Being at Rochford meant they avoided attacks from German bombers but Hornchurch continued to get regular visits. So far the damage had been minimal. The number of casualties amongst the pilots and aircrew continued to grow. He and Ronnie stopped counting the kites back as it was too depressing.
‘We’re winning this battle against the Luftwaffe, Tommy. Might not seem that way but their losses are greater than ours. You blokes are the backbone of the wing. You carry on regardless – refuelling, rearming, doing running repairs – whilst the bombs and the bullets are flying around your heads. We couldn’t do it without you.’ This was the longest speech Harry had ever made and he and his mate appreciated it.
‘Doing our bit, Harry. We don’t put our lives on the line like you flyers, so least we can do is keep you airborne. I’ll fetch you something to eat from the van. Grab a couple of minutes’ shut-eye under the wing whilst Ronnie patches up the hole in the fuselage.’
3
31st August, Hornchurch
Nancy heard the wail of the air raid siren whilst she was on her way to the dispersal points with the baskets of sarnies and tea. Bloody hell – them Germans were back again. Should she head for the shelter or carry on and deliver the food?
She did neither but steered the van into an empty hangar. There were no ground crew in it so they must all have buggered off already. It was too late to go to the air raid shelter herself so she jumped out of the van and decided to watch what was going on.
The bastard bombers were already coming over the horizon and still half the bleedin’ planes was on the ground. Why wasn’t they scrambling? They were sitting ducks where they were. Suddenly one of them took off. A few moments later it was followed by three others. Some silly bugger was holding them up – if they didn’t get a move on then they’d be too late.
The sound of the ack-ack guns from a gun emplacement near the farm added to the general chaos. There was so much dust in the air from the bombs she wondered how the gunners could see what they were doing.
She watched in horror as the three Spitfires were caught in the blast. The planes disintegrated – wings went in one direction and fuselage in another. She couldn’t watch any more and backed into the gloom of the hangar and pressed herself against the wall as if that might keep her safe.
When it was over and the all clear sounded she scrambled back into the van, not sure whether to go back to the mess or try and find some officers to give the food to. She reversed carefully out of the hangar and as she did so several planes came into land. There was craters in the runways but somehow they got down safely apart from one or two of them, which was stuck in the middle of the runway.
Two men raced towards her, shouting that they needed the van. One of them were carrying some rope.
‘Lend us your van, love. We need to tow the Spits out of the way or no one else can get in.’
‘Righto, I’ll sit in the back with the sarnies so’s I can give them out when you’re done.’
The bloke what jumped behind the wheel were a better driver than her and put his foot down and they sped across the grass lurching and bumping and she were almost catapulted out the back.
Whilst they were tying the rope to the first plane she sat tight. She was too short to be much help. They managed to move the first plane to the edge of the runway and she jumped out and had time to remove both baskets before they were ready to roar off and collect the second Spitfire.
The pilot from the plane saw her struggling and picked up one of the baskets. ‘Manna from heaven, sweetheart. There are a lot of chaps going to be delighted to see you.’
Eventually she returned to the Officers’ Mess and as she was the senior WAAF present decided to make her own decisions about what she should do next. The other girls were finishing serving lunch. ‘It don’t look too clever. I reckon you’d have to be starving to eat what you’re giving them,’ she commented.
‘It ain’t our fault, Nancy. We was down the air raid shelter for an hour. Beggars can’t be choosers. There’s a war on, ain’t there?’ One of the girls grinned as she carried out a tray of cold cabbage, cold fried potatoes and some sort of chicken in congealed sauce.
‘I’m going to make another load of sandwiches and flasks of tea. Then I’ll do the rounds again.’ The sound of the siren wailing meant another raid was coming in. They abandoned what they were doing and raced for the air raid shelter.
It was crowded, dark and full of all sorts, not just WAAF girls. The sergeant closed the door and a few minutes later someone hammered to be let in. The sarge opened it and from where she was standing, she could see it was the driver of a fuel bowser.
