Daisy's Wars

by Meg Henderson

  ‘After what we’ve just seen and what the driver told us, you have to wonder where her head is, don’t you?’ Dotty said testily. ‘What a bitch!’

  ‘Well, at least we know one thing,’ said Daisy with feeling. ‘Avoid WAAF officers here at all times.’

  Then they went their separate ways, Dotty to the medical unit and Daisy to the tower, the Watch Room where she had met the Squadron Leader a few days earlier. It was just beginning to get dark, so the room was gearing up for another night of operations and the atmosphere was anxious and taut.

  ‘Ah,’ the Squadron Leader smiled brightly at her, ‘you’re back! Good leave? Jolly-D, that’s the ticket, ticketty-boo.’

  ‘You left out “wizzo”,’ Daisy thought wryly.

  ‘Now this is Reg, he’ll explain procedure to you and act as your instructor.’

  Daisy shook hands with Reg, an airman of about thirty, fair hair becoming sparse, grey eyes, nice, shy smile. Married with a couple of kids, she imagined, the kind of man born to be a husband and father.

  ‘I’ll explain our shift patterns now, Daisy,’ Reg said quietly, indicating a seat to his right. ‘Best get the nasty stuff out of the way first, I always think.’

  Daisy looked at his station and saw a snap of his wife and children, a boy and a girl.

  ‘My family,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Lovely,’ she replied, sitting down.

  ‘Yes, they are, rather,’ he smiled, then pulled himself back to business. ‘You’ll have a four-hour watch, a break, then an eight-hour watch, and if there are enough operators to cover, you can have a day off between each twelve-hour day and the next. If not, every third day after an eight-hour day, week in, week out.’

  ‘Week in, week out,’ she grinned.

  ‘Apart from leave, of course,’ he laughed.

  ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’

  ‘I do, actually, now you come to mention it!’ he chuckled, smoothing down what was left of his hair.

  ‘Incoming calls from aircraft have to be answered in the officially set-out manner. We have a local-range microphone and a long-range one. You give the strength of the signal back to the plane, so that the aircrew know how good their contact is. – “Strength Two” is very faint, “Strength Nine” – a niner – is the loudest, and all conversations have to be logged. On the wall there is a special loudspeaker tuned to Bomber Command’s ‘Darky’ frequency, that’s for aircraft in trouble who can’t make it back to their own home base and have to find somewhere to land quickly. We don’t get many, but if we do it takes priority and has to be answered immediately. The first thing you say is “This is Langar” – so that the crew know where they are.’

  ‘You make it all sound so routine,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Well, it’s not, Daisy,’ he replied seriously, ‘it’s never that. You’ll find that this job takes its toll on you. Don’t expect it to be easy.’

  ‘Cripes!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean to put the frighteners on you,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I just think it’s best to be prepared.’

  She nodded. Looking out of the tower she could see the planes already queued up on the runway waiting for clearance to take off, an amazing, overwhelming sight. The great lumbering machines patiently moved up the line as the one in front took to the sky.

  ‘This board,’ Reg explained, ‘lists each plane’s identification and its estimated times of takeoff and return. The names of the crews are there too.’ He didn’t dwell on that and there was silence. ‘We preserve radio silence before takeoff,’ he said, watching the planes on the runway. ‘They’re bound for Germany tonight. Have you been on an operational station before?’

  Daisy shook her head.

  He pointed to a lorry by the tarmac. ‘That’s delivering pigeons,’ he said. ‘If a plane ditches, a message of its last-known position can be sent by pigeon – if there’s time and if any of the birds have survived.’ He paused. ‘And, of course, if any of the crew have.’

  ‘One of my friends works with the pigeons,’ she said, wondering if Celia was one of the dark little figures scurrying about down there. ‘She thinks it’s the most important job in the RAF.’

  ‘Well, she’d have to, we all have to, don’t we?’ he replied quietly. He pointed to another lorry with a red cross on the side. ‘That’s the medical orderlies on Drome Duty. They’re handing out boxes of tablets to the crews to keep them awake on the return journey.’

