and disappointed that it’s been over a week since I’ve had a letter from you. I know you’ve made your journey from your training camp to your new post, but surely you could’ve found time to write to me if you’d really tried. It’s enough to make a man resent this war because it’s turning his girl’s head.

  I depend on your letters, darling. Knowing that you’re waiting for me gives me the comfort I need to climb into the cockpit day after day. It’s what all of us fliers rely on, but maybe I misjudged the depths of your feeling for me.

  Perhaps it’s best then that I can’t come to London. I can’t say much other than we’re being sent on a mission and all leave has been revoked. No exceptions.

  He wrote more but I can hardly hold my pen straight because I’m shaking from anger. How could he question that I care for him when I pour myself into every one of my letters? I’ve been writing him every day for months, while he’s the one who writes in fits and spurts. For two weeks I’ll receive long, loving letters that tell me how much he adores me and wants to see me again, and then for a week nothing. I accepted this because I knew he was flying and I was training, yet now that I’m on active assignment I’m not allowed to lapse while I’m changing bases and shooting down bombers? Sometimes I wonder if, for all his fretting about how dangerous this job is, he thinks of Ack-Ack Command as nothing more than a sewing circle. If only he knew that yesterday a fighter’s bullet hit so close that I found brick dust in my hair back in the canteen.

  I’m so furious I could scream!

  20 August 1941

  I wrote Paul back and told him that if he has so little faith in me, perhaps he should find another girl to write to. One who isn’t a gunner girl and can stay at home, doing nothing but pine for him. I told him that he was acting like a man who wants to infuriate his sweetheart so much that she breaks things off.

  It felt good to write the words, my half of a delayed argument. But just like after an argument, I’m now having doubts about what I said, wishing I could take it back. I feel ill wondering what he’ll write back. If he writes back.

  21 August 1941

  No sirens tonight. We spent our shift in the makeshift mess we’ve created in an old office just off the stairs of the Ack-Ack Shack. There’s an electric fire and a gas ring so we can heat water for tea. Williams, who is quite the card shark, has taught us poker to go along with the game of gin some of us girls were already playing. We play for the biscuits we’re issued at the end of every shift, saving them up for the next night’s game. Nigella is turning out to be a brilliant student and ends every night with a pile of biscuits in front of her, although Cartruse steals them as soon as her back is turned, claiming he’s always hungry.

  Our radio operator still hasn’t appeared. And we’ve had no replacement for Bombardier Barker yet either. The RA and the ATS seem to be content to leave us in the hands of Captain Jones. He’s not a bad sort.

  No letter from Paul. I know it would be too soon, but I still jumped when Mary came around with our post.

  24 August 1941

  No letter from Paul today.

  25 August 1941

  What have I done?

  26 August 1941

  He wrote to me. Toward the bottom there are spots where the ink is smeared, as though he was writing so fast he didn’t stop to let it dry before folding it up into its envelope.

  23 August 1941

  My darling,

  I received your letter and I realized what a brute and a fool I’ve been. How could I doubt your devotion? I’ve neglected you horribly, and I was feeling the sting of that, wondering if you’d forgotten me for another man. Maybe one of the officers stationed in London or one of the ones on leave. And I can’t help wondering if the men you work with are in love with you. Of course they are. How could they not be?

  I know it’s no excuse, but I behaved badly because I miss you so much. Learning that I would be unable to take leave was a blow, and I lashed out. It’s easier sometimes to convince myself that you don’t truly care for me—that you write your letters because you pity a pilot who is in too deep to understand that our time together in Cornwall was just your way of offering a bit of comfort during this war. Nothing more.

  You see, without you, darling, it feels as though a part of me is missing. I think about our afternoon drinking champagne at that little hotel on the cliffs above the beach and the times we sat in the cinema together, so happy just to be holding hands. But those memories alone aren’t enough to keep me warm when I’m flying. Knowing what your lips taste like is no longer enough. I need to feel them against mine again and so much more.

  It’s a cruel trick of fate to find the woman you want in a little village hall in Cornwall, only to be sent away again. If I had my way, I’d wrap you in cotton wool and send you off to safety in the country with my parents.

  All I can do is pray that soon I’ll be able to take my leave so that I can travel to London and kiss you again. If you’ll forgive me.

  With all my love,

  Paul

  I teared up reading his letter, and I had to stop and compose myself twice. He’s never once told me his worries that I’ll meet another man or that this has all just been a fling I don’t have the courage to let go of. If he had, I could have reassured him by telling him the truth. I love him—I truly do—and it hurts to think that he doubts that.

  I’ll write to him and let him know he’s forgiven. I only wish I could say the words to him.

  14

  LOUISE

  It wasn’t just nights in the Ack-Ack Shack that kept B Section busy. Afternoons were occupied with debriefs and lectures and constant retraining to keep them sharp. Therefore, three weeks had passed before the ATS and the RA granted B Section twenty-four hours’ leave, and when it came, there was no question that Charlie, Vera, and Louise would go into town.

