Bluebirds (37 page)

A huge piece of roofing had smashed through the edge of the plotting table on the other side. She stepped past carefully and then saw the bottom part of a pair of legs protruding from underneath. She stared at them. They were stockinged legs with black WAAF shoes and the puddle of bright red blood oozing slowly from beneath them was mingling with the dust on the floor. The legs were covered with dust too, and bent at an odd angle, but even so she had no difficulty in recognizing the fine Kayser Bondor stockings that Pamela always wore, or in spotting the deep scratch on the right toe cap that she had tried so hard to polish out.

The warrant officer tugged at her hand gently. ‘Come along now, lass. You'll be much better out in the fresh
air. Don't you worry, we'll see to all this. Just leave it to us.'

Anne, lying in pitch darkness, could hear the sounds of the rescuers working above – the chink of spades and shovels, the thudding of earth, the faint sound of voices. She could feel space around her, air to breathe, and her groping hand contacted a section of shelter wall still standing firm. She groped further, sweeping from one side to the other, and came across the upturned potato bucket and then something small and sharp – the cook's knife. She could hear the cook groaning and cursing somewhere close in her Liverpool accent, and sounding very much alive. Now, other sounds came out of the blackness – more groans, more curses, some sobs and even a nervous giggle, which was very probably Sandra. Somebody called out heartily, as though on the hockey pitch.

‘I say, is everybody all right?'

‘I'm bloody well not,' another voice replied sourly. ‘I think both my legs are broken.'

Whoever she was, she sounded very calm about it.

‘Whatever happened?' a breathy voice squeaked. Even in this situation, Sandra was asking her questions.

‘A bomb dropped on us, you silly fool,' the owner of the broken legs told her tersely. ‘What the hell do you think happened? The shelter's collapsed on us.'

‘They're certainly taking their time getting us out. However much longer are they going to be?'

Anne smiled. That was Maureen, grumbling as usual. Just as well Gloria wasn't here too or they'd have been fighting like cats.

She called out: ‘It won't be long. I can hear them at this end. They're almost through, I think.'

‘Oh, Anne!' Sandra gasped. ‘It's
you
! Thank goodness! I'm so
awfully
glad!'

Winnie could hear them all calling to each other at the far end of the shelter, but the voices were muffled and distant. Part of the roof must have fallen in, between them and her, she guessed. There was no way of telling properly because, apart from the darkness, she couldn't move. At least, she found she could move her upper body, but the lower half was buried deep in earth. It wasn't painful, or even specially uncomfortable, but she couldn't get up from where she was lying. All she could do was feel about with her hands, which she had been doing for quite a while, trying to find Enid. There was nothing around her but earth and stones. She kept calling her name but there was no answer. After a bit she gave up and lay quietly, suspended in a tranquil limbo. Nothing seemed to matter very much – except that she could not find Enid. If she waited here patiently, they would come and rescue her soon. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again she saw a small round hole of daylight above her. She watched as it grew bigger and bigger until a face appeared in it, squinting and blinking down at her. She smiled at it.

‘Blimey! There's one alive down 'ere. Looks OK . . .'

The face disappeared for a moment and she could hear some kind of discussion going on. Then another face appeared and did more squinting at her. It grinned.

‘Soon 'ave you out of there, love. Just 'ang on a bit longer. We're goin' to 'ave to go a bit careful, so's we don't shift anythin'. You just stay there nice and quiet and don't move.'

She smiled again at that. It was funny when she couldn't anyway.

The hole grew steadily larger and presently she could see a big bit of blue sky. It was a surprise to see the sun shining quite normally and white clouds going past. From time to time the men spoke to her, asking her name, where she lived, how many brothers and sisters she had, making all sorts of jokes . . . And they kept on telling her to
be sure to lie still. They seemed to be digging from the side now.

‘Not long now, Winnie, love. 'ave you out of there in two ticks . . .'

