by Murray Pura
Billy reddened a second time. “No.”
Emma set a cup of tea in front of Jane with a plate of crumpets.
“Thanks awfully, Aunt Em, I’m starving.” She began to eat a crumpet with one hand and tipped cream into her tea with the other. “If it’s a busy day we really are running about. I have to keep my mind absolutely on the numbers they’re giving me for my sector.” She made a face as she chewed and drank and swallowed. “Not easily done since I have the King’s Cross and Pickering Green squadrons to look after—with James at Pickering Green and Peter at the other. I send up a dart of a prayer and make every effort to concentrate on the task at hand. After all, the prayer and the plotting are the best ways I can help them.”
Emma smiled, holding her cup in both her hands. “I should think so. Do the boys have much to say in their letters to you?”
Jane laughed. “Oh, much to say! When are either of the twins at a loss for something to say? I so hope they’ll both get leave soon. I know it hasn’t been long since they’ve been posted, barely more than a week, but I miss them more than I can tell you.”
“I know you do.”
Jane winked at Billy while she ate. “When are you going to go up and give your brothers a hand? I’m sure they could use the help.”
Billy looked at his mother. “As soon as the recruiting sergeant gives me leave.”
“There’s plenty of time,” his mother replied. “We’ve been through all that. You’re still young.”
“How young are you, Billy?” Jane was spreading butter on a crumpet. “Seventeen? Eighteen?”
“I’m twenty.”
“Twenty? When did that happen? You still look as young as Matt and Ramsay.”
His face went crimson for the third time. “I’m not.”
His mother reached over and squeezed his hand. “It’s the ginger hair and freckles. Still gives him that boyish look.”
Billy’s color deepened.
“Oh, in time he’ll be a flier like his brothers.” Jeremy leaned back in his chair. “Then Jane will see his squadron listed on the Eleven Group wall and be shooting prayers heavenward for him just like she does for his brothers.”
Jane dusted her hands off and winked again. “Won’t that be a treat, Billy?” She put her cap back on her head and stood up. “Well, I’m off. I don’t want Air Vice Marshal Park sending the Coldstream Guards after me. Ta, Aunt Em, and thanks for tea. All the best, Billy. Your day will come.”
Jeremy got to his feet and put his arm around her shoulders. “Thanks for all that you do, Jane.”
“All that I do? You mean at Uxbridge or for Peter and James?”
“Both.”
“I wish I could do more.”
August 12, 1940
Dear Peter and James,
I am writing this note to both of you—exactly the same note in exactly the same handwriting. God bless you—I love you, I pray for your safety, and I’m so proud of both of you. Your leave can’t come soon enough for me. I so look forward to a flick and a meal and a good chat. You’re always in my thoughts.
Much love,
Your Jane
August 15, 1940
Operations bunker, RAF Hillingdon, Uxbridge
The headphones crackled in Jane’s ears. “Junkers 87s. Twenty plus. Altitude twelve thousand feet, that’s angels one twelve. I’ll have the bearing in a moment.”
“Yes, thank you, I have that,” Jane responded into her mouthpiece. “Junkers 87s. Twenty plus. Twelve thousand feet.”
“They’re after the airfields again. This lot is going after Pickering Green.”
Cold came quickly into Jane’s hands and chest. “I have that. The Ju 87s have set a course for Pickering Green.”
“I have more information. Make that fifty plus. Luftflotte Three.”
“Fifty plus, thank you, I have it.”
“They’re being covered by fighter planes at twenty thousand feet.”
“Enemy fighters at twenty thousand feet. How many?”
“One moment. Messerschmitt Bf 109s. Twenty plus.”
“Bf 109s, twenty plus, twenty thousand feet.”
Jane plucked at two blocks and slid pieces of paper into their slots with the correct numbers of the enemy formations. The color on the tags indicated the time the information was relayed to her according to the minute hand of the sector clock on the wall. The clock was marked with red, yellow, and blue triangles, one after the other, each triangle representing a different five-minute segment of time. Glancing at the clock she selected red. In moments she was pushing the wooden blocks with their colored tags over the map with her pool cue, a magnetic rake with a flat tip. She moved them in a northerly direction from the coast of France and over the Channel toward Kent and Pickering Green.