‘Sod off, take that bloody thing with you and park it somewhere else before you blow us all to pieces,’ the sergeant yelled. Quite right too – the silly bugger had parked the vehicle, full of petrol, right outside the shelter. He wasn’t let in until he’d parked it further away.
The all clear went for the second time and she spent the remainder of the afternoon making and delivering food to the pilots and their ground crew. She’d just knocked off at six o’clock when there was another raid. This time it was just the runways and a few aircraft – none of the buildings were damaged apart from the new Airmen’s Mess, which was about to be opened. She heard later that bombs were dropped on Elm Park residential housing – no one was bleedin’ safe in this war.
*
The raids continued and Tommy didn’t get more than an occasional kip. When the kites were grounded he and Ronnie had to check the engines and patch up anything that had bullet holes. Harry would sleep where he fell. He looked really rough, unshaven and filthy. They weren’t any better. Personal hygiene and shaving were forgotten in the shitstorm they were enduring.
The kites couldn’t fly for more than an hour and a half without needing to refuel. Harry had gone out earlier and should be back by now. Ronnie was asleep, oblivious to the noise. It was Tommy’s turn to watch for returning kites.
‘Ronnie, mate, Harry’s been hit. There’s smoke pouring out of his engine. On your feet – this isn’t going to be good.’
The fire tender and ambulance were racing towards the runway. It was his and Ronnie’s job to get Harry out and so they joined the general rush to help.
The Spit didn’t have the landing gear down – it was going to be a bad one. Harry had had one prang and reckoned he was a dab hand at coming in without an engine or wheels. He was right. The plane glided in and slid along the grass. So far so good. Then it tilted and one wing hit the deck, sending the kite sideways. Fortunately, this helped to stop its forward momentum.
Tommy was only twenty yards from the crash. Harry was hammering on the cockpit, trying to release it.
‘Hang on a minute, mate, I’ll do that for you.’ Tommy clambered on the wing and the heat from the burning engine melted the soles of his boots. He had gloves on and had brought a crowbar – he wasn’t daft. He shoved the metal end into the cockpit edge and heaved.
The Perspex flew off. Ronnie arrived beside him and between them they grabbed Harry’s arms and dragged him out. The fire engine was shooting foam at the flames licking the wings. They slithered to the ground. A strong stench of burning leather and cloth filled his nostrils.
They were a few yards from the kite. One of Harry’s arms was around his shoulder and the other around Ronnie’s, when the Spitfire exploded. He was lifted from his feet. Something hit him in the back. Everything went black.
*
3rd September 1940
Nancy, being short, wasn’t given the task of mashing the potatoes as this required someone tall. Sue, a long beanpole of a girl, had that job today.
‘Blimey, that thing what you’ve got to mash them with is bigger than me,’ she told her friend.
‘It’s a knack. It looks easy but it isn’t. Can’t be any lumps in the spuds for the officers. Unlike the food we get – there were bits of carrot in the custard yesterday.’
‘My Tommy and I eat at the NAAFI when we get time o
ff together. I bet they don’t mix the custard in a bucket like happens here.’
‘I bet they do. It all goes down the same way and comes out the same way – doesn’t bother me what it tastes like as long as I’m nice and full. My mate Gladys works at the enlisted men’s mess hall. She was telling me that you have to open the tins of evaporated milk with a cleaver and she cut right through one yesterday. What a laugh!’
‘Going to ask for a transfer over there. More my cup of tea than this place,’ Nancy said.
Pots and pans rattled as yet another flight roared overhead, making conversation impossible. Her job today was preparing the runner beans and peas – a lot easier than what Sue was doing. She wasn’t too keen on fresh veg, preferred what came out of tins.
She was halfway through when an RAF officer appeared at the kitchen door. Deirdre, who was the NCO in charge today, hurried across to speak to him. Nancy’s heart almost stopped when they looked at her. Did they know she’d been outside for a quick fag this morning? She didn’t want to be put on a charge – she’d have to clean the bogs and scrub floors for days if she were.
