Blackout

by Connie Willis

  He was apparently an officer because he promptly took over the rope. “Kansas, help Jonathan get the gangway over to that dock,” the Commander ordered, and Mike complied, but the mole was too far above them, and, anyway, the soldiers had already taken matters in their own hands. They’d tied a ladder to the side and were climbing down it into the water and swimming over.

  “Rig another line for them,” the Commander ordered Jonathan, and began untying gas cans from the gunwales.

  “Here, let me do that,” Mike said, carrying the heavy cans aft. Refilling the Lady Jane’s gas tank was less likely to affect history than hauling up soldiers, some of whom wouldn’t have made it without help.

  “Give me your hand!” Jonathan shouted, leaning over the side. He came up with a soldier in full battle equipment, pack and helmet and all. “I thought you were a goner!” Jonathan said, grabbing him by the straps on his pack and heaving him over the side.

  “So did I!” the soldier said, dumping his pack on the deck and turning to help Jonathan heave the next soldier, and the next, on board. Mike emptied the gas cans into the tank and then tossed them overboard. They bobbed away among the planks and clothing and bodies. He went back for two more, stepping around the soldiers who littered the deck.

  They were continuing to clamber aboard. “It’s about time, guv’nor,” one of them said, flinging his leg over. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” But most of them didn’t say anything. They collapsed on the deck or sat down where they were, looking beaten and bewildered, their slack faces streaked with oil, their eyes bloodshot. None of them moved into the stern or onto the other side, and the deck began to tilt to port under their weight.

  “Shift ’em to starboard,” the Commander shouted at Mike, “or they’ll have us over. How many more are there, Jonathan?”

  “Only one,” Jonathan said, helping a soldier with a bandaged arm onto the deck. “That’s the lot.”

  For the moment, Mike thought, looking up the mole. He could see soldiers converging on the land end of it from all directions. If they got here, they’d swamp the boat, but the Commander was already starting the engine. “Cut the line,” he ordered Jonathan and pulled back on the throttle. The propeller began to turn and then stopped with a jerk.

  “Propeller’s fouled,” the Commander shouted. “Probably a rope.”

  “What do we need to do?” Jonathan asked.

  “One of you’ll have to go down and untangle it.”

  And Jonathan can’t swim, Mike thought. He looked desperately at the soldiers slumped on the deck, at the officer who’d taken over the task of hauling the soldiers up, hoping one of them would volunteer, but they weren’t in any condition to do anything, let alone go back in the water.

  Mike looked at Jonathan, who was bending over a soldier in a life jacket, unfastening its ties. The soldier didn’t resist, didn’t even seem to know Jonathan was there. Jonathan, who was fourteen years old and who would die if the propeller wasn’t unfouled, who would get his wish and be a hero in the war. I got my wish, too, Mike thought. I wanted to observe heroes, and here they are.

  Jonathan had succeeded in untying the life jacket. “I’ll go, Grandfather,” he said, putting it on.

  “No, I will,” Mike said, taking off his coat.

  “Take your shoes off,” the Commander ordered. Mike obeyed. “And watch for that flotsam in the water.”

  Jonathan thrust the cork life jacket into his hands, and Mike put it on and padded stocking-footed to the back of the boat. The Commander tied a line to the gunwale. “Down you go, Kansas. We’re counting on you.”

  “You’re sure the engine’s off?” Mike said. “I don’t want the propeller to suddenly start up,” and went over the side.

  The water hit him like an icy blow, and he gasped and swallowed water and then came up choking and clutching for the rope. “Are you all right?” Jonathan called down.

  “Yes,” he managed to say between coughs.

  “Grandfather says he’s stopped the engine.”

  Mike nodded and worked his way around to the propeller shaft. He took a huge breath and ducked under. And immediately bobbed back up. “What’s wrong?” Jonathan called.

  “It’s the life jacket,” Mike said, fumbling with the wet ties. “It won’t let me go under.” It seemed to take forever to get the ties unknotted and the jacket off. He let it float off, then thought, What if it gets tangled in the propeller? He went after it and tied it to the rope with numb fingers, then ducked under again.

