On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Any POWs coming?’ one of the girls asked, stunning her companions into silence.

  ‘Prisoners? My mother would have a fit. They’re the enemy.’

  ‘They’re human beings,’ said Rose. ‘My brother was a POW in Germany,’ and then she laughed.

  ‘What’s funny, Rose? Being a prisoner anywhere isn’t funny.’

  ‘Sorry, Ada, I was about to say my brother would have loved to go to a dance. He’s a good dancer. Then I remembered there weren’t any women in the camps and he wouldn’t have danced with a man for all the tea in China.’

  ‘Funny things, men,’ said Ada. ‘God bless them every one.’

  ‘My hair’ll do, girls. We’d better get off to the canteen or we won’t have time to have a decent meal before the lecture.’

  The lecture turned out to be three short films on the care and maintenance of military vehicles, including motorcycles and Churchill tanks.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Ella, as they walked home in the gathering darkness, ‘from the sublime to the ridiculous. You take it all in, Rose?’

  ‘Absolutely. I would love to drive one of those giants. The Churchill must be named after the Prime Minister, don’t you think? I’ll ask if I can work on one of them.’

  ‘You’re going to be lucky to get to work on a beaten-up old ambulance. Got any idea of the cost of one of them tanks?’

  Ada joined Ella in teasing Rose. ‘You joined the wrong branch of the service, chum, if you’re set on driving. Maintenance only gets to keep them running.’

  ‘I can hope.’

  They stopped walking so suddenly that they bumped into one another. ‘Didn’t you ask to be a mechanic, Rose?’

  ‘No, when I was joining I did ask about being a driver but when we took the tests the marks I got showed that maintenance is where I’m best suited. Aptitude, they call it.’

  ‘But you can drive?’

  ‘I told you that already, Vera. I’ve been driving since I was ten – tall for my age – but our dad and my brothers – had three of them – taught my sister and me how to repair and maintain.’ She stopped talking, wondering if it would be thought boastful to show her pride in her twin sister. In for a penny? No, another time.

  The women walked on without speaking, quite happy to be tired and to know that they had done their best all day and had, perhaps, improved their skills. They reached their Nissen hut and Ella startled Rose by breaking the silence.

  ‘Any of these gorgeous brothers of yours available?’

  ‘For what?’ Rose asked without thinking.

  The others laughed; when she realised what Ella meant, Rose laughed too. ‘Sam’s spoken for,’ she said. ‘No wedding yet, but soon, we hope. Phil’s available but he’s a sailor and you’ll have to catch up with him. We never know where he is until he’s been – if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Hope he’s nowhere near Malta. It’s really getting a battering. You don’t believe the Germans would really try to starve a whole island to death, do you?’

  ‘Awful things happen in wars – on every side,’ said Vera in the voice of someone who has seen and heard everything.

  ‘Put the kettle on, somebody,’ called a voice from a bed near the door, ‘and come in or stay out, but make up your minds.’

  Calling out apologies, they hurried inside, closing the door behind them. A few girls appeared to be asleep; others were sitting up in bed, reading magazines or writing letters.

  ‘Last one in makes the cocoa,’ called out the first voice, and soon the hut was quiet as some busied themselves with ironing uniforms, polishing shoes, or putting in curlers, making and serving cocoa to their roommates, just a few of the tasks that had to be done every night before sleep claimed them.

  Rose was drifting off when she heard a voice from a bed near her. ‘You told us about two of your brothers, Rose. Is the third one available?’

  The question brought back all the grief and sorrow caused by Ron’s death. How to answer? Pretend to be asleep? Would the question be asked again in the morning?

  ‘Afraid not, Ella. He’s unavailable.’

  ‘Shame, but who knows, maybe the answer to a maiden’s prayer will be at the dance on Saturday.’

  ‘Shut up and let people sleep or you’ll be unable to walk, never mind dance.’

  Rose did not recognise that harsh voice but she did agree with her sentiments. Happily so did Ella.

