Bluebirds (29 page)

‘He gave it to you because it was your job, Cunningham. Skinning and cleaning game may not be very pleasant, I agree, but it's all part of kitchen work. If we all refused to do something just because we didn't fancy it there would soon be anarchy.'

‘We had no idea how to do the job, in any case, ma'am.'

‘That's absolutely no excuse, and no defence. Corporal Fowler has told us that he would have shown you and you would have learned something. There's no excuse at all for
any
of your misdemeanours over the past months. One week confined to camp and extra duties. Sergeant Beaty, you will assign punishment fatigues, please. Dismissed.'

Later, to Anne's surprise, she sent for her again, on her own. Her tone was quite different.

‘Sit down, Cunningham, I want to talk to you. As I have told you before, I believe you're capable of far more demanding and responsible work than you are presently doing. Perhaps, if you are given it, you may turn over a new leaf. Squadron Leader Signals has asked
for three WAAFS to train as radio-telephony operators in the Ops Room. I'm proposing to put you forward as one of them.'

Anne was taken aback. ‘Thank you, ma'am.'

‘You would be replacing the men, once they'd trained you, and you'd be the first WAAFS to do the job. You would also be reclassified as aircraftwoman first class, so there would be a pay increase too. I have to tell you that there's some doubt about our suitability for the job. They're afraid the pilots may lack confidence in a woman's voice, and they wonder if we'll get the technical terms right. I'm counting on you to show them they're wrong.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

Section Officer Newman smiled her nice smile. She really was pretty decent . . .

‘Good. But please understand there will be no room for slackness or fooling around, or for disobedience of any kind. You will be concerned with men's safety, and with their lives, not what they eat for lunch.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘Very well, that's all.'

‘Thank you, ma'am.'

‘And Cunningham –'

‘Ma'am?'

‘I've taken a chance on you . . . stuck my neck out . . . don't let me down.'

The Radio-Telephony cabins were at the back of the Ops Room – small, stuffy cells in which two operators worked side by side. Anne's partner and instructor was a leading aircraftman nicknamed Lofty because he was so short. He fitted the headphones over her ears and showed her how to tune in on the RT set and how to move the lever to transmit. He indicated the upright mouthpiece in front of her that looked rather like an old-fashioned telephone.

‘You speak into this, see. Very clearly. You'll soon get
the 'ang of it. Just remember to write every word down in the log, and you can't go wrong.'

At first she found it very hard to understand the crackling, staccato voices coming into the headphones from miles away up in the skies. And the exaggerated way she was supposed to speak sounded silly:
Niner
for nine,
fife
for five,
foah
for four.

‘It's so there's no misunderstandin', see,' Lofty informed her. ‘Nine and five, f'r instance, can sound just the same over the RT. You gotta talk like a toff with an 'ot plum in 'is mouth, so's they get it.'

The first time she said anything over the set there was a moment's stunned silence from the Spitfire wanting a course for base.

‘Christ, a popsy! Or are my ears deceiving me? What the bloody hell's going on down there? Over.'

She repeated her message primly. ‘Hallo Beetle Blue Two. Steer zero-two-zero. Over.'

The pilot's laughter hooted in her ears. ‘I say, bang on! What's your name? And what are you doing for dinner tonight? Over.'

Father had been right. The Germans had done more or less exactly as he had predicted. Felicity got up from her desk to open the window. It was a beautiful May morning and the birds were singing their hearts out. The only warlike sounds came from out on the 'drome, in the distance, where the new concrete runway was being built, long enough to take bombers, if necessary. She watched two flight lieutenants stroll past, chatting together as though they hadn't a care in the world . . . as though none of the terrible events of the past month had happened, as though there was nothing to worry about. They were laughing at some joke as they turned the corner out of sight.