  Was Dotty part of that side of the operation? Daisy wondered. Funny to think of all the different things the girls were doing, it made you feel part of it all.

  ‘They stay in position until takeoff is completed.’ He turned to look at her. ‘You never know,’ he said, ‘could be a situation where every second counts. They go back to Station Sick Quarters, then back here again when the planes are expected, to count them all in and take the injured to the SSQ.’ He pointed out the WAAFs lining the runway. ‘Every spare WAAF stands on the airstrip to cheer the boys as they leave. Not that they can hear them over the engines, but the boys say it means a lot to them.’

  The lumbering planes, heavy with bombs, taxied and then stopped for a second before revving up and gathering speed for takeoff.

  ‘And you’ll always see the odd one standing by herself,’ Reg smiled, pointing again. She’ll be watching her special boy take off. Sometimes they’ll have a scarf, a hankie or some other keepsake in their hands, and he’ll have something of hers, a silk stocking, a letter, anything that might bring him safely back home.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just a superstition, as old as the ages, though they all think they’ve invented it. If you’ve left something behind then you have to return to reclaim it, right?’

  ‘And if your special girl has given you a keepsake, you have to live to bring it back to her,’ Daisy nodded, and to her shock the thought that popped into her mind then was of Dotty carrying something of Frank’s as a talisman, and the next thought was that for some stupid, inexplicable reason she felt hurt by that. She was still trying to banish the thought from her mind when Reg took a break. There was a tap on her shoulder and a hand appeared.

  ‘Edith Turner,’ a solemn voice announced. ‘Shake hands.’

  ‘Yes,’ Daisy said, leaping up to hug her, ‘I thought the face looked familiar! Have we met before?’

  ‘Didn’t I see you at a party in London once with two Yanks?’ Edith joked.

  ‘I only had one, a strange, frightened rabbit of a girl had his chum, as I recall!’ Daisy laughed. ‘So, how was your leave?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno, Daisy,’ Edith said, sitting in Reg’s seat. ‘It’s all so strange. You spend all your time on duty thinking of the wonderful things you’ll do when you see your family, you know?’

  Daisy nodded wordlessly.

  ‘Then when you get there, well, you’re bored, somehow. It’s lovely to see them, of course, but after you’ve said hello you’re counting the days till you can get away again. I feel bad about it, but there we are. My father told me off for saying damn, and I felt like walking out. Of my own home, mark you, where I’ve grown up and all that. I almost called him an erk!’

  ‘You?’ Daisy laughed. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Edith grinned wryly. ‘But I did think it could stand me in good stead later, when he’s trying to browbeat me again into becoming a doctor! Anyway, this job’s a piece of cake once you get used to it, so don’t worry about it. If you feel tired it’s OK to wrap yourself in a blanket and have a doze,’ she suggested. ‘There won’t be anything much to do till the boys are on the return leg. This is your first night-duty, it takes a while to get used to it.’

  Daisy knew she had a lot to learn and was glad Edith had got here before her. It was always better to learn from a real friend.

  ‘When the mission’s finished, the first aircraft over the coast on the return journey will call in,’ Edith explained. ‘As it nears home it will come into local frequency and we’ll land it under instructions from
the Control Officer. Priority is always given to planes with wounded on board, and the fire and ambulance crews will be waiting for them as they land.’

  ‘Does that happen often?’ Daisy asked. ‘Injured coming in, I mean.’

  ‘Pretty often,’ Edith said quietly. ‘As soon as they land the uninjured crew are taken to be debriefed by intelligence officers, though you wonder how much info they can pass on, given the state of them. Doesn’t matter how many “stay awake” tablets they’ve swallowed, they’re usually too mentally and physically done-in to pass on anything meaningful, but them’s the rules.’

  ‘So what do we do when all the planes are safely back?’ Daisy asked.