“We have more enemy aircraft, Ju 87s, Luftflotte Three, thirty plus, same bearing, fifteen thousand feet.”
“Ju 87s, thirty plus, fifteen thousand feet, same bearing.”
“They are also covered by Messerschmitt Bf 109s, twenty plus, twenty thousand feet, angels two zero, same bearing.”
“Roger, Messerschmitt Bf 109s, twenty plus, twenty thousand feet, same bearing.”
She looked up at the sector clock. The minute hand was moving through a five-minute segment with a yellow triangle. She tagged her blocks with yellow. Then she used her rake to push the block indicating the Ju 87 dive-bombers and the block marking the Me 109 fighters into the county of Kent.
So many bombers going after Pickering Green. Get off the ground, James. Don’t let them catch you at takeoff. Please, God, get them up.
Rows of lights blinked over her left shoulder.
She turned to look at a huge board that covered one wall. It displayed the name of air bases in 11 Group and the squadrons at each base. The lights made it clear whether the squadrons were in the air, landing, refueling, or fighting.
Both squadrons at Pickering Green were at READINESS, which meant airborne in five minutes.
One was a squadron of Hurricanes, another a squadron of the new Spitfires.
In his last letter James had told her he’d been transferred to Spitfires along with Kipp, who now commanded the Spitfire squadron at Pickering Green while another officer had taken over the Hurricanes.
God, go with him. God, give him wings. Give him eyes as sharp as a hawk’s.
A different row of lights winked over the words LEFT GROUND.
Her headphones crackled. “Ju 87s, thirty plus, fifteen thousand feet.”
“Roger, I have that, Ju 87s, thirty plus, fifteen thousand feet.”
She took a quick look at the sector clock. The minute hand was in a blue triangle. She tagged the wooden block with blue.
The officers looking down would see the red blocks, the yellow blocks, and now the blue blocks, and realize instantly the bombers were descending on Kent and Pickering Green in waves five minutes apart.
A row of lights flashed—ENEMY SIGHTED.
These were the dive-bombers with crooked wings, the Stukas. These were the ones Ben and Kipp had said used sirens to sound more frightening whenever they dived. They had devastated the towns and cities of France and Holland and Belgium and had shattered the Polish Air Force on the ground.
But our boys are up. My James is up. They can fight back. Even if they have to take on the Me 109 fighters at the same time.
Twenty minutes went by as she moved the counters into Sector C, Kent, East Sussex, and West Sussex.
She caught a glimpse of lights going on at King’s Cross, where Peter was stationed—ENEMY SIGHTED. All four squadrons were up and engaged, including the Hurricanes commanded by Ben Whitecross. That was the squadron Peter flew with.
The Pickering Green lights came on for both of its squadrons—LANDED AND REFUELING. James was back on the ground with Kipp.
“But how easy is it to land after all those attacks?” she asked under her breath. “How badly off are the runways?”
More bomber formations were moving in on the airf
ields. More on Pickering Green, Biggin Hill, and Hawkinge in Sector C. More on King’s Cross, Tangmere, and Westhampnett in Sector A. She imagined the black ranks of bombers in the blue sky of a fine English summer day. Imagined the Stukas diving with the howl her uncles had told her about. The earth heaving and splitting apart. The Spitfires and Hurricanes pouncing on them. The yellow and red flames and the greasy black smoke Kipp had once described of aircraft burning and tumbling through the air.
“Ju 88s, thirty plus, fifteen thousand feet. Escort of Me 110s, twenty plus, twenty-two thousand feet.”
“I have that.” Jane glanced at the clock and chose yellow-colored tags. “Junkers 88s, thirty plus, fifteen thousand feet. Me 110s, twenty plus, twenty-two thousand feet.” She pushed the wooden counters across the map toward Pickering Green.
This is nothing like the other days. The attacks aren’t stopping. It’s an onslaught.