  Saturday came and the Nissen hut was full of excitement as the young women prepared to have a wonderful time at the rare social evening. Flora had persuaded Rose to take the pretty dress with her and, although she had worried that the dress might make her remember the embarrassing conversation with Stan, Rose had packed it – after all, she had no idea what she might be doing in the next few months. She did think of Stan, but that was because – at long last – a letter from him had arrived, and not because seeing the dress made her sad. She was delighted to have something both new and pretty to wear.

  Short and sweet, said Rose to herself as she reread Stan’s letter – a bit like you, Stan.

  Dear Rose,

  I got your letter. It was great to hear from you. I heard from a lad in my squad that ATS takes the same ranks as regular army so we’ll both be privates by now, unless you’ve gone to be an officer and if you have, and you should, I’ll be thrilled for you. I’ll even salute. That would be so easy, as I’ve looked up to you, in more ways than one, all my life. I’ve done basic training and found muscles I never knew I had. They’re quite glad I’m good at gym as there are competitions among the regiments. We’re shipping out, can’t tell you where even if I knew, which I don’t, but please write to me again, Rose.

  I really like being in the army and I hope you do too.

  Stan

  ‘Come on, girls, time to change from pumpkins to Cinderellas.’

  The young women, in varying stages of undress, looked at Ada and laughed.

  ‘Cinderella didn’t change into a pumpkin. It was a coach, all silver and gold and with red plush cushions.’ Ella heard what she was saying and stopped. ‘That didn’t come out right. The pumpkin changed into the coach. Cinderella didn’t change into anything, did she?’

  ‘A beautiful princess,’ answered at least three of the girls.

  ‘And this rich, handsome, completely unattached and therefore available prince fell in love with her,’ said Vera.

  ‘Absolutely. And, who knows, tonight may be the night. Anyone have any lipstick?’ Ella was rooting through a very untidy drawer as she spoke.

  Rose picked up her ATS shoulder bag and took two lipsticks out of it. ‘Almost gone,’ she said as she held them up. ‘Tangee Natural pink in this one and Theatrical Red in this, but I did find refills in Boots.’ She had been delighted to find the Tangee priced at one and ten, but her favourite red had been a whopping five shillings. ‘I get the Theatrical Red first, but you’re all welcome after that.’

  Vera offered the ubiquitous Evening in Paris toilet water, an offer eagerly accepted. Rose slipped on the pretty cotton dress with its sweetheart neckline and almost full green-and-blue patterned skirt. It was some time since material had been widely available, but there was enough in the skirt to make sure that there would be a discreet, tantalising glimpse of the two petticoats she was wearing with it, one white and the other blue. She smiled as she remembered her disappointment that Stan had not taken her dancing in it.

  Must have hurt my pride and not my heart, she decided, but she was quietly glad that she and Stan were still friends.

  She looked over at Vera, who had changed out of her uniform into a simple blouse and skirt.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ said Ella. ‘Destiny awaits.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s tall, dark and handsome, with no spots,’ said Ada, and the unmarried girls shrieked in pretended horror.

  The gym was already crowded when the women got there, and the noise from the band and conversations being conducted at a volume guaranteed to defeat the musicians was almost deafen
ing, sure proof that the evening was going well. There was no time to look for a table as each girl was whisked onto the floor almost before she had removed her coat. It was only after some time that a breathless Rose saw that Vera was not dancing and was sitting alone at a table. Rose excused herself from her over-eager partner and joined her roommate.

  ‘You’re too pretty not to have been asked to dance, Vera. May I ask why you’re not up on the floor?’

  Vera looked at her with suspiciously moist eyes and tried to smile. ‘Scruples, I suppose, Rose, and I am enjoying the music and watching all the dancers, really.’

  ‘I have scruples too, Vera. Bet you ten bob almost every person in the room has some.’

  ‘But they’re not all engaged – well, almost engaged – to a prisoner of war.’

  ‘A dance is just a dance, nothing more, and I’m sure that if we asked we’d find there’s someone bravely dancing here who is married to a prisoner of war.’

  Vera sniffed. ‘You don’t understand. You have absolutely no idea what it’s like to be waiting for someone. I promised James, I shouldn’t be here enjoying myself while who-knows-what’s happening to him.’