There was more digging, the feeling of a great weight gradually lifting from her body and legs, hands reaching her and holding her, moving her gently, lifting her up and out into the bright daylight and fresh air. She looked up from a stretcher at a circle of smiling faces. Two of them she recognized – Section Officer Newman who tucked the blanket round her and wiped her face, and Taffy Jones who was the only one not smiling. He was gripping her hand and swearing under his breath. He looked angry, not pleased. She could see a murderous fury in his strange eyes.

She said to him: ‘Enid? Where's Enid? She was with me. Have they got her out too?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘They've got her out.'

She searched his face. ‘She's dead, isn't she? I know she is.'

He nodded. ‘Sorry, Winnie. Her and another one in there. We did our best . . . It's a miracle it wasn't more . . . the whole blooming lot of you.'

She squeezed her eyes shut and, turning away from him, began, quite silently, to cry.

There was no need to open the door to the WAAF hut: it had been blown clean off its hinges. Felicity. stood in the doorway and stared at the devastation inside.

Machine-gun bullets had ripped down both rows of beds, tearing through the piles of bedding and scattering them like washing blown from a line. A neat line of bullet-holes punctured one of the locker doors and others, blasted wide open, had spewed forth their contents. Window glass lay in sharp and glittering fragments at her feet and, raising her head, she saw the sky through a gaping hole in the roof. She stooped slowly to pick up
a snapshot half buried in the glass – a picture of a young sailor in able seaman's uniform, hands behind his back, squinting into the sun.

By early evening Palmer had a full report of the death toll and damage. Thirty service personnel had been killed, and two civilians. Among those thirty were three WAAFS – two who had been in the shelter and one in the Ops Block when a five hundred pound bomb had gone through the roof. At least fifty more personnel, airmen and airwomen, had received injuries ranging from serious to trivial. The damage to the station had been extensive. All gas, water and electricity supplies had been cut, as well as telephone lines – though, mercifully, not all of those. Two hangars had been totally destroyed and a third severely damaged by fire. Many buildings had been reduced to rubble and those left standing had lost windows, doors and roof tiles. Six Blenheims, four Spitfires, a Hurricane and a Magister had been destroyed on the ground, together with nearly forty motor vehicles. Four more Spitfires had been lost in the air, three of them with their pilots. The runways were a mass of craters.

He immediately set about organizing the necessary repair work. All able-bodied personnel were to help fill in the bomb craters and that included, most
especially
included, so far as Palmer was concerned, the captured crews from the enemy aircraft brought down who were languishing in the guardroom. He took considerable satisfaction in seeing the Germans being marched briskly past his glassless window for this purpose. Some time later, he witnessed a detachment of WAAFS also marching past in the same direction, carrying heavy shovels for the same purpose. They were perfectly in step, shoulders back, heads held high. A group of airmen took their caps off to them and raised a mighty cheer.

Later, he sent for Section Officer Newman. When she came into the office he saw that there was a dressing
now over her left temple. She looked pale, he thought, but calm. He told her to sit down.

He cleared his throat. ‘I want you to know, Section Officer, that I sent a signal to Fighter Command HQ today, informing them of the exemplary and outstandingly brave conduct of all the WAAF on this station under heavy enemy bombardment.'

A startled blush appeared beneath her pallor. ‘Thank you, sir.'

‘And I received this signal back just now. I'd like you to read it.'

He handed the piece of paper over and watched the blush deepen as she read the words.

The C-in-C has heard with pride and satisfaction the manner in which WAAF at RAF Colston conducted themselves under fire today. They have abundantly justified his confidence in them.

She looked up and returned the signal to him. She said quietly: ‘Thank you, sir.'

Her eyes, meeting his, were very bright. He thought she was on the point of tears. He looked away.

‘I want to add my own congratulations to Air Chief Marshal Dowding's. All WAAF personnel stood to their posts today in a magnificent way. And you yourself, Section Officer, set a very fine example. I understand you put yourself at considerable risk during the raid bringing one of your young airwomen to safety . . . I imagine that's how you got that injury. I'm glad to see you've had it dressed. Nothing too serious. I hope.'