Deirdre hurried across. ‘You have to go to the adjutant’s office, Nancy. I’ll finish these for you.’
‘Do I need to change out of me overalls?’
‘Yes, but do it quickly.’
Ten minutes later Nancy was in her blues and ready to trek to the squadron offices. These was the other side of the bloomin’ airfield. She didn’t want to keep anyone waiting so rushed out, turned right in front of the technical store and then ran down the road between the workshops and the NCOs’ mess.
She paused outside to catch her breath, straightened her skirt, adjusted her hat and marched in smartly. She wasn’t sure where she should go as she hadn’t been given the name of the officer she was to report to – she didn’t even know if it was a WAAF officer or an RAF officer who wanted to see her.
No point in piddling about. She had a tongue in her head so would ask the first person she saw. She stopped a handsome young officer with a magnificent moustache.
‘Excuse me, sir, I were told to report here but ain’t got no idea who I’m to see. LACW 1377, Nancy Evans.’ She saluted smartly.
‘Haven’t got the foggiest, but I’ll enquire for you. Won’t be a tick.’ He smiled and dashed into the nearest office where she could hear him asking whoever was in there.
When he came out he was accompanied by someone more senior than him, an older man with a lot of stripes and gold braid on his shoulders. The young officer was no longer smiling. He nodded sympathetically and then vanished.
‘Come in, my dear; take a pew.’
Her heart was thudding, her hands clammy. She didn’t want to sit down. She wanted to run away and not hear whatever it was he’d called her here to tell her. But she did as instructed – it didn’t do to disobey orders.
To her astonishment he poured her some tea into a fancy cup and saucer. He then put three lumps of sugar into it. She didn’t want no tea; she wanted to know what the bad news was. Had one of her brothers or her pa been killed on the docks?
He leaned over and placed the cup and saucer in front of her. ‘I’ve got some very bad news for you, my dear. I regret to tell you that your fiancé, Tommy Smith, was killed earlier today. He died a hero saving a pilot who had crash-landed.’
Nancy stared at him. The words didn’t sink in for a moment. What had he just said? Tommy couldn’t be dead – he didn’t do nothing dangerous – he was ground crew not aircrew.
‘Drink your tea, my dear. Don’t try and speak for a moment.’
Obediently she picked up the cup and managed to swallow a couple of mouthfuls before his words sunk in. Her Tommy, the man she loved, the man she was going to marry in two days’ time, was dead.
The cup rattled in the saucer. She wanted to scream, to throw the cup at the wall, but she was from Poplar. East End girls didn’t make a fuss. Ma always said that everyone died sometime. It was up to the living to get on with their lives and not kick up a racket.
Somehow, she replaced the saucer on the desk without dropping it. Pushed herself upright. Saluted, about-turned, and marched out. Her eyes were blurred, her throat clogged, but she wasn’t going to give in in front of this toffee-nosed lot.
Instinctively she headed for the guardhouse, marched through and by the time she was across the road and down Sutton Lane she was running. The dormitory would be empty. She needed somewhere private, somewhere she could cry in peace.
In her agony of grief she’d not stopped to think it through. The beds were all neatly stacked, the three square mattresses at the end of the bed with the blankets and pillow on top. There were no chairs in the dormitory and it was strictly forbidden to make up your bed during the day.
Her space was at the far end, furthest from the door and from the central iron stove. Being last in meant she had the worst position. She stumbled down the centre of the long dormitory and slumped against the wall next to her locker. Slowly her legs folded and she ended in a heap on the floor.
They should have been getting married in two days and now it’d be a funeral not a wedding. She drew her knees up, dropped her head onto them, and wrapped her arms around her folded legs. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. She rocked back and forth trying to make sense of this disaster. Tommy had said he were safe as ground crew. How could he be dead?
He died a hero – what bloody use was that to her? Better to have lived a coward. She’d never forgive him for leaving her when he didn’t have to. What was that strange sound? Was there someone else here? She realised it was her making a strange whining noise. She clamped her teeth shut. Ma always said you had to get on with things. Be strong and carry on regardless.
