What the Raven Brings

by John Owen Theobald

  ‘I am proud of you, Anna. Of all of you.’

  ‘What about when the war is over? And RAF pilots won’t have jobs to come home to because female pilots have taken their jobs.’

  ‘Let’s just win the war first,’ he says, giving me his best smile. ‘And we’ll worry about all the rest when Hitler is finally good and dead.’

  I know that he wants to make peace – his best smile, his friendly tone – he even reached out for my arm, and the thrill of his touch was very real. I remember dancing at the Lansdowne, the feel of his body against me.

  ‘Anna, the RAF is fighting the same war as the ATA. For King and country.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘It is not the same. We are not fighting for the good old days, Cecil. We’re fighting for our future.’

  The wind sweeps higher, blowing west. It seems like neither of us will ever speak again. The bonfire crackles, shooting up sparks into the darkness.

  *

  I wander off towards the pond, grateful for the cover of night. Joy is too engrossed for me to lure her away, but the moment she looks towards me, I am taking her and we are getting out of here. What a disaster. I basically had an argument with Cecil about the RAF – thanks to Joy’s mad suspicions.

  ‘I would never have thought it of you. Little Anna Cooper.’

  I nearly curse out loud. I have forgotten all about Nell. There was no glow of a cigarette to tip me off.

  ‘Thought what of me, Nell?’

  ‘Come here to claim your prize, did you? Guess it’s true that Cecil is looking for someone... more polished.’

  I shake my head, try to meet her eyes. ‘He’s not my prize, Nell.’

  She lights a cigarette now, taking no care to blow the smoke away from me. ‘You came to see me then, is that it? Oh no, the last thing you would have expected was to see me here.’

  ‘Nell—’

  ‘Bit much, I know. An East End girl at a fancy midsummer party. You were never one of us, Anna Cooper. Just some posh girl taking cover in the Tower, waiting for her chance to head back west. Me being here must be too much for you. I’ve overstepped, I wager.’

  I suddenly feel horrible for mocking how she reuses her dresses. Oh, what would Mum say to that?

  ‘Nell, you belong here more than I do.’

  A long haul, and the cigarette glows red and angry. ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  A rustle in the grass announces an approaching figure. Oh, please don’t be Cecil. I feel the pressure of a hand on my arm.

  ‘You ladies having a nice evening?’

  At the sound of Joy’s voice I exhale loudly.

  ‘What do you want, Yank?’

  Joy does not blink, but meets Nell’s gaze for a long moment before turning to me. ‘Come on, Coop. This party is getting awfully dull, even by British standards. Let’s go home.’

  Thursday, 24 June 1943

  A smoky white morning greets us. Lightwood and I are now officially part of Major Roland’s D Company of the 2nd Battalion. We are the only two sappers, and most of the lads are from Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. Good enough lads. Lightwood and I have been trained to stop everything, demolition charges, plastic explosives, and all types of fuses. Our final test was to save an unsuspecting cement bridge from its personal Armageddon. Now we’ll only need to do it again in German territory.

  But first we need to be ready.

  We ignore the wooden gliders parked in the grass. Major Roland has not made us go near the plywood contraptions yet, for which I am thankful. Almost thankful. Instead, we run. We run and run, for ever, across country.

  ‘The peak of our fitness,’ is the major’s goal, and soon I begin eyeing the plywood gliders wistfully. At least I could be sitting down as we crash into a mountainside.

  ‘If you’re not fast enough, if you’re not fit enough,’ he yells, ‘you will not be part of the invasion drop!’

  For some reason this makes us all pick up the pace. We also practise running in a crouch, an awkward and painful thing.

  ‘Never run standing up,’ he calls at us, easily keeping pace with his troops, despite his grey hair. ‘Spread out, find trees, find cover, but keep moving. Get to the target.’

  Rifle training takes the place of one-on-one combat, for reasons clearly stated.

  ‘Never let them get that close,’ Major Roland says. ‘If you can see them, shoot them. If you see a puff of smoke, shoot at it. If you’re worrying about where to kick some bastard, you’re already dead.’