It was hard to believe, on such a lovely morning, that things could be so bad: first Norway and Denmark invaded by the Germans, then Belgium and Holland, and then the Germans breaking through the Ardennes
and storming their way in tanks across France, driving the French and British troops back towards the coast. Rotterdam had been bombed flat and heaven only knew what sort of carnage was taking place at this moment on the other side of the Channel. Nobody seemed to know what was happening to the RAF squadrons over there, in the thick of it all.

George nudged her with his nose. He was looking up at her uneasily and gave an anxious whine. She bent to stroke his head.

‘Do you realize what's happening, Pearl? The whole of the British Expeditionary Force is trapped on the coast, completely surrounded by the Germans . . . and Kit's with them.'

‘Steady on, Anne, love. They say the Navy are going to try and get them off the beaches and bring them home. Kit'll be all right. He's with that posh regiment and they'll know what to do.'

‘But there must be
thousands
of them. They'll never manage to get them all back.'

‘Keep your pecker up, duckie. Never say die.'

‘Oh, Pearl, if anything happens to him –'

‘Don't even think about it. It won't. Come on, let's go and cheer ourselves up with a cup of NAAFI nectar.'

Winnie found Enid sitting crying on her bed.

‘The Germans are going to invade us, Winnie. They're going to bomb us all to bits now they can fly over from France, and then they're going to invade us.'

‘No, they're not, Enid. They're not goin' to do any such thing. Lots of our soldiers have got back, haven't you heard? Hundreds of ships went over to fetch them. We've still got an army to defend us. And the Navy. And the RAF.'

‘But I heard some of the men talking and they said we're finished. Had our chips, that's what they said. All our tanks and guns and things have got left behind in
France, and we've lost ever so many 'planes. We've got nothing left to fight with.'

‘Yes, we have. They'll soon make more guns and tanks in the factories, and we've still got plenty of 'planes over here.'

‘But the Germans have got lots more than us – I heard those men saying so.'

‘Well, they shouldn't be sayin' such things, Enid, and you shouldn't listen to them. They don't know what they're talkin' about. Besides, we've got Mr Churchill lookin' after things now and he won't let the Germans invade. He says we're going to fight and we'll never surrender.'

Enid had stopped crying. She sniffed.

‘Oh,
him
,' she said. ‘What can
he
do about it?'

Churchill's voice on the wireless was grave. ‘
The news from France is very bad and I grieve for the gallant French people who have fallen into this terrible misfortune . . . We have become the sole champions now in arms to defend the world cause. We shall do our best to be worthy of this high honour.'

‘Cor,' said Gloria, filing her nails. ‘That's torn it! Just us left alone against the bloody Jerries. Some honour!'

Vera's eyes were shining. ‘We shall stand alone and defend our beloved country t-to the death!'

‘Speak for yourself. I'm not bloody getting killed if I can 'elp it.'

‘You know what'll happen to us WAAFS if the Germans do invade England, d-don't you, Gloria? One of the erks told me. We'll all be raped by ten s-storm troopers!'

‘Only ten? What a shame! Just think of that, Maureen . . . something for you to look forward to. You'll be 'aving the bloody time of your life.'

Winnie was sitting in a corner of the WAAF recreation room, struggling with her knitting. She was halfway through a scarf and somehow it looked all wrong. The edges had gone wavy and a hole had suddenly appeared
in the very middle. She had begun with thirty stitches and now for some mysterious reason she had thirty-six. She had stopped knitting to listen to Mr Churchill speaking and then she had listened with half an ear to Vera talking about what the airman had told her and Gloria teasing Maureen, while she re-counted the stitches. There were plenty of horror stories like that circulating and anyone could see that things were serious. The army had sent extra men to help guard the station and there were guns everywhere. Almost every day there was a parachutist scare and one of the soldiers had shot some poor sheep dead in mistake for a German. Lots more trenches had been dug and there were roadblocks on all the roads outside the gates. The last time she had been on the bus into town she had seen the concrete pillboxes, and things dotted all over the fields to stop enemy gliders landing – wrecked motor cars, old farm machinery and carts, kitchen ranges, prams and bedsteads . . . all sorts like that. The woman sitting next to her had said that every single signpost had been taken down, all over England, so the Germans couldn't use them to find their way.