How could she go on living without Tommy? He was her everything. He’d loved her and hadn’t wanted her to be anything different. Her eyes were gritty, her mouth dry, her throat so tight it was hard to swallow.
The ack-ack guns began to fire. The noise was deafening and it released something inside of her. No one could hear over that. She flung her head back and screamed. Once she’d started she couldn’t stop even when the guns were silent.
Vaguely she was aware of two people coming in. Then something sharp was pressed into her arm and things became blurry and welcome darkness took her away from the world she didn’t want to be in any more.
*
Nancy woke up in the hospital wing. She was in a side ward. How could the sun be shining when Tommy was dead? She rolled over and curled into a ball, wishing someone would put her out of her misery too.
‘Nancy, I’m so sorry about Tommy. I’ve got a twenty-four-hour pass and Oscar’s parents have said I’m to take you to them. They’ll look after you,’ Jane said.
Slowly Nancy pushed herself up, feeling like an old woman. ‘How’d you know to come?’
‘You had my name down as first contact. Don’t you remember doing it? I thought it should be your parents but you said you didn’t want them involved with anything serious.’
‘I’m glad you’ve come. How long have I been here? It’s all a bit fuzzy.’
‘They sedated you and you’ve been asleep for a day.’
‘Where’s me clothes? I need a wash and to get dressed. I want to know what happened and I don’t want to miss the funeral.’
‘You won’t. It’s this afternoon. His parents aren’t coming. Did you ever meet them?’
‘No, I didn’t. Tommy never got on with them. I’m ever so pleased to see you. I don’t reckon there’s anyone else I want right now.’
Her friend smiled. ‘Do you need my help getting to the bathroom? I’ve got your kitbag packed and there’s clean underwear and stockings on the chair with your uniform. You’ve got a week’s compassionate leave starting from the funeral.’
Nancy’s legs felt wobbly, but she wasn’t too bad considering. She had to pull herself together – there was a war on – civilians and servicemen alike were going to die so she bloomin’ well better get used to it.
When she came back correctly dressed she was more in control. She was a WAAF like her friends Jane and Charlotte, and there wasn’t no time for grieving and such. They had their duty to do.
There was a tray on the side table with two mugs of tea and a pile of freshly made toast dripping with real butter and marmalade.
‘Blimey, I ain’t seen either butter or marmalade for months. I didn’t think I were hungry but I am.’ They shared the food and when it was gone, the butter licked from her fingers, she was ready to face the world.
‘Being married suits you, Jane. You must be worried sick about your Oscar up there all the time fighting them Jerries.’
‘I am, but there’s nothing we can do about it. I’ve only seen him three times since we were married.’
‘Are you sure the vicar and his wife want me to stay with them?’
‘Absolutely certain. Obviously, I’ve not been able to speak to Oscar – he’s on permanent duty at the moment – but I rang the vicarage and my in-laws are only too happy to offer you refuge for a few days. You certainly don’t want to go back to Poplar at the moment. It’s far too dangerous.’
‘I don’t know, I reckon I’d be better staying here and working; keep me mind off things, like.’
‘You can make up your mind after the funeral. Shall I tell you what happened?’
Nancy nodded. ‘Everyone else knows, so I’d better hear it too. I know he were killed trying to rescue a pilot. Were he killed an all?’
‘No. It was just rotten luck. A piece of shrapnel from the Spitfire hit Tommy in the back. Ronnie, his friend who was helping, and Harry, the pilot, just suffered from the blast but aren’t seriously hurt.’
‘Ta for telling me. Hang on a minute, if he ain’t going home to be buried where’s he going to be put?’ She reckoned she sounded all right but it was becoming harder and harder to speak at all through her tears.
‘Tommy will be buried in the RAF Cemetery along with the others who’ve lost their lives. There’s a car waiting outside to take us.’
The East End Girl in Blue Page 3