  She stood up as if preparing to leave, but Rose touched her hand. ‘Sit down for a minute, Vera, and we can have a beer or some cider. Look, there’s a friend of mine, Chrissy Wade. She’ll go to the bar for us.’

  Since Vera seemed to accept this, Rose waved frantically at Chrissy, who saw her, gave a happy smile and made her way over to join them.

  ‘Hello, this is fun, isn’t it? That music makes me feel as young as you two.’

  Rose introduced Vera and asked Chrissy if she would mind standing in the line to get drinks for all three of them while she and Vera had a private conversation. Chrissy was happy to help and, when she had gone, Rose turned again to Vera. ‘You said “almost engaged”. So you’re not engaged to your prisoner of war but you love him and he loves you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Now what? Rose felt totally inadequate. Was this what Stan had meant when he said she spoke like a man? Did that mean she also thought like one, for she could not think of a single thing to say to cheer up the other girl. As always in times of stress, she found herself taking a deep breath. ‘Vera, you don’t think you love him?’

  ‘That’s what’s so awful. I know I don’t love him – if loving means going all soft inside like when I see Jimmy Stewart at the pictures. I never get like that with James, but we’ve been paired off for years and he enlisted when he was seventeen and begged me to save myself for him and I promised, and I think that means I shouldn’t want to dance with other men, especially since poor James is in a POW camp. He’s only twenty and that’s so sad. You have no idea.’

  Rose was delighted to see Chrissy making her wary way across the dance floor.

  When they were sitting, glasses in hands, and had taken at least one sip, Rose said, ‘Chrissy, how old is your Alan?’

  Chrissy did not answer immediately; it was almost as if she had to try to remember. ‘Hard to believe he’s twenty,’ she said at last.

  ‘About your James’s age, Vera,’ pointed out Rose as she turned back again to Chrissy. ‘Does he have a girl?’

  ‘No, and where’s he supposed to meet one on a troop ship or in the desert, I do not know.’

  ‘He could have our Vera here. She’s got a lad that doesn’t want her to have any fun while he’s deployed. And it’s worse now,’ she added quickly, as she could see anger sparkling in Vera’s eyes, ‘because he’s a POW.’

  As soon as she spoke, Rose knew that Vera did not understand her meaning. She had wanted to explain that Vera was determined to make life as pleasant as possible for her own beloved prisoner of war, wanted to assure him that she was true to him.

  But Vera was standing, her face rigid with anger. ‘I did not say that, Rose Petrie. I said he wanted me to keep myself for him, and he’s ever so brave. He was a dispatch rider and got caught by a patrol and now he’s a prisoner of war.’

  ‘Then I’m sure he wants you to be dancing with a nice lad, Vera, instead of sitting here talking to Rose and me,’ said Chrissy gently. She looked around the room. ‘Like that one with the ginger hair over there,’ she said in a tone loud enough for the soldier to hear. ‘Honestly, Vera, if your James loves you, he knows a dance is just a dance. You’re not marrying the chap.’

  ‘Well, well, well, am I in luck? Three lovely ladies all by themselves.’ The tall, ginger-haired soldier smiled, walked over to the table, said, ‘May I?’ and without waiting for a reply, sat down. ‘Corporal Terry Webster,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ Vera began bravely. ‘I had a chum at school called Terry.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said the soldier, holding his hand out as if to brush away Vera’s words. ‘Bet she was a saintly girl whose name was Theresa. Am I right?’ He laughed.

  His laugh was pleasant. Rose looked across the table and smiled at him. Corporal Webster was a few inches taller than she was, and the width of his shoulders told of the strength in those long arms.

  ‘And, Viking Princess, my hair is not, as your lovely friend said, ginger. It’s called châtain clair, translating, for those who don’t parlez-vous, as clear chestnut.’

  ‘Much nicer than ginger,’ agreed Rose, who was surprised to find herself drawn to the young man, so different from any of the other young men she knew. He was at ease and friendly, confident but not overwhelming, and there was more than a hint of sophistication about him. In the same situation, Stan would have been tongue-tied. She smiled as she thought of her old friend. ‘And do you parlez-vous, Corporal?’