  It was totally dark under the water. He felt for the propeller, lost hold of the side, and then his sense of direction. He pushed up, and his head banged against something. I’m under the boat, he thought, panicking, and surfaced.

  It wasn’t the boat. It was merely a floating plank, and he was right where he’d gone under, next to the side. “I can’t see anything,” he shouted up to Jonathan. “I’ve got to have a light.”

  “I’ll fetch a pocket torch,” Jonathan said and disappeared.

  Mike paddled alongside, waiting. Jonathan reappeared, carrying a flashlight. He shone it out across the water.

  “Shine it straight down on the propeller,” Mike ordered, pointing. Jonathan obeyed, and Mike took a breath and ducked under the water.

  He still couldn’t see anything. The flashlight lit a faint circle a few inches below the surface—no match for the oily water. He pushed back toward the surface. “We need something brighter,” he shouted up to Jonathan, and it was suddenly light all around him.

  He must have gone and gotten the signal lantern, Mike thought, and then, Oh, Christ, the Germans are dropping flares. Which meant in five minutes they’d be dropping bombs. But in the meantime, he could see the propeller, and around it, a bulky wad of cloth. Another overcoat. One end of the belt trailed loosely through the water. Mike grabbed hold of the propeller blade and reached forward to disentangle the sleeve.

  It fell away, and, oh, Christ, there was an arm in the sleeve, and what had fouled the propeller wasn’t a coat. It was a body. It and the coat were tangled in the blades so that it looked like it was embracing the propeller. Mike tugged gingerly at the arm. The other end of the belt was wrapped around the blade and the body’s hand. Mike unwound it, yanking on the end with the buckle to free it, and the soldier’s head flopped forward, his mouth full of black water.

  The greenish light was beginning to fade. Mike pulled the arm free of the blade, wondering how much longer he could hold his breath. He reached for the other arm. It wouldn’t come. He yanked on it, his lungs bursting. He yanked again.

  There was a flash and a shudder, and the body was flung violently against him, knocking the last of his air out of him. Don’t gasp, Mike thought, struggling to close his mouth. Don’t breathe till you surface. But he couldn’t surface. The loose tails of the belt had wrapped around his wrist, entangling him as they had the propeller, dragging him under. He grabbed frantically at the belt to loosen it.

  It unwound. He gave the body a violent push, and it fell away into the water, the belt trailing behind it like seaweed. Mike surfaced, choking. He couldn’t see the Lady Jane. There was no sign of her, of anything except black water and burning wood and bobbing gas cans. The sky lit up again, a nightmarish green, but he still couldn’t see her. Just the looming black outline of the cruiser, and, beyond it, the destroyer.

  I’m facing the wrong way, he thought, paddling in a circle to orient himself, and there was the Lady Jane, silhouetted against the burning town. Another flare fizzled down, illuminating Jonathan, still in the stern, waving the flashlight around erratically, searching for him.

  “I’m here!” Mike called, and Jonathan swung the flashlight out onto the water behind him. “Here!” Mike called again, and began to swim toward the boat. There was a whoosh, a blinding splash, and the water went up in a sheet of flame around him.

  The flying bomb is a weapon literally and essentially indiscriminate in its nature, purpose, and effect.

  —WINSTON CHU
RCHILL, 1944

  Dulwich—15 June 1944

  AT 11:35, FOUR MINUTES AFTER IT WAS SUPPOSED TO—though it seemed much longer to Mary—the alert finally sounded. “What’s happening?” Fairchild asked, sitting up in bed.

  “Nothing,” Talbot said. “Those horrid children have got at the siren again. Go back to sleep. It will stop in a bit.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Grenville said, burying her head in her pillow. “And let’s hope the Major realizes what it is. I can’t bear to spend the night in that wretched cellar,” but the siren continued its up-and-down whine.

  “What if it’s not a prank?” Maitland said, sitting up in bed and switching on her lamp. “What if Hitler’s surrendered and the war’s over?”

  “I do hope not,” Talbot murmured, her eyes shut. “I need to win that pool.”

