‘They come in like this,’ Joy brings an arm down in a slow swoop. ‘Easy as.’
But I hear something else, something I heard in the WAAF barracks. One in ten pilots are killed. And they already know how to fly.
Joy takes me to the female locker room, where I hang my coat and hat in the wooden locker, before leading me on. She has a cheerful appearance, almost carefree. She is taller than me, but not by more than a few inches. No taller than Flo.
‘Here’s the Met Office.’ Joy points to the wall, where a blackboard lists the day’s forecast – including everything from wind strength to cloud base to visibility. The forecaster sits in the corner, her desk covered in charts.
‘A glance at that will tell you if you’re likely to get a job, or if you should run for a place at the billiards table. Come on, I’ll show you the Mess.’
I fight the urge to walk in tight single file, instead moving slowly, almost at a stroll. I will not march.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Three months.’ She smiles. ‘Here it is. Where you’ll get your tea. Honestly, I don’t know how you all drink so much of it.’
There is a smile in her words. She hasn’t been here long enough. She’ll come round.
‘Lunch is in here, unless you’re flying, then you take a bag with you.’ We reach the crew room and Joy spreads her hands wide. ‘And here’s where you’ll spend most of your time.’
It is 9.30 a.m., and the room is filled. Many people are crowding around a table, a second away from pushing and shoving.
‘Chits,’ Joy says, as the pilots rummage through papers. ‘The delivery orders. Type of ship, from where to where.’
A woman turns, face flushed and happy, clutching a sheet of paper. ‘Connecting Hurricanes!’
Another pilot turns, her face curdled.
‘What? What did you get, Helen? Taxi?’
‘Worse. Bleeding Swordfish.’
The shocked looks are confirmation of this dire news.
‘Most of what we do here is transport aircraft. Nothing too dangerous,’ Joy says. ‘But a Swordfish is an open cockpit, and in this cold...’
We move into the room with its large windows, big cushioned sofas, and leather armchairs. Newspapers lie untouched on the table – they are small, usually only four pages, on account of the paper rationing. Pilots push past us, parachutes slung over shoulders. No one says hello to Joy – or to me – or even takes any notice of us.
‘Taxi planes are off at 10 a.m., so those pilots are off to check the weather along the route they’re headed, and to pack up whatever kit they need. Some will fly back in new planes, a few will arrive in cars, and some will be back on tomorrow’s train. Others you might not see for weeks, as they’re stationed at various airfields. You understand?’
I nod. The ‘transport’ is not people, but planes. Planes needed elsewhere.
‘Sometimes you’ll take a stooge,’ she says, using the term for passenger. ‘Sometimes we fly as stooges with other pilots. Mainly, though, we fly an aircraft to where it needs to be.’
Sounds simple enough. Except for the part where I fly a plane.
One step at a time. Elementary Flying Training School. Finish the training, earn your wings. The ATA is not a military organization, but they still have uniforms and officers’ ranks. No drills, at least. And no marching. And no scrubbing toilets.
But, of course, there is one truth that sticks in my throat. One in ten pilots die.
*
‘So those pilots are off to work. The others...’
I follow her gaze to the back of the room. Now that the departing pilots have gone, the atmosphere has shifted. Women lounge on chairs and tables, smoking cigarettes and playing blackjack. Music from The Strawberry Blonde plays on the gramophone. The roar of departing planes hangs over it all.
Backgammon and darts, and a heated game of billiards. Clouds of smoke fill the room, pushing you out as much as holding you in. A very different place from the WAAF break room.
No rules about make-up here. The women are glamorous in lipstick, with long fingernails, and sunglasses on the side tables. None of them even look tired. But they must be exhausted. Should I be wearing make-up?
‘They spend most days playing cards. Either waiting for a weather window to open up, or just enjoying a washout day,’ Joy says. ‘It never stops raining for two days together over here.’
I can tell already how these women will treat me – I will be ignored.
Amy Johnson was the first woman to fly solo to Australia. And she was the daughter of a fish merchant.