  They giggled all the way on the bus from Woolwich to Shoreditch and then to the tube station, sobering only when they saw the long lines of people already milling around waiting for the gates to open so they could spread out over the platforms in a bid for shelter that night.

  They disembarked at Monument and walked until they reached St. Paul’s. No matter where Louise looked, London was in a state of destruction and repair. Some bomb sites lay fallow, stubborn buddleias blooming as their roots clung to what little soil was scattered over the remnants of houses. On other lots just a few houses away, men climbed up
and down ladders to fix roofs, board up windows, and try their best to make the structures sound again before the biting chill of autumn swept through the city.

  Still, despite the constant reminders of war, Charlie and Vera did their level best to show Louise the sights and sounds of the capital.

  “If we weren’t in war and rationing wasn’t on, I’d insist we get ice creams,” said Vera, who walked on Louise’s right as the three girls, arms linked, strolled down the Embankment toward the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben looming in the distance.

  “We’ll just have to dream of all that,” said Charlie, sighing.

  They walked by a couple of soldiers who craned their necks to stare.

  “It’s like they can see right through the uniforms,” said Vera with a tug at her tunic.

  “All they’d get is an eyeful of passion killers,” said Charlie.

  “I wish the uniform was a little more . . . flattering,” said Louise.

  “I’ll never understand how those stuck-up Wrens wound up with better uniforms than we did,” said Charlie with a laugh tinged with equal parts jest and jealousy over the streamlined, flattering cut that the women in the navy’s auxiliary branch wore.

  “Vera should’ve been a Wren,” Louise teased.

  “You know I couldn’t go into the WRNS. I’m from an army family,” said Vera.

  “But they’re so posh, Miss Finishing School,” said Charlie.

  Vera’s snort was decidedly unladylike. “You mean the school that taught me nothing more than how to instruct servants and climb into and out of a car without letting my slip show?”

  “Destined to be a lady,” said Charlie.

  “Oh, what an ambition,” said Vera.

  “What would you rather do?” Louise asked.

  “I don’t know, if I’m being truthful,” said Vera. “I just know that I don’t want to sit on committees and hold teas for charities, like my mother.”

  “What about you, Charlie?” Louise asked.

  All at once, Charlie seemed to have been hit by an uncharacteristic bashfulness, as she toyed with the box camera that hung around her neck, one of her few possessions she’d hauled from Leicester to Oswestry to Woolwich.

  “You won’t laugh?” Charlie asked quietly.

  “It can’t be more far-fetched than what I’d want to do if this war wasn’t on,” said Louise.

  Charlie blinked up at her a couple of times and then smiled. “All right then. I’d want to be a journalist.”

  “You should’ve tried for it when they asked us what we wanted to do in Leicester,” said Vera.

  Charlie shook her head. “They give those jobs to the men.”

  “Not all of them,” said Louise.

  “She’s right. Things are changing,” said Vera.

  “You don’t think my idea’s silly then?” Charlie asked, and Louise’s heart broke just a little knowing that at some point in her life someone had told her friend that it was silly. Just like she’d been told time after time that Haybourne would be her life.

  “It’s not sillier than my idea,” Louise said firmly. “I thought that after this war I might go to California and see if there’s a university that will enroll me. I want to study maths.”

  “California?” said Charlie, eyes wide. “It seems like a whole world away.”

  “It is,” said Louise with a grin, “and wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Stop,” Charlie ordered and they all abruptly halted. She lifted her camera and pointed to a spot where the walkway jutted out in a little mock battlement. “Lou, go stand over there. I’m going to take your picture.”

  Louise rolled her eyes at Charlie’s bossiness but went to the spot anyway.

  “Now turn to face the water,” Charlie ordered. “Good. And look back at me. Tell me where it is in California you want to live.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, the breeze lifting up her hair.

  “Hollywood?” Vera asked.

  Louise shook her head. “My cousin Kate’s obsessed with Hollywood and I like the pictures enough, but I think I’d want to be somewhere close to the beach. I’ve lived by the water my entire life.”

  “I hope it’s cleaner than the Thames,” Vera said, peering over the edge.

  “Anything’s cleaner than the Thames,” Charlie muttered, still lining up the shot. “Can you laugh?”

  Louise did her best to titter while looking back over her shoulder.

  Charlie looked up. “Can you not look like you’re trying to make it through a painfully dull cocktail party?”

  “What am I supposed to laugh about then?” she asked.

  “Hatfield falling on his backside yesterday night,” said Vera, that snort sounding again. “I can’t believe he fell asleep standing up.”

  Louise’s chuckle was genuine this time. “It serves him right when he spent half the morning trying to flirt with one of the orderlies in the canteen.”

