‘Sussex, middle of nowhere. You?’
‘Surrey, middle of nowhere.’
The pair laughed as the line began to shift again, more women passing through the glass double-doors of the Air Ministry. Violet was next. She took Elsie’s gloved hand in hers. ‘Well, good luck with your war, Elsie Finch. I do hope that our paths will cross again.’
Elsie watched as Violet disappeared inside the building, ever so slightly mesmerised by her.
‘WAAF interview?’ a short, stout man in a tight-fitting suit barked, as he pulled open one of the doors.
Elsie nodded and was directed across a large open lobby where she witnessed men and women in a greater array of smart military uniforms than she even knew existed. A sudden flush of something that she couldn’t place—was it adrenalin or excitement?—made her stride boldly through the humming swarms of blue-grey officers, as if she had as much of a right to be there as did they.
As she had been told, Elsie made her way to the bottom of a wide mahogany staircase. She placed a hand on the newel post and gazed upwards, longingly. Up there, the next few weeks, months or, God forbid, years, would be decided. Taking a deep breath, she continued with her brisk, confident march up to the first floor, where she found herself standing in a wide corridor that seemed endless in either direction. Smart men and women, filled with purpose, crossed the corridor between heavy-set doors, carrying with them an assortment of paperwork. Elsie watched in awe, wondering at the nature and content of what they clutched so guardedly to their chests. Her envious trance, straying into the dangerous territory of her imagination, snapped when she heard her own name being called.
‘Mrs Finch?’ the woman repeated in a well-spoken voice. She was standing with her back pressed to an open doorway, her stance impatient.
Elsie smiled and headed over to her, offering her hand. ‘Elsie Finch.’
‘Assistant Section Officer Conan Doyle,’ the woman responded, fleetingly shaking Elsie’s hand.
Elsie took a step back and stared at the woman. She must have been in her late twenties and was dressed impeccably in full Air Force blue uniform. She wore a tight black tie and a peaked cap with a shiny badge that Elsie recognised as being the emblem of the Royal Air Force. ‘Conan Doyle? Any relation to Arthur? He’s my favourite author…’
‘He’s my father,’ she cut in abruptly. Her hand gesture that Elsie should enter the room promptly dissolved the conversation.
It took a moment for Elsie’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. A thin veil of cigarette smoke lingered around the two green desk lamps that failed to light much of the large room. The combination of the lighting, the oak panelled walls and the dark block-wood floor made for an oppressive, heavy feeling, which Elsie thought might have been part and parcel of the interview process. Overlooking all the proceedings was a stern portrait of the King.
‘Sit,’ a hoarse voice instructed from behind the light.
Elsie crept into the room towards the desk. She tentatively sat in the chair and strained her eyes to see who was seated in front of her. It was two women in WAAF uniform, both in their late fifties with sharp, harsh features. Neither woman reciprocated Elsie’s smile. Now Miss Conan Doyle joined them.
‘Mrs Finch,’ the woman in the centre said, to which Elsie nodded in response. ‘You’re twenty years old.’
Elsie paused, waiting for a question to follow but when none came, she mumbled, ‘Yes, that’s right.’
The three women stared at her.
‘Is that a problem?’ Elsie asked, as politely as she could manage.
‘Do you think your age and inexperience is a problem?’ This time it was the lady on the left who spoke. A whiskery spinster, short and plump with a mass of dark curls licking out from underneath her cap.
Elsie gritted her teeth, trying not to react to whatever point this woman thought that she was making. Elsie smiled, taking a meaningful glance at Miss Conan Doyle, who could only have been a handful of years older than she was. ‘No, I rather think my age gives me the tenacity and stamina required in the Forces.’
None of the three women responded.
A short pause and then the lady in the middle spoke again: ‘Do you want to be a cook or an MT driver? I doubt those qualities you mention will help in either case.’
‘I… I don’t know. Anything will do.’