  ‘Terry, please, and let’s just say I wouldn’t go thirsty in Paris.’

  ‘Glad to hear that. Now this is Chrissy, and this is Vera.’

  ‘And I’m Ada,’ said another voice, and Ada appeared from the direction of the bar, obviously ready to chat to a handsome young man. ‘Now, if you haven’t had time, tell us all about yourself.’

  Terry smiled at her out of startlingly green eyes. ‘I’d rather hear all about you.’

  ‘Behave yourself,’ said Rose, forgetting for a moment that he was not one of her brothers.

  He laughed and called over some friends. The rest of the girls joined them and the evening went with a swing. Everyone danced, including Vera, who, after a few minutes of arguing with her conscience, relaxed and began to enjoy the evening.

  ‘I’ll write to James,’ she told Rose. ‘It’s only talking to other men and dancing, but all my friends are here too, aren’t they?’

  She looked so worried that Rose reassured her.

  She wrote to her sister Daisy later that night expressing her doubts.

  It’s none of my business, of course, Daisy, but the poor little thing doesn’t seem to know if she loves him or not. She’s promised to save herself for him, and if that means what I think it means, then she’s not in much danger on a dance floor with over a hundred other people on it.

  We have alerts here all the time and I hate the sound of the big bombers, but if I pretend that you’re flying one of them – and, yes, I know you’re not a fighter pilot – then the noise doesn’t bother me so much. Sometimes the rumbling and droning goes on for ages and I can’t see a thing because they’re too high up or there’s beastly weather with thick, dark clouds.

  Met a nice chap called Terry. He’s taking me to the cinema next Saturday and I’m looking forward to it. He says a fantastic film has just come out in London. It’s called Mrs. Miniver, with Greer Garson. Isn’t she one of Sally’s idols? It’s got superb reviews and we’re crossing fingers it’s in Preston. And – would you believe – Terry’s taller than me and he’s broad and somehow seems to be much bigger. Says he was a swimmer when he was at school, and, let me tell you, he looks as if he can hold his own. Plus he’s got the most gorgeous green eyes you ever saw in your entire life.

  Any chance we can get leave together or meet somewhere? I miss you, Daisy, even more than I miss Mum and Dad. Is th
at awful? Just I can’t imagine telling Mum about Terry’s beautiful eyes.

  Rose

  PS. He says I’m a Viking princess, daft, isn’t he!!

  The following Saturday, Rose spent the afternoon preparing for her date. She washed her long hair and brushed it dry so that it rippled over her shoulders and shone like gold. Unfortunately she could not find even the smallest piece of mascara with which to darken her fair lashes, but excitement was making her lovely blue eyes sparkle and so she decided that she would do. She was trying to decide between a dark-blue shirtwaist dress with a little white collar and a light-green fitted jacket to be worn with a pleated grey skirt when Chrissy announced that her date had arrived. Rose grabbed the dress, which was closer and easier to haul over her head, slipped on black peep-toed shoes, picked up a white cardigan and her handbag and hurried out to meet him, slowing down as she got to the end of the pathway so that her breathing had time to get back to normal.

  There was no mistaking the admiration in his green eyes.

  ‘Well, Miss Petrie, you look like something out of a magazine.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir, I think,’ teased Rose as he gallantly opened the passenger door of the small Morris car.

  ‘You should wear your hair down all the time, Rose,’ said Terry as he started the engine. ‘Now I think you look like a princess in a fairy story.’

  ‘Not Viking?’

  He laughed. ‘Absolutely a Viking princess. I’m the luckiest man in the British Army.’

  Terry had managed to borrow a friend’s car and, as he helped her into the rather elderly vehicle, Rose found herself hoping that it would last the journey; she certainly did not want to spend time working on the ancient car in her pretty dress.

  Terry did not start the engine immediately and Rose looked at him. He looked rather crestfallen.

  ‘What is it, Terry? Has something happened?’

  He sighed and leaned back in the seat. ‘Rose, I’m so sorry, but we won’t be going to Mrs. Miniver.’