Our Last Letter: Absolutely gripping, epic and heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction

by Liz Trenow

Randy explained it was only in some states where seating on buses, schools, swimming pools and working areas in factories were divided into ‘black’ and ‘other’.

  ‘But why?’ Vic gasped.

  ‘Gee, it’s so normal I don’t really know why, and never asked. That’s the way it’s always been, so I guess folks feel more comfortable that way.’

  ‘White people feel more comfortable, you mean?’

  His friend clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Aw, don’t take it amiss, Mac. It don’t make a bitty bit of difference between you an’ me, eh? It’s great working with you, chum.’

  But for all the constant company, Vic was lonely.

  Most of all, he missed Kath. That day in Lincoln glowed in his memory; his hand could still feel the imprint of hers as they’d walked together, and he could still taste the astonishing sensation of her lips meeting his as they’d waited for her bus. His heart seemed to ache in his chest when he thought of her, and he felt sure this must be what they called ‘falling in love’. But did she feel the same about him? He longed to see her again, to reassure himself.

  By now, he felt sure, she would have had her post-training week’s leave in Felixstowe. With Lizzie’s words about persistence ringing in his ears, he had written several times to Kath’s home address. He’d received nothing from her apart from a brief note thanking him for the lovely day in Lincoln.

  He told himself to be patient. In these troubled days everyone was on the move, sometimes with only a few hours’ notice. No one could be sure of where they might be posted next.

  Another week went by. Surely by now she would be at her first real posting? His requests for leave had thus far been refused ‘due to operational priorities’, but he was certainly due some time off, and hoped to use it to visit Kath. But where was she?

  And then, on the very same day, two envelopes arrived in his pigeonhole. The first was addressed in Kath’s rounded, generous hand.

  Dear Vic,

  Thank you for the two letters, which I picked up from home when I came back on leave a week ago. I’m sorry for the long silence and hope this reaches you now that you are doing so much travelling. Still I am sure your work is interesting, as ever, and you are achieving yet more great things!

  You won’t believe it but I’m back here, where we first met. The place is full of memories and reminders of the times we had here. Not that I’ve had much time to think, trying to get used to the crazy shift patterns and feeling dog tired most of the time. Also, the weather is so miserable I haven’t been able to get out into the gardens. Our favourite walk is out of bounds anyway, covered with barbed wire and the rest, as you can probably imagine.

  I had a very exciting week at HQ before this, seeing what they do with what we tell them. I half wondered whether I might see you there, but no luck. Being there brought it home to me, all over again, how critical your work has been, and still is. Hats off to you all!

  I’m still a novice, but learning fast. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and exhausting all at once. I’ve got no idea when I’ll get leave, but will let you know. In the meantime, if you’re ever up this way it’d be so lovely to see you. Write again soon.

  Fondest regards,

  Kath

  The news was better than he could have possibly hoped. That they were allowing women back to Bawdsey was surely a sign of the Allies’ growing confidence that the dangers of enemy invasion or air attack were receding. The world suddenly seemed less bleak, and he was so thrilled by the warmth of her words that he lost himself in a brief reverie and almost forgot to open the second envelope. It was the official buff variety marked confidential, top secret and Not to be opened by any unauthorised person. It contained a rail warrant with the usual cryptic instruction: Report to USAF Martlesham 1400 hours Friday. That was in just two days’ time.

  He ran to the lab and pulled down a map. USAF Martlesham was, by a quick reckoning, just a dozen or so miles from Bawdsey. ‘Thank you, gods,’ he gasped, barely able to believe his good fortune.

  He allowed the reverie to return, imagining Kath on board the ferry, in one of the rooms in the Red Tower or the White Tower, or with her head bent over a screen in one of the bunkers along with her fellow WAAFs. The image now began to include himself, walking those paths hand in hand with her, the gardens filled with spring flowers, the sun in her hair, her laughter, the feel of her lips…

  Vic and his English teammate Monty had been at USAF Martlesham for just three days when Randy told them about the dance planned for the coming Saturday in the new mess hall.