Ken had written to tell her that he had joined something called the Local Defence Volunteers. He'd sounded very excited. Mr Eden had broadcast about it on the wireless, he'd said, and that same day every man left in Elmbury had gone straight to volunteer, even old Ebenezer Stannard who must be near ninety. They'd been given armbands and tin hats and they drilled every week on Friday nights in the village hall. They didn't have rifles yet, only some twelve bores and pitchforks and Colonel Foster's punt gun. Some of them drilled with knives tied on the end of broomstick handles – just 'til they got the real thing.

She wasn't frightened for herself, no matter what stories the airmen told, but she was frightened for Ken, and for Mum and Dad, and Gran and Ruth and Laura. They were all in danger too. Ken could get himself shot, trying to be brave with all those old men. And Dad was as much of a
worry as the Germans. On the day when war had been declared and they'd been working out in the barn, just the two of them, he'd sworn that if ever the Germans invaded England he'd take his shotgun and shoot the whole family.
You'd be better off dead, you women, if the Germans ever got you.
She had not known whether or not to take him seriously but before she had left home she had taken all the spare cartridges she could find and buried them.

She made it thirty-five stitches this time, and that looked like it might be another hole there . . . How ever did Maureen manage to knit so fast without even looking at her needles? It was hopeless. The only thing to do was unravel all the rows back to past the big hole and try again.

They'd switched off the wireless now and Gloria had wound up the gramophone and was putting on a record. It was
Ramona
yet again – she nearly always picked that one, which drove Maureen mad.

Anne had just come into the room. She looked different these days somehow . . . more serious, and she didn't lark about nearly as much. She'd been so worried about her twin brother who'd been trapped with all the troops in France. Once she'd heard Anne crying very quietly at night. His name was Kit, short for Christopher, and Anne kept a beautiful, framed photograph of him in her locker. He looked a lot like her, with the same eyes and smile, and very handsome. The whole hut had been worried about him, but then the news had come through at last that he was safe in a hospital near Dover. Wounded, but alive. Everyone had been relieved and happy for her.

Winnie pulled at the wool, unravelling the scarf back to near the beginning, then she picked up the stitches and counted them carefully again. This time there were thirty, so that was all right. She started again doggedly with a row of plain. Gloria had put
Ramona
on another time and was dancing round the room, ignoring Maureen who was complaining from her corner. Anne and Vera
had begun a game of ping pong and some of the others were laughing at a cartoon in a magazine . . . You'd never guess, to look at them all, that things were so bad.

AS JULY FOLLOWED
June it seemed to Virginia that the whole of England was holding its breath, and waiting. Invasion was expected at any time. Rumours spread and multiplied. The bodies of hundreds of dead German soldiers were said to have been found floating in the Channel; Hitler had a new secret weapon that could annihilate the whole population; the King and Queen were fleeing to Canada; German spies were everywhere, and enemy parachutists had already landed in Cornwall.

In the Ops Room the plotters' knitting had long since been put away and the atmosphere was electrically tense. The enemy attacks on Channel shipping and convoys were increasing and hostile plots swarmed across the map, advancing from northern France where the Luftwaffe had now taken over the French aerodromes. As Colston fighters scrambled to attack, the voices of their pilots could be heard in the Ops Room over the R/T loudspeaker.

‘Hallo Beehive, this is Nutmeg leader calling . . .'

The controller's response was always calm. ‘Hallo, Nutmeg leader. Vector one-five-zero. Twenty plus bandits are approaching you from the east, angels one-eight. Over.'

Staccato exchanges between the pilots crackled over the loudspeaker as they searched for the enemy aircraft, until the jubilant cry of
Tally ho
! The confused sounds of the ensuing battle were relayed into the Ops Room with harrowing clarity – the stutter of guns, the shouts of triumph, the swearing and cursing, the cries of warning . . .

‘Look out behind you, Red Two!
On your tail!
'