  ‘Well, they don’t all come safely back,’ Edith replied. ‘We know which ones are still missing from the board there with their details, so we sit up all night, listening for any Mayday calls. Sometimes we get a call from another base to say one of our crews has emergency-landed there, but when all hope has gone we’ll be ordered to wipe the names of the lost from the board and stand down for the night. That’s the hardest part,’ she said quietly, ‘wiping the names from the board. It’s like erasing them; actually condemning them not to return. I don’t think you ever get used to that part, so if you find it upsetting, don’t worry, we all do, just don’t let it show.’

  Whatever Daisy had thought her job might entail, however exciting she’d imagined it could be, that first session of instruction brought home to her how daunting it would be, and the impact was all the more intense for the calm, ordinary manner of those already doing it. Although she would have expected that from Edith in any situation, bar being told off by her father for swearing. There was no overdramatising up in the tower, it was a crucial job. The lives of men who had already been shot at from the ground and from the air would depend on these people doing their jobs properly, and so the details had to be clear, calm and logical. Still, sitting in there that first night, trying to watch, learn and listen, she wondered if the world of passing forms around, typing and filing, had been so bad after all.

  Added to Daisy’s work in the tower was the ever-present threat of an air raid, as the Germans tried to destroy as many planes as they could. There were terrible tales about these raids. Those not engaged in landing planes were supposed to head for slit trenches if the base came under attack, and, shortly before Daisy had arrived at Langar, some NAAFI workers and a sergeant pilot had done just that, but there had been a direct hit where they were sheltering and all were killed.

  Thankfully, Daisy had been in the job for a month before she experienced her first raid. The planes were returning from a mission and were being landed when the warning Red came through. Immediately the airfield lights were doused, leaving weary bomber crews to circle aloft in the darkness.

  ‘It’s a lone German aircraft dropping a stick of bombs,’ said the Squadron Leader calmly; but sitting in the tower, listening as each explosion came nearer, Daisy wondered what reassurance this could possibly be. She was convinced she was about to die, they all were, but there was no hysteria. They all just waited for the next bomb, which was so close that the tower shook. That’s it, Daisy thought, the next one will hit us. And all the while their own aircraft, some running out of fuel, were asking what the hell was going on, and Reg was answering them in a cool voice as Daisy logged each exchange.

  ‘I don’t want to die,’ said an annoyed female voice nearby. ‘I’ve only just learned Morse Code, and anyway, my parents would be really upset if I croaked,’ and the others laughed nervously.

  ‘What?’ the Squadron Leader demanded. ‘Since when have you known Morse Code?’

  ‘I told you, Sir, I’ve just learned!’ the voice responded in the dark.

  ‘Well don’t just sit there, you clot, send out an SOS and maybe someone will come and rescue us!’ said another voice.

  Suddenly the noise stopped. The lone German had departed, and the airfield sprang back into life. The Control Officer very quickly inspected the airfield, declared it damaged but fit for landing, and the Langar planes were rapidly and safely brought down. Afterwards, mixed in with the relief, shaking and chattering teeth, there was also a feeling of euphoria. They all sat together, making jokes and laughing, blankets around them as they sipped hot, sweet tea and reflected that it had been frightening, but exciting, too. If she had to be bombed, Daisy decided, she’d prefer to be on duty in the tower. There would be no slit trenches for her.

  And though it looked to everyone else that Daisy got used to it, she never really did; but she did learn to cope, because there was no alternative. There were so many sad sights, and they didn’t seem any less sad because they happened often, such as ‘the girls’ as the other WAAFs called them. At the end of every mission, with the planes that had made it safely home standing still and silent, the anxious girls could be seen, still waiting. As dawn broke, bathing the field in first pink then golden light, their heads would turn upwards, this way and that, as they gazed into the morning sky with worried faces and red-rimmed eyes, listening intently for the sound of engines, willing a special plane to suddenly appear on the horizon.

  When they finally gave up and returned to their huts the others would try to help. Maybe the plane had landed somewhere else, or it had ditched and the boys were all safe, just waiting to be picked up. Perhaps, at the very worst, they had been taken to POW camps and they’d hear confirmation any day … but in their hearts they knew the loss-rate was high and the chances the boys had survived were slim.