  We learn many vital things. Brown blood means you’re bleeding to death. Never use the middle of a road, always keep to the sides. And that all of this running makes you properly ravenous. I’m just as hungry after I stand up from eating in the Mess as I was before I sat down. Soldiers’ hours make dockers’ hours seem lazy.

  Most of all, our orders are drilled into our heads: get to the target. No stopping. No fighting. No helping. Get to the target.

  We all know what the target is. And we all know how we’ll be getting there.

  Sunday, 27 June 1943

  I was worried about the idea of taking a ship over – cramped up, tossed on the sea – but this. I’d never even thought about this. Lightwood is properly alarmed, and I’m certain I’ve done him no favours by bringing him away from the docks.

  ‘These things will burst apart if they hit the ground at any speed,’ he says. ‘They’re basically matchsticks. That’s if we make it across the Channel. The Germans have control of Jersey and Guernsey – the islands will open fire on us if we’re spotted.’

  Defusing ticking bombs is fine; it’s the means of getting to the bombs where things get a bit sticky. A plywood box with an 88-foot wingspan being towed through the night sky by a Halifax bomber. Major calls the gliders Horsas, but the men have taken to calling them Hearses.

  We all know how it’s meant to go. Tow lines will be cast off at 5,000 feet, where the glider pilots take over, steering the box and the twenty-eight lads inside into the rushing wind towards the drop site. The pressure on the ears is so painful, we’re told to ‘hold your noses and blow as hard as you can’. We’re not told that most gliders break apart during landing.

  Either way, every trip in a glider is a one-way trip.

  Hitler will be expecting an invasion at Pas de Calais, the shortest distance across the Channel – a bare 25 miles from Dover. Naturally, then, given Major Roland’s love of suffering, we shall be arriving at Normandy, the longest possible distance at close to 100 miles.

  Assuming we don’t crash-land, there is no shortage of possible disasters. Maps have been handed out, in case we’re ‘dropped on the wrong side of the river’. We also spend an afternoon learning ‘duck calls’, should we lose our maps and ourselves.

  I will not be killed quacking in some French marsh.

  Other happy news: the river may be in flood, turning the whole region into marshland, with water waist-deep or higher. The danger of drowning is ‘high’. Then, if we’re lucky enough to land in the proper place, we face barbed wire, minefields, and machine-gun positions. I’ve never killed anyone – I’ve never seen a person die! I struggle to push the black thoughts away – it’s like I can feel the oily feathers, crowding out all other thoughts. Get out!

  I stare ahead at the glider, knowing soon it will be us inside, wishing I could pull my shirt from my skin, or adjust my uniform to catch cool air. There is no cool air here. Only sun and running and bloody murderous gliders.

  And once we secure the bloody bridge, all we have to do is ‘hold until relieved’.

  ‘You ever worry, Squire?’ Lightwood looks up at me, eyes serious. ‘About not making it.’

  I give a start at the echo of my own thoughts. ‘What? Come off it, Lightwood. We’ve got plenty to do before dinner.’

  ‘It’s just... I can see it. All these bodies, thousands and thousands of them, floating in the water. We’ll never make it on the beaches. Rommel will stop us.�
��

  Jesus. ‘Lightwood, get a grip. We’re not landing on the beach – we’ll be in some bloody apple orchard next to a village filled with beautiful French girls who love a liberator. We’ll be heroes, and we don’t have to do sod all except not blow up a bridge. Forget Rommel, the Germans have been standing guard there for four years now – they’ll likely be asleep when we land. Piece of cake. Yeah?’

  If only I believed a word of it. Lightwood doesn’t believe it either. He knows the orders as well as I do.

  You’ve got five minutes, lads. Any longer, and Rommel himself will be down on you.

  11

  Saturday, 31 July 1943

  The day is hot at first light. And I am ready. After a few weeks of drop-offs, taking ships to Hatfield and Hamble, from Radcliffe to Cosford, with one-night stays in hotels and hardly enough sleep, I am looking forward to the warmth of Mrs Wells’s house. I am not meant for the nomad life.

  But I am eager to embark on this next delivery. Priority. A short flight, but an important one. This plane is going where it’s needed most. To Biggin Hill, the heart of Fighter Command. Timothy Squire’s voice comes back to me. The only way it could work is if we throw everything at them – every plane, every tank, every soldier.