  “Says who?” Vera asked.

  “Says Cartruse,” said Louise.

  “Got it. You’re free to move about again, Lou.” Charlie wound the film to prepare it for the next shot that struck her fancy. “You and Cartruse are close, aren’t you?”

  Once she might’ve blushed, but she knew these women too well. They lived together, ate together, and fought together. There was little left to hide.

  “I warmed to him after he stopped being so rude in training camp. He’s a friend,” she said.

  “Just see to it that your flier doesn’t get the wrong idea,” said Charlie.

  “For him to get the wrong idea, he’d have to actually come to London,” Louise grumbled.

  Despite weeks of teasing that they’d all take their first twenty-four-hour leave in London to scatter to the wind and finally get some time away from one another, B Section all met up by silent agreement at the NAAFI near the Charlton Barracks that evening.

  Louise walked through the doors with Charlie and Vera, and the excited sound of service members letting loose rose up around her. A gangly man in an RAF uniform was playing “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm” on the piano, and a couple of Women’s Auxiliary Air Force girls in distinctive blue WAAF uniforms were leaning down to flirt with him.

  “There they are,” said Vera, tugging on Louise’s and Charlie’s arms and guiding them around a pack of marines to the tables where Mary, Nigella, Lizzie, and Hatfield sat.

  Dropping down into a chair, Charlie said, “I’m bushed. I think we walked half of London today.”

  “Cartruse and Williams are just fetching some tea,” said Mary.

  “I still don’t know how we wound up here rather than the pub,” Hatfield grouched.

  Lizzie batted Hatfield on the arm, and Nigella ducked her chin with a smile. Louise had noticed in the last few weeks that Nigella seemed to have progressed from having a hopeless crush on Hatfield to being mildly amused by him. Hopefully the sweetest member of their unit had decided Hatfield, who had an eye for every woman who crossed his path—except the gunner girls of B Section—was best left alone, but Nigella was timid enough that Louise didn’t dare ask. Vera, who had assumed something of the mother hen role, would hear it from Nigella herself soon enough.

  “The tourists are back.” Williams laughed as he bobbled a tray laden with teacups and glasses of juice in his effort to set it down.

  “Careful there!” Lizzie said, steadying his arm.

  “Where’s Cartruse?” Vera asked.

  Williams shrugged. “Talking to some bloke he knows from Putney. How was your adventure?”

  “It feels like we’ve seen all of London,” said Louise, “but these two tell me I haven’t even scratched the surface.”

  “It’s too bad so much of the city’s a wreck,” said Mary.

  “Even Buckingham Palace was hit,” said Nigella.

  “Do you think Princess Elizabeth will serve?” Lizzie asked.

  “She’s just fifteen. Let’s hope this war doesn’t last long enough to find out,” said Ve
ra.

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” said Williams, tapping out a cigarette from a paper-wrapped pack.

  “Oh, don’t smoke that around me,” said Mary, her eyes growing positively lustful. “It’s torture watching you.”

  “All I have to do is load the shells,” said Williams, the cigarette bouncing as he set a match to it and drew on it until the tip glowed orange. “No steady hands needed.”

  “I’m not even on the instruments,” said Mary with a sigh and a longing gaze at the cigarette.

  “It’s the booze I miss,” said Lizzie, inching her juice away from her. “Give me a good gin and tonic any day.”

  “Can we talk about something other than the vices we can’t indulge in anymore?” Vera asked.

  “Lou, how’s the famous Flight Lieutenant Paul Bolton?” Williams asked, flicking the end of his cigarette into an ashtray.

  “He’s fine, thank you,” she said primly.

  “You know, if you were really loyal to Ack-Ack Command, you’d be with an RA man, or at least an army man. Not a pilot. You’re really letting this side down,” said Williams.

  “Not this again,” muttered Charlie.

  “It’s too bad then that I know you too well ever to dream of being with you, Williams,” Louise said with a sweet smile.

  The rest of the table laughed, but before Williams could respond, a low, painful keening cut through the din. The NAAFI froze as a WAAF struggled up from a table near the back. Tears streamed down her face, and her mouth opened to the unearthly sobs. In her hands she clutched a slip of paper.

  “Oh my word,” said Mary, crossing herself.

  Two women at the WAAFs’ table closed around her, holding her up as she began to sag to the floor. In a flash, Cartruse appeared out of nowhere, sweeping the woman into a chair before she collapsed. He dropped to her side, his hands on the woman’s arms as she rocked back and forth, the sobs growing louder.

  “She had a telegram,” said Vera, her mouth a thin white line.

  Louise looked up and saw a WAAF officer standing at awkward, if respectful, attention, her eyes fixed on the grieving woman. She didn’t have to ask to know that the officer had been the one to deliver the news. Missing or killed in action. Either way, the woman had lost someone.