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

by Liz Trenow

  On the other hand, how would she feel if the boot was on the other foot, and she’d spied him smooching with another girl? The realisation was shocking. I’d hate it. I’d be jealous as hell.

  She read his letters again, trying to glean any further clues. It was only then she noticed that he’d changed his sign-off. With love. All of sudden she knew, with a clarity she’d never known before. To hell with all the Billys, the Donalds and Larrys, all those glamorous, handsome men, all those wonderful dancers with their wandering hands. Vic, with his shy, sweet ways, was more important to her than all the others put together. She couldn’t bear to lose him.

  Each day, morning and afternoon, she checked her pigeonhole, but each time there was no response. A week went by, then ten days. At first she was concerned for his safety. Or had he perhaps been posted back to his original base for some reason, and her letters hadn’t reached him? Her greatest concern, a fear that rose its ugly head when she was most vulnerable, alone after an exhausting shift, or in the middle of the night when she was trying to get to sleep, was that he really had seen her at the dance snogging Larry, and was so appalled that he’d decided to cut her off.

  When she went home that Sunday – Mark had leave, and Ma was cooking to celebrate his birthday – her remaining flicker of hope was extinguished.

  ‘No post?’

  ‘Expecting something from lover boy?’ Mark teased.

  After lunch, Pa had to go back to the station for an hour to sort out shifts for the coming week and Ma said she still had to decorate the cake for tea. ‘Go off for a walk, you two. Make the most of this lovely weather.’

  ‘Where would you like to go? To the sea?’ Mark asked as they set off.

  ‘No, it breaks my heart to see all those barricades on the beach,’ Kath said. ‘Let’s walk in the marshes. At least there we can half pretend there’s not a war on.’

  Here, in the open spaces of salty wetland, they were able to speak more freely. He asked about her time at HQ, and about her new posting.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Flying a bomber is like driving an elephant after those lovely little Spitfires, but you’ve got five or six others on board with you so there’s a great team spirit. We keep each other going.’

  ‘Do you ever worry about the people down below?’

  ‘The ack-acks trying to kill us?’

  ‘The civilians, I mean. Like the people who copped it from the Germans in London and Coventry.’

  ‘Of course, but you try not to think about it too much. We don’t have any choice, to be honest. We won’t defeat the Germans unless we can destroy their industries, so that’s got to be our priority. We try to avoid residential areas.’

  A flock of ducks rose into the sky with a noisy chorus of alarm calls.

  ‘There goes a good supper,’ Mark said.

  ‘We sometimes mistake them for aircraft,’ she said.

  ‘Friend or foe?’

  ‘It soon becomes apparent when they start wheeling about.’

  ‘You’re right. We don’t do a lot of wheeling these days.’

  They laughed and walked on. Low sunlight streaked rays of gold across the marshes.

  ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ she said. ‘It’s easy to forget, sometimes, what we’re fighting for.’

  He gave a small sigh and stopped walking. She turned. ‘What is it, Mark?’

  ‘I just wanted to say…’ He took another breath. ‘Has anyone ever told you how reassuring it is to know that you lot are tracking us, Kath? A few weeks ago some of our guys had to ditch into the sea and the rescue team was there in minutes. Said they’d been alerted by you lot.’

  ‘What day was that?’ He told her. ‘Blimey, that was on my first ever shift! I saw them, Mark. I was so worried. Thank heavens they were okay.’

  ‘You saved a few good men that night.’

  ‘That’s amazing. Makes it all worthwhile, knowing that.’

  ‘They were heading for Sutton Heath. Just didn’t quite make it.’

  ‘Sutton Heath?’

  He paused. ‘Perhaps I’ve said too much. It’s top secret, so you won’t say anything, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. Tell me.’

  ‘Sutton Heath. Official name RAF Woodbridge. It’s an emergency landing strip, what they call a crash ’drome, a ruddy great long runway – three of them, actually – with all the rescue equipment, fire engines, medical facilities and the rest, for any plane in distress, low on fuel, whatever. They’re on standby twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They even burn fires to disperse fog on bad nights. Stanmore alerts them, based on your reports.’