No need to worry. I remind myself of what Joy said about pilots being moved around so often that you hardly get to know them. Then again, Joy seems to know an awful lot about these pilots.
‘That’s Margaret Fairweather, the first woman to fly a Spit. Everyone calls her the Cold Front. I think the blonde one is called the Mayfair Minx in the papers. And Diana Gaines, another American pilot. From Kentucky, though.’
A thought suddenly occurs to me. ‘Where are all the male pilots?’
Joy shrugs. I’m not sure if her smile is sarcastic or pleased. ‘We get the odd RAF pilot. Most of them steer clear.’
Really? I think, amazed. They steer clear of the Mayfair Minx?
‘The RAF doesn’t love that we’re here. Women can’t handle planes and all that. Don’t go expecting any salutes, Cooper.’
Joy must see something in my look. ‘Don’t worry too much. The boys just need some time to adjust. In no time they’ll be cheering as you take off in a Spitfire.’
‘I’ve never even seen a Spitfire.’
‘It’s the hottest ship around, Cooper.’ Joy smiles. ‘And flying strange ships without any instruction and in the face of grumbling men – that’s what the ATA does.’
Wednesday, 3 March 1943
The Phoenix units have been completed. Not that it’s put Quarter in a less foul mood.
‘Now, the things you might have learned here – the things you think you’ve learned here – are never to pass your lips, do you understand?’
I’m not certain I could have lasted another day inside this frozen great concrete box, held as a prisoner by this roving bugger. Right knackered, thoughts shimmer and disappear. Bed would be wonderful.
‘Any hope of success in this war relies on you keeping your mouth shut. There are a thousand rumours, I hear them all – but you are not to add to them, or debate them, or even try to figure it out. Just do your job, keep your head down, and when it’s time for people to know – for the world to know – rest assured, they will know. And your mommy and your sweetheart will understand why you couldn’t tell them before. Does everyone understand me?’
A raving tosser, who wants us to keep his secrets. Which are what, exactly? That some day this thing will float off to Europe and, at the right moment, each compartment will fill with water, and drag the whole beast to the bottom of the sea to provide a foundation? Who am I going to tell that to? It’d be just as useful to tell Rogan.
I stand beside Lightwood in the cold air, waiting for the link between the docks to be reopened. We watch as the water from Greenland Dock pours in, filling South Dock.
‘Man’s a rotten bastard,’ Lightwood says.
I spit in agreement.
The Phoenix units are floated through the cut – with only nine inches of clearance – and into the Thames.
‘We’re going to push a great bloody harbour ahead of us?’ I mutter. ‘Hitler won’t see that coming.’
‘The harbours would come behind, of course,’ Lightwood shakes his head at my ignorance. ‘Beach landings will do little good if there’re no supplies behind them. The initial landing will secure the coast and allow us to set up the harbours.’
‘Sounds dead easy.’
‘No doubt the Germans have been busy gardening the coastal waters. They’ve had years to prepare for us coming. If we reach the beaches, they’ll be mined like anthills. The whole of every bea
ch, and the water leading up to it, will be fitted with explosives.’
Lightwood finishes his cigarette in silence. We watch as the Phoenix unit is towed downriver.
What happens now?
What can I do?
One thing is certain. We have to hurry up and get over there, whatever it takes. The news on the wireless last night has shocked everyone stiff. The Nazis have murdered so many Jews – thousands; tens of thousands.
There was some hopeful news at least. The Russians are pushing Hitler back across Russia. Now we must act.
I am not afraid to fight, but we are not like the Nazis. Everywhere, from the drunks at the pub to the Warders in the Tower, people tell stories about the Hitler Youth. They are armies, trained from childhood to fight to the death for their great leader. We are just – people. Lads from all over; many of who have never so much as seen a gun before joining up. Lightwood couldn’t fight his way out of a bag.
Churchill seems a fine enough bloke, but I’d just as soon not die for him. But I have to do something. I have to help.