The lady on the left couldn’t hide her incredulity. ‘Anything, you say?’
Elsie felt a skin of crimson rising from her chest to her cheeks. This wasn’t going at all well. She shifted her weight uncomfortably. ‘Anything to help the war effort, I meant to say. King and country. I want to do my bit,’ she murmured.
‘Very admirable,’ the woman in the centre said, without a drop of sincerity. ‘Your husband, Lawrence—he’s missing in action.’
Another non-question, Elsie thought. ‘Yes, that’s correct. Presumed dead.’
‘And it’s only been a few short weeks. Do you think it wise for a woman in your position…’ A knock at the door stopped her in mid-flow. ‘Come in,’ she barked impatiently.
The door opened and a petite young lady with round glasses in neat civilian clothing poked her head inside. ‘So sorry to interrupt,’ she grimaced. ‘Group Captain Wainwright sent me down. Could Miss Conan Doyle take a quick look at something?’ she asked, stepping fully into the room and holding aloft a sheet of paper.
‘Make it quick,’ the lady in the centre answered.
Elsie watched with interest as the young thing darted in like a frightened kitten and thrust the paper at Miss Conan Doyle. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Elsie heard her whisper.
Miss Conan Doyle raised a pair of glasses, which had been dangling at her chest, and squinted at what she was reading. ‘Ich verstehe nur Bahnhof,’ she read. ‘Well, my German isn’t great, but I think it means ‘I understand only train station’,’ she suggested.
The young girl took the paper and grimaced again. ‘Yes, that was what we worked out upstairs. But…but what does it mean?’
Miss Conan Doyle lowered her glasses. ‘Damned if I know. Code, maybe?’
The gruff lady in the centre had heard enough. ‘Thank you,’ she dismissed.
The young girl scuttled away from the desk.
‘It means that what you’re saying is unclear and hasn’t been understood,’ Elsie said, turning to the girl just as she reached the door.
‘Pardon?’
‘Ich verstehe nur Bahnhof means that something is clear as mud. Double-Dutch. However you like to say it,’ Elsie said. ‘It’s an idiom.’
‘Thank you,’ the young girl said, glancing uncertainly between Elsie and the three WAAF women. ‘Thank you.’ She left the room and closed the door.
Elsie turned back to face the three indomitable women and wondered what she had missed, for there had been a sudden shift in each of their demeanours—something she struggled to put her finger on, as she looked at each of their faces in turn. There was a lightening to their eyes—possibly even a flicker of a smile on the face of Miss Conan Doyle. ‘What’s happened?’ Elsie asked.
‘You speak German!’ Miss Conan Doyle exclaimed, with an overly dramatic laugh.
‘And how did you come by this skill, Mrs Finch?’ enquired the whiskery one on the left, sitting forward in her seat, as if engulfed in sheer desperation to hear the answer.
‘My grandfather. My mother’s father was from Hamburg. I spent almost every summer out there with his sisters,’ Elsie answered. ‘Is this something that might help me as a cook or an MT driver, then?’ Her barbed question, with an accompanying syrupy smile, was received by the three women in all innocence. But Elsie had known about the WAAFs being recruited for Special Duties before she had come to the interview; it was her secret weapon.
‘Oh, Mrs Finch,’ began the lady in the centre, suddenly speaking as though they were old friends. ‘I’ve got something much more suited to your talents. Billy, pass her the papers.’
With a smile, Miss Conan Doyle slid a bunch of
clipped papers across the desk towards Elsie. ‘It’s the Official Secrets Act. Please sign it before we proceed.’
Elsie took the silver fountain pen being eagerly thrust towards her by the whiskery spinster. She looked up, held the pen to her mouth and proceeded to pretend to read the wording on the sheets.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Elsie squiggled her name at the bottom of the paper, having not read a word of it. She carefully placed the pen down on the paperwork.
‘Welcome to the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force,’ Miss Conan Doyle chanted.
Further Information
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The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3) Page 32