  I will see this one safely there. I am ready.

  What I am not ready for is Cecil Rafferty standing in front of the hangar in his uniform.

  ‘Anna. I am sorry to simply show up here. I hope you’re not at all embarrassed. I only wanted to apologize, for our little disagreement at the party. It was utterly my fault, and I’m sorry for it. Anna?’

  I am shocked into silence. It took Timothy Squire six months to apologize. And Cecil didn’t really need to apologize at all.

  ‘I wanted to come here – to the base – to speak with you. I fear I’ve made a frightful mess of everything.’

  Not the best timing. I am loaded down; bag with goggles, helmet, maps; logbook and Blue Bible under my arm; parachute slung over my shoulder.

  ‘I’ve thought about what you said.’

  I look up at him, the image of an RAF pilot. ‘What did I say...?’

  ‘Pilots don’t live long. So I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands.’ He scans the runway, his eyes resting on nothing for long. ‘I am on my way to a new assignment – naturally I can’t say much about it, but I will be helping end the war as swiftly as possible.’

  Boys and their secrets. I shake my head. ‘Are you here to pick up a Lancaster? I haven’t seen one in our hangar.’

  ‘I’m not here for a Lancaster.’

  ‘A Halifax? Because—’

  ‘No,’ he says, with a flash of irritation.

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘As you said before...’ He smiles, clearly forcing himself back on track. ‘Pilots don’t live long. And even this new mission is risky – as a matter of fact, it is a great deal more risky, for me at any rate...’ He digs around in his pocket, muttering as he does. ‘It’s the only way I can imagine leaving again. Knowing that I had something – the best thing – to come back to.’

  What is he going on about? I can see my aircraft waiting by the hangar behind him. A Tempest, of course, and one of the new models. The Mark IV? I’ve never even seen one up close. The contour is unusual, I can tell that even from here. The cockpit is bulbous. Why is it so bulbous? Perhaps it is because they’ve replaced the heavier Sabre engine.

  ‘What I am trying to say...’ Cecil carefully extracts something from his coat. A little box. And then, in a swift motion that paralyses me, he has one knee on the runway. All thoughts of the bulbous fighter vanish.

  ‘I don’t want one of your rings, Cecil.’

  ‘This isn’t just one of my rings. This is the only ring that matters.’

  His eyes are looking into mine, and he is holding open the box. The ring inside could be made of anything, I don’t even see it. I only see his brown eyes, nervous, excited, locked on my own.

  ‘Anna Cooper. Will you marry me?’

  *

  What do I do? Cecil lets me talk, he doesn’t carry on and on about bombs and rats and rubbish. He even listens to me, though I never seem to know quite what to say. I mean, what can you say to Cecil Rafferty? He’s been to Eton, he’s in Bomber Command, he spends evenings at clubs with Nell and Isabella Pomeroy. He put in a good word for me with Gower, even though I never asked him to. He doesn’t lie to me.

  He gives rings to everyone. Not wedding rings. He’s on his knees on the runway. Someone will see. Oh, God, what do I do?

  He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t know a thing about me. We’ve barely even spoken to each other.

  War makes strangers wed.

  Nothing in my life seemed as hard as looking away from his eyes.

  ‘Cecil, I can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re a pilot, Cecil. I can’t – I can’t lose anyone, not now. Not after my father, my mum, my uncle – I can’t. I’m sorry.’

  I apologize again to him in my mind – and add an apology to Portia and Rogan, and the life they could have had at Oakley Park. Oh, how Flo would have squirmed! I could have invited Mr and Mrs Swift to dinner and sent them home with leftovers.

  Cecil stands, as stiff as a stork. A quick glance over my shoulder proves no one is watching. The box snaps shut over the ring. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  I blink to see Cecil tilting his head alarmingly towards me. Maybe Bella was right, and he has grown used to all the girls jumping for him.

  ‘There is no one. I am too young, and the war is on...’

  ‘But there is someone.’ It is not a question. The only sound is the roar of a distant take-off. I swallow hard. Well, I’m not about to become a liar myself.