  “It can’t be surrender,” Fairchild said. “They’d sound the all clear if it was the end of the war.”

  Shh, Mary thought, listening for the V-1. It was supposed to hit at 11:43 on Croxted Road, near the cricket grounds, which were directly west of here, so she should be able to hear it before it hit.

  The siren wound down. “Finally,” Talbot said. “If I get my hands on those brats—”

  Maitland switched off her lamp and lay back down. Mary ducked back under the covers, switched on her torch, and looked at her watch. 11:41. Two more minutes. She listened intently for the engine’s sound, but she couldn’t hear anything. A minute. She should be able to hear the V-1 coming by now. Their stuttering jet engines made them audible for several minutes before they reached their targets, and it should pass directly over the post.

  Thirty seconds, and still nothing. Oh, no, the V-1 isn’t going to hit Croxted Road, she thought. Which means I have the falsified times and locations, and my assignment has just become a ten.

  There was a loud crash like thunder to the west, followed by a rumbling that shook the room. “Good Lord, what was that?” Maitland said, fumbling for the lamp.

  Thank goodness, Mary thought, looking at her watch. 11:43. She hastily switched off her torch and emerged from under the covers.

  “Did you hear that?” Reed asked.

  “I did,” Maitland said. “It sounded like a plane. One of our boys must have crash-landed.”

  “Alerts don’t sound for downed planes,” Reed said. “I’ll wager it’s a UXB.”

  “It can’t have been a UXB,” Talbot said disdainfully. “How would they know in advance it was going to go off?”

  “Well, whatever it was, it was in our sector,” Maitland said, and the phone in the despatch room rang.

  A moment after, Camberley leaned her head in the door and said, “Plane down in West Dulwich.”

  “I told you it was a plane,” Maitland said, yanking on her boots. “Civil Defence must have seen it was on fire and sounded the alert.”

  “Where in West Dulwich?” Mary asked Camberley.

  “Near the cricket grounds. Croxted Road. There are casualties.”

  Thank God, Mary thought. Camberley disappeared. Maitland and Reed clapped their helmets on and hurried out. Camberley poked her head in again and said, “The Major says everyone not on duty’s to go down to the shelter.”

  “How many planes does she expect will crash tonight?” Talbot grumbled.

  A hundred and twenty, Mary thought, pulling on her robe. They trooped, grumbling, down to the cellar and then back up five minutes later when the all clear went, shrugged out of their robes, and got into bed. Mary did, too, even though she knew the siren would go again in another—she glanced at her watch—six minutes.

  It did. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Fairchild said, exasperated. “What are they on about now?”

  “It’s a Nazi plot to deprive us of our sleep,” Sutcliffe-Hythe said, flinging back her bedclothes, and there was a crump to the southeast. Croydon, Mary thought happily, and right on time.

  So was the next one, and the next, though none of them were close enough for her to be able to hear their engines. She wished again that she’d listened to a recording of one. She needed to be able to recognize the sound if she heard one coming when she was in Bomb Alley, but at least she knew what the explosions were. None of the other FANYs seemed to grasp the situation at all, even when Maitland and Reed returned from their incident with tales of flattened houses and widespread destruction. “The pilot must have crashed with all his bombs still onboard,” Reed said, even though they’d heard four other explosions by then.

  “Was it one of ours or theirs?” Sutcliffe-Hythe asked.

  “There wasn’t enough left of it to tell,” Maitland said, “but it must have been a German plane. If it was one of our boys coming back, they’d have already dropped their load. The incident officer said he’d heard it come over, and it had sounded like it was having engine trouble.”

  “Perhaps Hitler’s running out of petrol and is putting kerosene in their fuel tanks,” Reed said. “Coming back, we heard another one go over, stuttering and coughing.”

  There was another rumbling boom to the east. “At this rate, Hitler won’t have an air force left by tomorrow,” Talbot said.

  They’re not planes, Mary said silently, they’re unmanned rockets. And it was obvious she needn’t have worried about arriving too late to observe their pre-V-1 behavior—they were still exhibiting it.