  When she stood down after a night on Ops, Daisy would watch the girls and swear it would never happen to her. They must be mad to fall for aircrew who had a less-than-even chance of surviving till tomorrow. But as she left the tower with all hope effectively gone, she couldn’t pass them. She would stop and hug them, standing wordlessly in the dim light, the dawn chorus bursting into life all around, intruding on the early morning silence.

  There was nothing to say; all she could do was let them cry. How could you help feeling for them? They inhabited a world of their own, all these youngsters united by war, living their strange existences on a piece of ground set in the middle of civilian territory yet apart from civilians, every soul on or off duty held together by their common responsibilities to the boys who flew off into mortal danger, night after night, not knowing if they’d ever be seen again.

  Dotty and Daisy settled into their room in the hut, seeing less of each other because of their different duties, but getting to know Edith and the other girls all over again. Violet was a trainee mechanic and already planning her wedding to a Rhodesian gunner, inevitably named Cecil after Rhodesia’s founder.

  ‘So how did that happen?’ Daisy demanded. ‘To Violet of all people, and so quickly, too.’

  ‘Probably because you weren’t here, Daisy!’ Celia laughed. ‘You should’ve been here to make sure no Fly Boys got near us!’

  ‘Us?’ Daisy raised an eyebrow. ‘Us, Celia?’

  Celia looked sheepish. ‘Well, who else is there to go out with, Daisy?’ she protested.

  ‘Does no one listen to a word I say?’ Daisy asked. ‘They are not to be trusted, you must not be fooled by them.’

  ‘But a drink isn’t actually banned, is it, Daisy?’ Celia laughed at her. ‘I mean, as long as we don’t actually fall for them.’

  ‘Like Violet hasn’t fallen for her Fly Boy?’ Daisy laughed back, shaking her head. ‘I can see I’ve arrived here just in time!’

  Then there was Molly, the girl who was singing as Daisy fell asleep on her first night at Langar and who, she was to discover, sang all the time. Molly drove a lorry and loved every minute of it. She was engaged to a bomb-aimer in a Pathfinder Unit in 8 Group. His job was to drop incendiaries to mark out a path to the targets for the heavy bombers coming behind. Every day she would drive her lorry down to the Admin Block, wheels screaming, to see if her transfer to 8 Group had come through, so that she could be near her Dave. They wrote to each other every day, though there were times when days would
pass without a letter and Molly would worry, then four would arrive all at once and Molly would sing again.

  While she waited for Dave, his letters and her posting, Molly sang, and though it was sure to get on someone’s nerves, Daisy understood it was Molly’s way of coping. Everyone had their own way, she did, too, taking long, solitary walks into the countryside around the camp, sitting under a tree and letting her mind and her eyes relax, watching the waving greenery of the crops. She would go over in her mind all that had happened in her life, trying to make as much sense of it as she could, then filing it away and closing the door on it. If only she could find a way of closing the door on all thoughts of Frank Moran, but he was there, stubbornly there, intruding to absolutely no avail.

  One fine day she might open the door and give all the other thoughts and memories a proper going over, but not now, there was no point just now, she was busy and, as everyone said, there was a war on, you know. She was still reinventing herself to fit her present situation, sifting through Daisy Sheridan from Guildford Place and deciding what to keep, bend or discard.

  By the end of 1941 Daisy was the superb RTO whose family were in New York with Aunt Clare for the duration, which explained her lack of conversation about them. Mail across the Atlantic was far from reliable, with U-Boats waiting to have a go at any passing ship, so it was little wonder that she got very few letters. One sadness was that someone had noticed serious Edith’s cleverness and she was sent to Special Ops at Bletchley Park, about fifty miles north of London, otherwise known as Station X, which everyone knew was involved in intelligence and secrets, but no one ever asked more.

  ‘I actually want to go,’ she confided in Daisy. ‘I’m afraid you’ll confine me to quarters for this, Daisy, and I deserve it, but I’ve been seeing an Australian.’