  ‘Heavens, is that why we see so many low-flying aircraft on our screens? I never saw any down in the West Country. Have you ever had to use it?’

  ‘Not yet, thank the lucky stars. But it’s very reassuring to know it’s there, I can tell you, and that your lot are onto us, too. Who knows how many lives you’ve saved, between you all.’

  ‘I’m so glad you told me.’

  A chill wind had got up, stroking the fluffy reed-heads into waves. ‘C’mon,’ Kath said. ‘Ma will be waiting for us to get back for tea and cake.’

  He checked his watch. ‘Crikey, yes. Mustn’t miss the five o’clock bus, either. I’ve got to get to the base for a seven p.m. briefing.’

  ‘Briefing on what?’

  ‘Big mission on Tuesday,’ he said. ‘You’ll probably see us on your screens.’

  ‘Stay safe, Mark, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sis. I’ve got a new friend, by the way. Someone to live for.’

  She knew at once what he meant, and was glad for him.

  Twenty-Six

  Vic buried himself in work. There was certainly plenty of it, and dealing with the Americans required great patience and diplomacy. Accustomed to operating in small teams on tight budgets but with relatively high levels of freedom and flexibility, he simply could not get used to what he saw as the profligate ways of his US counterparts.

  ‘If there’s a problem, throw money at it,’ seemed to be the usual response. ‘Or bring in more people. Just make it happen.’

  Working in larger teams meant it took much longer to reach decisions, and American systems were so bureaucratic that it took forever to extract the permissions they needed to move forward. It was endlessly frustrating. The timetable Vic had planned for what they’d now been told would be just four weeks at Martlesham soon went out of the window. By the end of the first fortnight they had barely started.

  Through working all hours and putting himself to sleep at night with a few tots of the sweet American whisky he’d acquired from the mess for an absurdly cheap sum, he successfully managed to banish all thoughts of Kath for several days in a row. It was only when he lowered his guard – if he found himself alone in the barracks, or if the whisky failed for some reason to work its usual magic – that he found himself yearning for her.

  That halo of red curls glinting in the sunshine, the sweet gap-toothed smile, those pale cheeks that coloured at the slightest hint of pleasure, excitement or confusion, the freckles he’d once playfully tried to rub off her nose. The moments they’d shared on the Cliff Walk, watching the North Sea in all its moods and weathers. The ease of their conversation, walking through the grounds at Bawdsey, imagining the gardens in their heyday and laughing about the White Lady said to haunt the Italian Garden at night. The way Kath seemed oblivious to his difference, the way she stood up to the bullies. That terrible day of the crash, when she had sought him out and comforted him. Their kiss in the bus station at Lincoln.

  One night he dreamed of her, of the feel of her arms around him, the touch of her lips on his, and woke in a flush of desire before remembering the sight of her snogging that US airman. That vision, seared into his brain, was just too painful. His head throbbed with the after-effects of the three strong whiskies he’d drunk the night before. Of course he recalled Lizzie’s advice about perseverance, but
that morning he realised that any hopes had been dashed and he had to conclude that she no longer cared for him. The only way of saving himself was to cut out the hurt, like a canker.

  That morning he took the small packet of her letters and burned them on the ground behind the engineers’ hut.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ The security guard regarded him suspiciously, fingering his holster.

  ‘Fine, fine. It’s just the smoke,’ Vic said, wiping his eyes.

  ‘May I ask for your ID, sir?’

  Vic handed over the pass in its battered cardboard wallet. The man scrutinised it carefully and passed it back, frowning as though unconvinced.

  ‘Thank you, sir. But may I remind you that any unauthorised disposal of documentation is taken very seriously here on the base? You are required to use our special facility for such purposes in the Admin Block.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware. Sorry, mate.’ Being friendly didn’t usually wash with these types, but it was worth a try.

  ‘Next time, then, sir?’

  Vic nodded, scattering the ashes with the toe of his boot.

  ‘Good. Enjoy your day, sir.’