Lights. James’s squadron at Pickering Green—ORDERED TO STAND BY. They would be scrambling into their airplanes. The row of lights suddenly blinked out as another row of lights came on—AT STANDBY. James and Kipp and the other men were in their cockpits and could be airborne in two minutes. Then, in rapid succession, lights flashed one after another on different headings—ORDERED ON I PATROL, LEFT GROUND, IN POSITION, and DETAILED TO RAID. She had scarcely returned to her board before the four round lights came on at ENEMY SIGHTED. Glancing at King’s Cross she saw lights over all its squadrons—AT STANDBY.
“You need to take a break, Jane. You’ve been on your feet for hours, and there’s no sign of the enemy letting up.”
Jane shook her head. “I’m fine, Sergeant Turnbull.”
The tall woman with short iron-gray hair and dark eyes took the rake from Jane’s hand. “I need you sharp. Get a cup of tea and put your feet up. Report back in an hour.”
“But I have—”
“That’s an order, Corporal. Shirley’s here and will take over immediately.”
Jane looked at the floor. “Yes, Sergeant.”
The woman took her arm. “I know your beaus are up there. Both of them. Now you remember they’re fighting for their lives while they’re fighting for our lives. They need you at your best if they’re going to survive. Understood?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Carry on.”
Jane went into a small room where two other WAAFs were smoking cigarettes and chatting. They nodded at Jane and carried on. She poured herself a tea and helped herself to a few biscuits, sitting at the far side of the table from the other two women.
“It’s building to something, I can tell you that,” said the one with red hair. “I heard one of the officers say there have been over five hundred sorties today. Five hundred! And we’re nowhere near done.”
The blonde flicked the ash from the tip of her cigarette into a small tray. “Does your man think the invasion’s bound to be soon?”
“He does. Everything points to that, doesn’t it?”
“But we don’t have enough soldiers, do we?”
“Us and the Canadians. That’s it. They’ll put up a fight. But it won’t be enough. The Germans have millions of troops. And their planes will be bombing our cities, won’t they?”
The blonde drew in on her cigarette while the redhead drank her tea.
“A lot of our boys have gone down,” said the redhead. “Poor lads.”
“But a lot of Jerry too, surely.”
“He can afford it, can’t he? He’s got thousands more waiting in the wings. We have a few. Just a few.”
Jane got up and left the room, cup in hand, and walked the seventy steps to the surface. Armed soldiers nodded at her as she went outside. The sky was a perfect blue and the sun a perfect gold. She walked away from the bunker a few yards, turned her face up into the light, and closed her eyes. The warmth felt good on her skin.
I suppose German girlfriends are praying for their pilots. And here I am praying for mine. Well, it’s not as if I’m You and You’re my servant and I can force You to do my bidding. I can’t bend You to my wishes. It’s ‘Your will be done,’ isn’t it, not mine? But is it really Your will for England to be conquered? Is it really Your will for the Nazis to rule Europe? Is it Your will that Peter or James die? Or that any man die today? Yet hundreds are already dead. So what does it mean when we pray that Your will be done? Does that mean everything that happens is Your will? Or do things happen that aren’t Your will at all? And if they aren’t Your will, whose are they?
She went a little farther and sat down on the grass. The tea was getting cold, so she finished it.
I’m not a theologian like Uncle Albrecht. I read his book on suffering, but it left me with more questions than it answered. You may be an infinite being, but You can’t answer all the prayers of the German families and all the prayers of the British families. You already haven’t. There will be mothers and wives and girlfriends weeping on both sides of the Channel tonight, isn’t that right? I only ask for James and Peter to live. Or if the way war works doesn’t make that possible, I ask for one of them to live. I’m not going to say which one. I want James to marry me. But I want Peter to stand with us too. If I were very brave I’d ask You to give me the strength to bear up under whatever happens and not just ask for their lives. But I don’t want that sort of strength because I don’t want something to happen that requires strength like that. I’m just being honest.
“Jane.”
She opened her eyes.
It was Sergeant Turnbull.
She dropped her cup and jumped to her feet. “Yes.”
“Jenny’s taken ill. I need you to replace her. I’m sorry. You’ve just had the half hour.”
“That’s fine. I’m all right.” She bent and picked up the cup. “I’ll be right there.”