‘No, sir. The MO stitched it for me.'

‘Good, good.' He went on, determined to do full penance. ‘As I know you are well aware, I was not, initially, at all keen on the idea of women serving on this station . . .' She was looking at some point on the wall over his shoulder now, as she so often did. He pressed on doggedly. ‘I have to say that I
still
have some reservations – in certain areas, at least. I
dare say I'm old-fashioned, but I find it very hard to accept the idea of women being so closely involved in active military affairs. I deplore the death of those three airwomen. It seems utterly wrong to me. Goes quite against the grain.'

‘I understand how you feel, sir.'

He wished she would look at him. ‘However, I was quite wrong about one thing. I was convinced, I must admit, that the WAAF would panic under bombardment – cause us enormous distractions and difficulties . . . That has proved to be completely unfounded and I'm happy to acknowledge it.'

She transferred her gaze from the wall to meet his. ‘Thank you, sir.'

He said steadily: ‘I have nothing but praise for you all and for the calm way in which you conducted yourselves. As for that airwoman who stayed at her Ops Room switchboard throughout the entire raid at such great peril . . . what was her name?'

‘Gibbs, sir. Aircraftwoman Gloria Gibbs.'

‘Yes, well, I understand the ceiling was half down and there was an unexploded bomb within feet of her, and yet she kept vital communication lines open for us. I shall see to it that she is recommended for a medal.'

‘I'm so glad, sir. She thoroughly deserves it.'

She was not only looking at him now, she was smiling too. The first time, he could swear, that she had ever done so. He smiled back. ‘On a more prosaic, but nonetheless important note, I hear your WAAF cooks have been doing sterling work producing an excellent supper for everyone without any water, gas or electricity supplies.'

‘Just sausages and mash, sir.'

‘Sounds splendid! I shall look forward to having some myself later.'

He could hear himself sounding falsely jocular and patronizing – bloody pompous, Caroline would have
said – but he could not help himself. He changed tack briskly.

‘I'm afraid we have to face the fact that there will be more attacks, Section Officer. The enemy are obviously planning to do their best to disable our forward fighter stations. In the circumstances, we're going to have to billet personnel away from the station – disperse ourselves and our aircraft as much as possible.'

‘I can see that, sir.'

‘I'm moving over to the Mess myself and arranging for you to have the use of my house for as many of your WAAF as you can fit in there for tonight. They'll have to sleep on the floor, I'm afraid, but I'm sure you'll make them as comfortable as you can.'

‘That's very good of you, sir.'

‘It isn't good of me at all, Section Officer. It's the least I can do, since all your buildings have been damaged. As to the rest of your airwomen, Sir Reginald and Lady Howard have been kind enough to offer some space at Eastleigh House . . .' He smiled drily. ‘As a matter of fact, they hadn't much option as the house is being requisitioned anyway. Tomorrow we'll have to start sorting ourselves out properly and dealing with the funeral arrangements and so on . . .'

‘Is there anything I can do to help now, sir?'

‘Not tonight. You've got enough to cope with, and you look very tired already.' She was very pale again. ‘That's all for the moment.'

She stood up. ‘I believe I should congratulate you, too, sir.'

‘Me?'

‘I hear you brought down a Junkers, sir. That's what everyone's saying.'

She smiled at him again as she spoke and he felt himself reddening like a schoolboy. He picked up his pen and pulled some papers busily towards him.

‘Just a fluke, Section Officer. Just a fluke.'

He sat up late into the night, sending telegraphs and writing letters of condolence. After a couple of hours of fitful sleep he was up again, ready to face the new day. He went out onto the Mess terrace, broken glass crunching beneath his feet, and surveyed the ruins of his station. Dawn had broken, the birds were singing, and there was a mist rising off the ground. It was going to be hot. Signals Section had worked through the night to restore all telephone links. Electricity was back on and gas and water would follow shortly, with any luck. The craters had all been filled in and the runways were operational. In the distance he could hear a fighter being run up.