  The teletext message from Stanmore, decoded and transcribed, arrived at breakfast a few days later in a sealed buff envelope. It had Vic’s name on it and was stamped in red, top secret: for addressee only. He tore it open.

  rdf team report raf bawdsey immediately iff tx fault car waiting 1600 hours today tuesday stop padmore

  His heart sank. ‘Oh, hell. Why us?’

  Bawdsey: he’d loved the place once, but now it was the last place he wanted to go. What if he should bump into Kath? What could he say? Would she even acknowledge him?

  He passed the note to Monty. ‘Can’t you go on my behalf? There’s so much to do here.’

  ‘It says “RDF team”, Vic, and if there’s one person in the world who can sort it out, it’s you. You practically invented the system, after all.’ Monty started to hum the tune of ‘Oh, I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside’. ‘At least it gives us a break from the Yankees. Whatever’s wrong with the place, anyway?’

  Vic shrugged. He wasn’t going to bare his heart to Monty. Anyway, there wasn’t any choice; you didn’t say no to Padmore. The new commander of RAF Bawdsey was notoriously tough.

  The security at the gatehouse was tighter, with a smart new barrier and guards with guns who no longer recognised him. But as always the sight of the place worked its magic, lifting his heart. It was the first time that he’d ever arrived by car, let alone one with a smartly uniformed American driver.

  ‘My, how we’ve risen in the world,’ Monty gasped, as the car swooped around the courtyard, coming to a stop in front of the stone porch. ‘And this was where you lived for a couple of years? Where you invented it all?’

  Vic nodded. It reminded him of returning to school after an exeat: for twenty-four hours beforehand he’d have headaches and be too nervous to eat, but once he got there and saw his friends, it felt as though he’d never been away. To his relief, as they climbed out of the car and entered through the front porch, he saw no sign of Kath, nor any other WAAFs. They must all be at work or asleep in the new barracks they’d seen behind the clock house.

  As they sat in the panelled hallway waiting for the station commander to arrive, he recalled that very first day, how overawed he’d been by Watson-Watt’s palatial, leather-lined office, and how he’d tucked into leftover cake and biscuits as the big man described his astonishing vision.

  ‘It’s Mackensie and Montgomery, the two M’s, I’ll be bound. Come to the rescue, I hope.’ The commander’s voice boomed through the hall. ‘Come in, come in, you are most welcome. Would you care for coffee?’ He rang a bell, and a batwoman arrived to take their orders.

  Vic found himself sitting in the very same spot, on the very same overstuffed leather sofa in front of the manorial fireplace. ‘By golly, we’re pleased to see you,’ Padmore said, after the batwoman had left. ‘We’re in a bit of a fix with the IFF receiver. Stanmore’s shouting blue murder and the girls are going spare.’

  Vic glanced out of the window at the darkening sky. ‘You want us to fix it now, sir?’

  ‘There’s a big push on tonight, and we’ll need to count them back again tomorrow morning. Sooner you can fix it, the more likely you’ll save me from getting court-martialled,’ he added without the hint of a smile. ‘Just wait a sec while we get your passes. They’re a lot tighter on security than when you were here last, Mackensie. Get a bit jumpy around chaps in civvies. Oh, and you’ll need a room key. Here you go; it’s one of the guest rooms just above here.’

  The key fob said Room Six. The same one Vic had shared with Johnnie. Wish me luck with this one, old friend, he murmured as he turned the key.

  Of course he had no idea which of the radar systems Kath would be working on, or how the shift patterns worked, but as they made their way in darkness across the courtyard and past the clock house, he prayed that she would not be on duty tonight. He still hadn’t worked out how to react, should they meet. And how would she respond, on seeing him? She would be startled, of course, and it would be no surprise if she blanked him completely. Perhaps that would be for the best.

  He’d steeled himself for visiting the receiving room, dreading flashbacks to that overheated wooden shed with its new paint fumes on the terrible day when Johnnie died. But this enormous bunker, with its mingled smells of fresh concrete and cigarette smoke and the array of new pieces of kit that he’d helped to design, was astonishing – almost overwhelming.

  To his relief, all the faces were strangers. ‘We’ve come to look at the IFF system,’ he said. ‘How’s it doing?’