“There hasn’t been any sort of letup. The bombers are coming in droves.”
Jane followed her down the long flight of steps to the underground bunker. She put on a headset, checked that it was working properly, and stood near Shirley, who was pushing bombers and fighter escorts into Sector A and King’s Cross.
“Ju 87s. Thirty plus. Fifteen thousand feet.”
“Yes,” responded Jane. “I have that. Ju 87s. Thirty plus. Fifteen thousand feet.”
“I have the bearing.”
“Thank you. Relay the bearing, please.”
She listened as she was inserting the proper numbers and colors of paper onto the wooden counter. Then she pushed it into Sector C at Biggin Hill and Pickering Green.
ENEMY SIGHTED was lit for both squadrons at Pickering Green and three at King’s Cross.
Jane worked until the evening, not standing down until a force of Me 109s and Me 110s prowling London’s suburbs was dealt with by the RAF. Messages from Pickering Green and King’s Cross were handed to her after she had left the plotting room, one from James and the other from Peter. Both told her they were all right. Peter said he had helped shoot down a Ju 87, a Stuka. Feeling much lighter in her spirits than she had in hours, she walked briskly to her flat. Both her roommates were out. She brought some Colby cheese from the icebox, made some cheese toast, and fell asleep in her bedroom with her uniform on.
“Air Vice Marshal Park will be hosting the prime minister today, Corporal Fordyce,” Sergeant Turnbull told her the next morning. “If you glance that way you’ll see the pair of them sitting there above us.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“The RAF flew more than nine hundred sorties yesterday. First reports had more than one hundred and eighty enemy aircraft shot down. Now we are saying it is closer to seventy-five or one hundred.”
“What about our losses?”
“The Germans are making extravagant claims. But our sources tell us thirty to forty. Lympne was badly hit and cannot be used as a forward stage for our planes any longer. RAF Manston in Kent took a blow—sixteen men lost, two Spitfires destroyed on the ground. Pickering Green was heavily damaged but they kept filling up the bomb craters and sticking
to their missions. RAF Martlesham was knocked about by a flight of Me 109s. It shan’t be back in service for two or three days. Ju 87s took out our radar stations at Dover, Rye, and Foreness. I should be grateful if they leave our air bases and radar towers alone today. But I don’t think the enemy will be so obliging.” The sergeant nodded. “Try your best again today, Jane.”
“I shall do.”
By midmorning Jane was pushing several wooden counters toward Tangmere and King’s Cross once again. She scarcely noticed when the prime minister arrived and was surprised to see him hunched over in a seat above when she took a fifteen-minute break. Things intensified after that, and she never looked at him again. The enemy aircraft went after King’s Cross in waves. Lights rippled up and down the large squadron readiness board behind her. She was pushing the wooden counters into Kent as the Luftwaffe went after Pickering Green as aggressively as they had the day before.
“Ju 88s. Fifteen plus. Fifteen thousand feet.”
“I have that. Junkers 88s. Fifteen plus. Fifteen thousand feet.”
“Ju 87s. Same bearing. Ten plus. Twelve thousand feet.”
“Fighter escort. Me 110s. Fifteen plus. Twenty thousand feet. Angels two zero. Same bearing.”
“Roger. Ju 87s. Ten plus. Twelve thousand feet. Me 110s. Fifteen plus. Twenty thousand feet.”
She pushed the wooden blocks into Sector C and toward Pickering Green.
Lights came on and off and on again.
ORDERED TO READINESS. ORDERED TO STAND BY. LEFT GROUND. ORDERED TO RAID. ENEMY SIGHTED.
Finally the voices in her headset went silent.
“You may stand down, Corporal Fordyce.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Please join me in my private room.”
Jane followed Sergeant Turnbull into her office.
“Please shut the door, Corporal, and take a seat.”
Jane closed the door. “Thank you, I’ll stand.”
Sergeant Turnbull did not sit either. “I know the brothers at Pickering Green and King’s Cross have been on your mind a great deal.”
Jane was at attention. “I don’t let it interfere with my work. I concentrate on the information I’m given—”