  ‘They’re flying in a swing band from Austin. It’ll be a knockout. You have to be there, kiddo.’

  Vic had become accustomed to being called ‘kiddo’, and assumed it was because he was so much smaller than most of them. They were all giants, dwarfing even Monty’s five foot ten, though their faces were so youthful they looked as though they’d only just learned to shave. And although they spoke the same language, he often failed to understand them. A swing band? And where on earth was Austin? It didn’t matter anyway, because he didn’t plan to go, knockout or not. Monty was keen, but Vic rolled out his usual excuses: can’t dance, nothing to wear, bit of a headache. But Randy was nothing if not persistent.

  ‘Look,’ he said, lighting up a Lucky Strike and lounging back on Vic’s bunk as though he owned it. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Mac, you don’t feel comfortable at dances. And I get it. There’s your colour an’ all, and those uptight English ballroom affairs are enough to make anyone uncomfortable. But have you ever been to an American dance, with a jazz band? It’s black music, man. There’re no fancy doo-dah steps to learn, you just do what feels right. I guarantee you won’t be able to resist tapping your toes, and before long you’ll be on the floor, ’specially with a couple of daiquiris inside you.’

  ‘Thank you, but I really don’t think so…’ What on earth was a daiquiri, anyway?

  Randy’s voice took on a confidential tone. ‘I shouldn’t be sayin’ this, but it really ain’t the done thing to refuse. The brass hats might think you ungrateful.’

  Vic recognised at once that he’d been checkmated. These Yanks might act stupid some of the time, but they were clever devils underneath.

  ‘Okay then, I’ll come for a short while, just to be polite,’ he conceded.

  ‘Good man. See you in the bar, seven sharp.’

  A daiquiri, Vic discovered, was a drink of rum mixed with ice and lime juice that slipped down so easily that it was only quarter of an hour later you realised how strong it was. After drinking two of them, he belatedly recalled being warned that American measures were double or even, sometimes, treble those served in English pubs.

  As Randy led them from the bar across the stretch of tarmac to a nearby hangar, the fresh air helped to clear Vic’s head and he felt ready for anything. Even so, the sheer noise of the band, the size of the dance floor and the numbers of dancers, at least a couple of hundred, was daunting. Randy and Monty disappeared, leaving him clinging to the wall like a gooseberry. He soon discovered that his feet were actually tapping, all by themselves, to the irresistible rhythms of the music. No one seemed to be taking any notice of him. Dancers whirled past, flinging themselves from side to side without any semblance of formal steps, and he was so transfixed that he failed to notice the young woman sidling up beside him.

  ‘You look lonely,’ she shouted over the din. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ Her Suffolk inflections reminded him of Kath. Must be one of the girls they bussed in from nearby villages for these affairs.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m from Tunbridge Wells.’

  One eyebrow raised in a sceptical arc. ‘Pull the other one, fella.’

  ‘Honestly,’ he said. ‘I’m half English, half Indian.’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone even partly Indian.’

  ‘We’re perfectly harmless, as you see. Don’t bite, or whisper evil spells.’

  She laughed. ‘Would you like to dance?’ How bold girls w
ere becoming, these days. Must be the war. He rather liked it, this turning of the tables.

  ‘Not really,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have to know any steps.’

  Too drunk to resist, he allowed her to take his hand and lead him into the melee. They danced – or rather, he moved his feet around and after a while, cautiously, his arms – until he was quite out of breath.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he said, pulling out a handkerchief to mop his brow.

  ‘That’d be nice,’ she said. ‘My name’s Carol. What’s yours?’

  ‘Vic.’

  ‘Short for Victor?’

  ‘Short for Vikram.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ she said, threading her arm through his. ‘Now, where’s the bar?’

  Just as they were crossing the tarmac the boom of music from the hangar stopped for a second, and in the unaccustomed silence they heard a giggle, then another.

  ‘Someone’s having fun,’ Carol said. ‘C’mon, I’m dying for a drink.’