*
‘Excuse me, sir.’ I knock on the open door; mechanically, my right hand swoops to my temple, palm out, and snaps back to my side.
‘Squire. No need to salute, boy. That’s only for the armed forces.’
‘Sir.’ I fight to keep my voice steady. ‘Now that the Phoenix unit is complete, sir, I was wondering... if there are any openings for the training battalion in Yorkshire? Even if they can’t take Lightwood, too. I will go alone.’
His eyes go wide and stay wide. Then he laughs. ‘You reckon they’d take you now? After you’ve turned them down? No one’s taking you till you’re eighteen, son. Better hope the war lasts. Plenty for you to do around here until then.’
I raise my hands just in time as he heaves a great empty bag into my arms.
‘Here’s a job for someone with your qualifications. Take this pack and have a run up to the chemist’s.’
‘The chemist’s, sir?’
‘On the High Street. Ask them for two hundred French letters.’
‘Sir?’
‘Condoms, Squire. You know what those are, yes?’
‘Of course, sir.’
He is smiling – smirking – at me. ‘Of course. Well, on you go. Take your pal Lightwood, if you need to have him around so badly.’
I look from the bag to the quartermaster. Surely this is just a big joke. What do I do now? Shift is over – I am too hungry for such a ridiculous task.
‘But sir... why, sir?’
‘You ever fire a gun when the barrel’s hot?’ The smirk is still there. Before I can respond, though, it is gone. ‘The gun, lad, for Christ’s sake, I’m talking about the gun. You have to keep it dry, keep the barrel dry, or there’s no sense carrying the bloody thing around. You understand? Other boys have elected to fight, and you can at least do your bit to help them.’
I can’t say no to him, but I can’t say yes, either. I just turn and walk off in a daze. I feel his eyes like a shove. Right, I’m going.
French letters? I’ve only ever kissed two girls – Anna, and Elsie behind the curtain wall – in my whole life. Now I have to march into a chemist’s shop and ask for two hundred French letters. I turn on to Wapping High Street and halt, stopped by the distant sound of girls’ laughter.
I can’t do it.
Not on the High Street.
I stare, lost, the cold trapped inside my skin. A bus pulls up, headed north. Good enough. I join the short queue, enjoying the brief warmth of the bodies, and hop on.
*
Quartermaster is a bollocks. He’s just making up jobs until work on the next building project starts at the docks. He’s just trying to make me miss dinner. If only condoms were on the ration list – then I couldn’t possibly order so many at once. Will I need my ID card?
But I can’t quit. As much as I’d like to, I can’t just stay on this bus for ever.
On my next holiday, I am getting as far away from the docks as I can get. I’d even go back to Disley, and spend the whole time with the barking-mad folk there. Dad dragged us to Disley after a direct hit on the Tower last year. Both him and Mum moved up to that forgotten village, and it was a terrible two weeks before I sneaked away on the train. Dad might’ve been angry but there’s no doubt he was itching to get back to his armour and his old books. Mum, too, though you wouldn’t have known it from her heavy looks.
Did that say ‘Bethnal Green’? I fly out of my seat, push the stop button.
Of course we are in traffic and it is a bleeding long wait before I can get off the bus. I will definitely be late for dinner. I need to find a chemist’s and hop straight back on the bus home.
The grim, broken street stares back at me. Many of the destroyed flats have stayed destroyed, the fires long burned out but the sites simply abandoned. I am a fool. It will take me an hour to get back. The sun is going down. Oh, Quarter is going to love this. At least I can see a chemist’s, just across the road, and it looks like it’s still open.
Maybe this will work out after all.
*
I march from the chemist’s, my face bright red, as the door locks behind me. A huge bag of condoms in my hand.
I kept my voice as low as I could, but of course the man repeated it louder – ‘you mean condoms?’ – and of course the other worker was a young girl, and neither of them could hide their thoughts. What does this boy need with two hundred condoms?
Lightwood will never let this one go.At least they don’t know me here. I’ll never come back to this chemist’s. If I was still in Disley, everyone and their cat would know all about this by breakfast.