  ‘A pilot in Bomber Command? Fighter Command?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s training to be a sapper. He lived at the Tower with me – he helped me look after the ravens.’

  ‘Ravens?’

  ‘Yes. That was my – our – job. But he’s just a... boy.’

  Cecil nods without expression. He is angry, but more shocked I think. Shocked and trying to be graceful. Even now, he is so handsome. Especially now. He is used to getting everything he wants. That is not his fault. For one bizarre moment my mind swings to Flo.

  ‘So that’s it then?’ he says, his voice rough.

  For a brief instant he looks like a scared boy, no older or wiser than Timothy Squire. I move towards him, drawn by his pained look, but he takes a careful step back, slipping the box into his pocket.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly, softly.

  *

  ‘Good morning, Miss Cooper.’

  I hand my chit to Westin behind the desk. He takes it, squints, accepts it. My mind is a tangle of confusion. What just happened? I’m sorry, Cecil. Westin reaches down, pulls out a lump of papers.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘This certificate of safety is to be signed by an engineer – I’ll do that. These petrol vouchers you must sign – yes, here and here. This is a form 700 – you do know what that is, don’t you? Good, that’s a daily inspection sheet. Use it carefully. I’ll be out to help your take-off.’

  He keeps the certificate of safety. The second form is to be signed at the destination as proof of receipt. I can’t believe Cecil asked me to marry him! No, I must focus. The third sheet is the snag report. Fingers crossed there will be nothing to report. I take the bundle, add it to my logbooks, and march off in search of my aircraft. The parachute is so heavy that I begin to worry I may not make it to the plane without falling over.

  There it is, gleaming in the sun – my Tempest Mk IV. No weapons, of course, due to the ban on women flying military aircraft. Without weapons equipped, though, this is just like any other plane for delivery.

  Any other plane with a Rolls-Royce Griffon 61 piston engine.

  Standing a few feet from the Tempest, I adjust the straps of my chute, l
istening to the deep engine rumble. Westin does a slow circle of the craft, inspecting. The rigger, as always, has a hand on the wingtip. In the cockpit, the fitter does his final engine tests, climbs free of the plane without a word, stands ready.

  ‘All set, Cooper,’ says Westin. Finally, a smile. Maybe my first fighter makes me a real pilot in his eyes. Even if the flight will be over in a few exhilarating moments.

  I nod, and make my way to the plane. To my plane. Climbing up the walkway to the wing, I step into the cockpit, pull the door shut. I can’t hold back a smile as the aircraft trembles with life. A quick check of my own things – Blue Bible, maps, door shut, helmet on, parachute hooked up – and a glance around the cockpit. Oil pressure – check; fuel pressure – fine; radiator temperatures – good.

  Nothing has been tampered with. Of course not.

  I wave to Westin and the fitter to take away the chocks. I hope I have not just made a great mistake. What will I tell Flo? A man proposed to me today. Cecil Bleeding Rafferty! I think of the deliberately vile Isabella Pomeroy and a smile comes to my lips. But I can’t imagine ever telling Nell about this.

  Brakes off – the hiss of air somehow louder than the throbbing engine – and ease open the throttle. We are moving, all of us, the rigger and the fitter holding a wingtip each, Westin marching alongside. All eyes on me.

  I wave them clear, and they let go of the wings, fall back. Alone, I taxi ahead. My last sight is of Westin, giving a salute. With the green light, I open up the throttle. Here we go. Keep it straight as I surge down the runway.

  Accelerating, gaining, a slight bump, another, more throttle, and the nose pointing up. I lift into the air like a banner caught in the wind. I reach for the safety catch, and before we’ve climbed 500 feet I raise the undercarriage. Getting the wheels up, Joy calls it. A little early, but no matter, the ground shrinks as we begin a climbing turn to starboard.

  Of course Malcolm predicted perfect flying conditions all along the short route – when I challenged him on his previous mistakes, he blamed the restless English weather. So far, only low racing scud, and in no time I am above it, my shadow racing across the white clouds below. Above the clouds there is only the blue of the sky. I feel warm, free. I am flying.