  Peering into the darkness, Vic could just about make out two figures in the shadows, at the corner of the building. Another giggle. A male voice, American: ‘You’re a sweet kid, d’ya know that? D’ya wanna see my Thunderbolt?’

  The girl spoke, and his heart seemed to stop beating. Even though he couldn’t hear the words, it sounded just like Kath’s voice.

  ‘Gimme another kiss, and I’ll show ya.’ The man gathered the girl into his arms again, smooching her so intimately, so intensely, that it made Vic’s stomach turn upside down. The kiss seemed to go on forever. She didn’t seem to be resisting; in fact, she seemed to be enjoying it.

  ‘Ooh, you are naughty,’ the girl said, with a giggle that sealed his certainty. It was Kath. What on earth was she doing here? The answer was perfectly plain.

  He felt Carol’s hand trying to take his, pulling him along. ‘You coming, or what?’

  But his feet were rooted to the ground, watching helplessly as the couple pulled apart from their clinch and disappeared behind the building. His head was spinning, he felt nauseous and desperate to lie down.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not feeling very well,’ he shouted to Carol and turned away, stumbling in the direction of his barracks. Once there, he dragged himself along the corridor to the bathroom, where he was violently sick. Back in his bunk he succumbed to misery, silently weeping for the girl he’d missed so much, on whom he’d pinned such ridiculous hopes.

  The girl he’d believed himself to be falling in love with.

  The girl he’d allowed himself to imagine might, just might, have been starting to feel the same.

  Twenty-Five

  ‘Kath? Where the hell have you been? It’s going any minute now.’

  Marcia grabbed her hand and dragged her towards the row of buses rumbling impatiently in a cloud of exhaust by the gatehouse. There hadn’t even been time for a goodnight kiss. Shame, he was such a good kisser, that Harry; or was it Larry? She turned to wave at him, but he’d already disappeared.

  They stumbled up the steps onto the bus and took the only empty seats, at the back.

  ‘Goodness, that was so much fun.’ Kath’s head was swimming. ‘Those cocktails certainly pack a punch.’

  ‘I couldn’t find you anywhere. The driver was threatening to leave you behind.’

  ‘Larry took me to see his Thunderbolt,’ Kath said rather too loudly, her words falling into a sudden lull in the general hubbub. The bus erupted with hysterical laughter.

  ‘Was it a big one, his Thunderbolt, Motts?’

  ‘Your first Thunderbolt, was it?’

  ‘Not fair. I want to see his Thunderbolt too.’

  The teasing went on for at least ten minutes before the girls tired of it and fell asleep, the silence punctuated only by curses from the driver as he navigated narrow winding lanes illuminated only by ‘blackout slit’ headlights. Kath climbed into bed with a throbbing head and set her alarm clock. There were just four hours till the start of her next shift.

  At breakfast, the teasing began again. By now the whole station seemed to know, and even perfect strangers came up to her asking about the Thunderbolt. After her shift she sought refuge in Marcia’s room.

  ‘Go away,’ her friend groaned, pulling the blanket over her head.

  ‘Time to wake up. I’ll get water for tea, shall I?’ Despite strict rules banning food and drink in their quarters, Marcia’s roommate Frances had ‘borrowed’ an electric element from the workshop where her boyfriend worked, which they suspended into a large metal teapot, adding tea leaves when the water began to boil. A sprinkle of dried milk and a spoonful of sugar made a very acceptable cuppa. By the time it was ready Marcia had unearthed a packet of only slightly stale ‘squashed fly’ biscuits from a drawer.

  ‘I gather you rather enjoyed yourself last night?’

  ‘Don’t you start. I had enough of that at breakfast. What about you?’

  ‘The band was brilliant, wasn’t it? So refreshing after all those boring old waltzes and quicksteps, and a nice change to find partners actually taller than me.’ Marcia took a bite of biscuit, grimaced, threw it into the bin and tried another one.

  ‘Anyway, apart from the obvious, how was the now-famous Larry?’