I wait at the bus stop as darkness settles. Next door, the cinema has just emptied, people filing out from the early show. At least they are enjoying themselves.
The bus pulls up, seizing to a halt. But just as the queue inches towards it, a low moan rises up all around us.
Air raid. My neck cranes upwards.
The siren wails. Any unidentified aircraft sets it off. And the Jerries are craftier than ever now; deliberately de-synchronizing their engines to fool the anti-aircraft sound detectors.
The bus driver ushers all of the passengers off. We all move as one, joined quickly by the still blinking cinema goers. A pub across the road sends a dozen more towards us. All of us headed in the same direction. Bethnal Green Tube Station.
My luck’s not used up just yet. Bethnal Green, no longer used as a station, is fitted to shelter 10,000 people, with beds for almost half of those. The safest place in the city.
People move together. Calm as things are these days, they all remember the nightly bombings. This was as much a part of their routine as getting up for work. Many still spend their nights in the shelter, just in case the bombing returns. They’ve basically taken to living underground.
Yesterday’s wireless said we were planning a heavy raid on Berlin this morning. Hitler always wants revenge. Those bloody V1 posters. Self-propelled missiles are impossible, of course, but...
Other people would have heard the news, too. Even now, even after months without constant attacks on London, fear is never far away. They’ve seen too much to doubt even the wildest threat.
A crowd, mostly kids, rushes from the nearby arcade to join the growing queue. Others straggle behind, emptying out from offices, houses, pubs, cafés, the baked-potato stall. I step inside the shelter and immediately feel safer, even just in the ticketing area. The dull light of the single bulb shows the size of the crowd already inside. It will be busy once we get down there.
‘Careful,’ I say. A mother clutching her baby burrows into the crowd. The crowd bugles inward, and she is gone. Where are the bloody wardens?
I push in with them towards the stairs. If I had a uniform they would not be in such a panic. The stairs are ten feet wide. No rail in the centre, just a flood of people squeezing down the steps.
‘Be calm, there is plenty of space for—’
People surge ah
ead. I give up, surrender to the tide. Once we’re on the platform, I can help regain some order. Oh yes, that is just what this situation needs – a builder out shopping for condoms. Of course they’ll all listen to me.
Bang. Bodies turn in alarm.
A man is yelling, blowing a whistle and yelling. I can see him when I twist back, just at the entrance. A policeman. Thank Christ.
‘Be calm! Stay calm! It is not bombs. Not bombs!’
‘Bombs!’
‘Bombs!’
The whistle blows down the voices. ‘It is the guns at Victoria Park. The Victoria Park guns! They are the new rocket guns. Our guns! Not bombs!’
‘Bomb’ seems to be the only word getting through. He is making things worse.
Bang.
Another heave, and I lose sight of the policeman in the mass of people. We are shoved again, gaining another stair, but then halt sharply. We need to get to the escalator; to the tunnel.
A blockage up front. Someone hits me, hard, in the lower back. I try to turn – ‘watch yourself, mate’ – but instantly another shoulder pushes me, into the body in front of me. Bodies are piling up, pressing close, forcing themselves inside. I am moving forward, and for a moment my feet are not touching the ground. A face twists back, a look of fear. More people are trying to enter the station.
I am squeezed, the bag falls from my hand. The condoms.
‘Move right down along the stairs! Move down!’ I call out, and others echo my cry, with increasing volume and desperation. The combined weight is heavy, crushing, like a bloody mountain falling on us.
Move!
Above the siren is still wailing. And people are still pushing down, more and more people, forcing their way on to the stairs, pushing towards the tunnel.
Again the rocket gun fires.
Too many people have tried to turn right to the platform. It has been blocked with stuck bodies. No one is getting inside the tunnel. We are just being pushed together, pushed down, pushed forward. Forward into what?
There is nothing ahead but a brick wall. I twist back to see the huge mass of people looming over us, tangled and toppling.
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