  ‘Bloody hopeless,’ one of the girls replied. ‘Hasn’t been working for twenty-four hours now. Hope you’re going to fix it?’ It was a posh voice, confident and imperious, the sort he remembered from the older boys at boarding school. Her face registered a flash of recognition. ‘Hold on a tick. Do I know you?’

  ‘Vikram Mackensie,’ he said. ‘How do you do?’

  Her eyes twinkled with an expression he could not quite discern. ‘Marcia Bonham. I am most pleased to meet you.’

  They quickly discovered that the problem lay not with the kit in the bunker but in the calibration of the receivers, although why on earth the RAF engineers on site could not have worked this out they didn’t ask. At the workshop they found two engineers huddled over a blazing pot-bellied stove in a fug of cigarette smoke. Vic tried to explain the problem.

  ‘You’ll need to go up the mast to fix it,’ he said.

  The pair looked blank. Vic knew they would be reluctant to take orders from civilians – indeed, they had the right to refuse – but it was worth trying. ‘The commander says it’s vital, lads. It must be fixed tonight.’

  ‘It can’t wait till morning,’ Monty added.

  ‘We’re not qualified,’ one said, clasping his mug. ‘Need to ask the boss.’

  ‘Then where is he?’ Vic snapped. ‘Go and find him at once.’

  The man shrugged and hauled himself up from the stool. ‘On leave. Sir. Back tomorrow. Sir.’ He gave an insolent half-salute.

  Vic and Monty exchanged glances. They had two alternatives: disturb the commander and ask him to order the engineers up the mast – and even then, have to trust that they wouldn’t make the problem worse – or…

  ‘It’ll have to be us, then,’ Monty said.

  ‘Ever done this before?’ Monty asked, peering up into the blackness from the base of the mast. The moon was half full and still visible, but a cloud bank was fast approaching from the east. They’d borrowed overalls, torches and a small bag of tools, now slung from his waist.

  ‘Just the once,’ Vic said, starting to climb the ladder, its rungs slick with damp. Go for it, old man, Johnnie whispered in his ear. One step at a time. No problem. He shouted encouragement to Monty, following close behind: ‘Nearly there, mate. Just a couple of dozen more steps.’

  Just as they arrived at the top,
the moon disappeared and Vic’s torch died. He cursed, giving it several whacks on his palm, but it made no difference. Monty’s was also fading fast.

  ‘Authorised procedure for batteries, revival of,’ Monty said, hugging the two torches in his armpits. It worked, and they revived just long enough for Vic to make the adjustments he hoped would bring the system back onto line.

  It was as they were feeling their way back down the ladder that they first felt the reverberations in the air. An almost imperceptible growl at first, it grew into a deafening roar that vibrated in their chests as wave after wave of heavy aircraft passed overhead, wing and tail lights a vast twinkling sky of red and white stars.

  ‘Go get ’em, boys,’ Monty shouted. ‘And come home safe.’

  ‘Are they Brits or Yanks, do you think?’ Vic asked.

  ‘Hard to tell in the dark. But they’re brave bastards either way.’

  In the receiving room, the screens were a blur of blips.

  ‘IFF working yet?’ Vic asked.

  ‘It’s impossible to tell with this lot going over all bunched together,’ Marcia said. ‘Thanks for having a go, anyway.’ She gave him that curious look again. ‘Excuse me, but… I have a feeling you might know my friend Kath Motts?’

  The sound of her name ran through his body like a jolt of electricity. He swallowed, trying to compose himself, to find the right response. ‘Indeed, yes. Please give Miss Motts my regards, should you see her.’

  ‘I’ll certainly pass it on,’ she said with a slight smile, before turning back to her screen.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ Monty asked.

  ‘Wait here, till they get a chance to test it.’

  ‘No point in us both staying up all night,’ Monty said after a moment. ‘I’ll take first shift. You go and get some shut-eye.’

  Vic checked his watch. It was already ten-thirty. Every bone in his body seemed to ache from the tension of the climb and trying to recalibrate the receiver in the darkness. ‘Are you sure? That’s a darned good offer.’