  ‘Tall, good-looking, white teeth, smelled of chewing gum. Good kisser. And before you ask, no, we didn’t.’ In truth, Kath was starting to feel rather ashamed of her behaviour the previous evening. Larry might have been a good kisser, but there was no tenderness, no emotion. She still remembered that kiss with Vic, so sweet, so poignant, both of them knowing it might be the last time they would meet for many months, perhaps even years. ‘Who did you dance with?’

  ‘You expect me to remember all their names?’

  They sat companionably on the floor, leaning back on the bunk, sipping in silence.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot to say,’ Marcia said. ‘I saw your Indian prince there. I was rather surprised you weren’t with him.’

  Kath gaped at her. ‘You must be wrong. Vic hates dances, and anyway he’s posted miles away, near London. It was probably some other bloke with dark looks.’

  ‘Well, it certainly looked like the same fellow you were snogging at the bus station in Lincoln.’

  The breath seemed to stop in Kath’s chest. Surely it couldn’t have been him? Among so many hundreds of people it wouldn’t have been surprising if they’d simply missed each other, but why hadn’t he told her he was there? Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard from him for a while.

  Another appalling thought. ‘Oh my goodness, what if it really was him? What if he saw me with Larry?’

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid. You were all over that fellow like a rash. There was only one conclusion your prince could have come to.’

  Kath rubbed her temple, where the headache had begun to throb once more. ‘Was I that bad?’

  ‘’Fraid so. A few too many cocktails, maybe?’ Marcia checked her watch, sighed and rose to her feet. ‘Sorry, love. I’ve got to go. I’m on duty in thirty minutes.’

  Back in her own bunk, waiting for exhaustion to overtake her, Kath replayed the previous evening in her head. She tried and tried to recall the faces in the bar, and the couples spinning around the dance floor, but they remained a blur. Surely she would have known at once, had she seen Vic? He’d have stood out a mile.

  Why hadn’t he written lately? It was unlike him. He was usually so attentive, so well organised. With a sudden sharp pang, she realised she’d been so busy that she hadn’t even found out where the pigeonholes were. The more she thought about it, the more sleep evaded her. Eventually she gave up, got dressed again and went over to the clock tower. The post room was in a shed just across the way, they said.

  She had four letters. One was from Mark – as usual he wrote only about generalities, food, parties and sporting escapades, with scarcely any reference to when or what he was flying, even though she knew he was risking his life every day – and no fewer than three from Vic, all forwarded from her
parents’ address. Back in her room, she began with the first, a long missive from a fortnight before, describing his travels to different airbases, saying how much he’d enjoyed their day in Lincoln and how much he’d missed her. The second was briefer.

  Dear Kath,

  You are back at the old place! What wonderful news, especially as it means you can be close to your family.

  The even better news is that I shall shortly be posted really quite close to where you are. They haven’t told us how long we’ll be there for, but I hope we can make the most of this turn of good fortune. It would be perfectly possible for us to meet somewhere in between if you would like to, and if we can co-ordinate our leave. I’m sure you are settling in by now and starting to get to grips with the different systems, and hope you are enjoying yourself too.

  I will write again just as soon as I have a proper address.

  With love,

  Vic

  The third letter was shorter still, confirming in coded references that his new posting was at Martlesham. Kath groaned, holding her head in her hands. It must have been him Marcia had seen at the dance. There couldn’t have been too many men like him at a USAF base.

  She took out her writing case and ruined several sheets of good Basildon Bond trying to find the right words. In the end she decided just to ignore any reference to the dance, simply expressing delight at the prospect of seeing him once more, followed by a few observations about how her life was going back in ‘the old place’. Although it was too soon in her posting to apply for leave, she said, her shifts allowed a thirty-six-hour break every ten days.

  She told herself not to worry. So what if he’d seen her with Larry? Did he have any right to stop her having fun with other men? They weren’t exactly dating, after all, had never called each other boyfriend or girlfriend, never before declared any feelings for each other apart from fondness and friendship. In all the time they’d known each other, they’d shared only a couple of chaste kisses.