  They went back almost immediately to discussing the dance Talbot was going to the Saturday after next. “I need someone to go with me,” she said. “Will you, Reed? There’ll be heaps of Americans there.”

  “Then, no, absolutely not. I hate Yanks. They’re all so conceited. And they step all over one’s feet,” and launched into a story about a dreadful American captain she’d met at the 400 Club. Even Camberley’s shouting down the cellar steps that there was another incident and Maitland and Reed’s hurrying off to it didn’t deter them. “Why would you want to go to a dance with a lot of Yanks, Talbot?” Parrish asked.

  “She wants one of them to fall madly in love with her and buy her a pair of nylons,” Fairchild said.

  “I think that’s disgraceful,” said Grenville, the one with the fiancé in Italy. “What about love?”

  “I’d love to have a new pair of stockings,” Talbot said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Parrish said, “but only if you’ll lend me your dotted swiss blouse to wear the next time I see Dickie.”

  It had never occurred to Mary that the FANYs wouldn’t tumble to what was going on once the rockets started—especially since, according to historical records, there’d been rumors since 1942 that Hitler was developing a secret weapon. Then again, historical records had said the siren had gone at 11:31.

  And they would realize soon enough. By the end of the week there’d be 250 V-1s coming over a day and nearly eight hundred dead. Let them enjoy their talk of men and frocks while they could. It wouldn’t last much longer. And it meant she was free to listen for the sirens and explosions and make certain they were on schedule.

  They were, except for one that should have hit at 2:09 but didn’t, and the last all clear of the night, which went at 5:40 instead of 5:15.

  “It hardly seems worthwhile to go to bed,” Fairchild said to Mary as they dragged back upstairs. “We go on duty at six.”

  But the sirens won’t start up again till half past nine, Mary thought, and there won’t be a V-1 in our sector till 11:39. I hope.

  She was worried about the one that hadn’t hit at 2:09. It was supposed to have fallen in Waring Lane, which was even nearer than the cricket grounds. They should have been able to hear it.

  Which meant it must have landed somewhere else. That fit with British Intelligence’s deception plan. On the other hand, the 2:09 was the only one that hadn’t been at the right time and—as near as she could tell—in the right place, which meant it could also be only an error. Though a single error was all it would take to end her assignment abruptly. And permanently.

  She was relieved when the 9:30 siren and the 11:39 V-1 we
re on schedule and even more when she saw the V-1 had hit the house it was supposed to—though when she saw the destruction, she felt guilty for having been so happy. Luckily, there were no casualties. “We’d only just left the house, me and the wife and our three girls,” the house’s owner told her, “to go to my aunt’s.”

  “It’s her birthday, you see,” his wife said. “Wasn’t that lucky?”

  Their house had been blown so completely apart it was impossible to tell if it had been made of wood or of brick, but Mary agreed with them that it was incredibly lucky.

  “If the bomber’d crashed five minutes earlier, we’d all have been killed,” the husband said. “What was it? A Dornier?” Which meant they still thought all these explosions were caused by crashing planes.

  But when they got back to the post, Reed greeted them with, “The general I drove to Biggin Hill this morning says the Germans have a new weapon. It’s a glider with bombs which go off automatically when it lands.”

  “But a glider wouldn’t make any noise,” Parrish, who was on despatch duty, said. “And Croydon says they heard two come over this morning and they both had the same stuttering engines Maitland and Reed heard.”

  “Well,” Talbot said, “whatever they are, I hope Hitler hasn’t got very many of them.”

  Only fifty thousand, Mary thought.

  “I drove a lieutenant commander last week,” Reed said, “who said the Germans were working on—” She stopped as the siren sounded and they all trooped down to the cellar. “—on a new weapon. An invisible plane. He said they’d invented a special paint which can’t be seen by our defenses.”

  “If our defenses can’t see them, then why do the sirens sound?” Grenville asked, and Fairchild said, “If they can make them invisible, one would think they could make them silent as well, so we wouldn’t hear them coming.”

  They have, Mary thought. It’s called the V-2. They’ll begin firing them in September, by which time surely it’ll have dawned on you that these are rockets and not gliders or invisible planes.