On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  Rose looked at the ring and at Brad. For a few minutes she stayed silent, bewitched by the ring as it rivalled the chandelier above them in brilliance. ‘And does your mother know?’

  ‘Not yet, honey. Figured we’d tell our moms when I get back.’

  ‘Good thinking. It is beautiful and I love that it was your grandmother’s, but will you be terribly upset if I don’t wear it until after my sister’s wedding, and my brother’s too?’

  ‘No, I kinda like the idea of it nestling right there where my class ring is. Do you want to go to the powder room and change them over? Or keep them both.’

  Rose stood up. ‘Too embarrassing. I’d clink when I walked.’

  When she returned holding the beautiful golden ring, he had paid the bill. ‘Let’s go get our pictures taken. Could you wear it for that, in a picture just for me?’

  ‘I’d love a picture of this room, my favourite room in the whole of London.’

  ‘We’ll have a party here to celebrate when I get back.’

  With a last backward glance, Rose walked with him out of the hotel. The photographs were taken and then they walked for a while, loath to say goodbye. Despite the chill winds, they sat on a bench in Hyde Park, held hands, and talked.

  ‘I’ll write whenever I get the chance, honey, but if you don’t hear, know it’s difficulty with the mail. I’ve bought loads of picture postcards of Merrie Olde England, and I’ll send those. Can only get a few words on each but I’ll fill the mailbags with them.’ He saw sadness on her face and carried on, ‘But I’ll write real letters when I have more than a minute – and you’ll write to me too, won’t you?’

  ‘Every day, every single day until you get back.’

  ‘I’ll carry your picture near my heart. The baser part of me wishes I’d asked you to marry me yesterday, a month ago; I thought about it a lot, Rose, but it would have been a base, selfish act. Our wedding day will be real special; not a hurried, what do they say, “hole in the corner” affair, and we’ll take a honeymoon wherever in the world you want to go and then we’ll decide what I’m to do to earn our keep and, even more important, where we’re going to live. Connecticut is a long way from Dartford.’

  ‘Someone will be unhappy whatever we do.’

  ‘Maybe our moms will surprise us.’

  ‘You can’t tell me any more about where you are and what you’re doing?’

  ‘Heck, the entire population of the south coast of England knows where we are, honey, and no doubt guesses where we’re going. I can’t think why I never told you right at the start but the orders were hush-hush. What we’ve done is prepare the final push to end hostilities. We’re ready to go, Rose. I wish I could tell you more because it’s real exciting, a grand idea, a really big idea with input from some real boffins. I’ve got some newspaper clippings here…’

  He pulled out an envelope and Rose looked through them as well as she could.

  ‘What on earth is that? We have nothing like that in our depots.’ Rose pointed out what appeared to be a large six-wheeled truck, but she could see rather peculiar appendages underneath the body.

  ‘It’s an actual amphibious vehicle, sweetheart; it really works both on land and in water. That’s a propeller and a propeller shaft. It’s an early model.’

  ‘You plan to drive through rivers or lakes? We have bridges in this antiquated old country, Bradley Hastings; some built – would you believe? – by the Romans. They invaded us, just like you.’

  ‘We’re not invading Britain, sweetheart. We’re Allies, here to help.’ He scooped up the slips of paper and Rose clutched his arm, suddenly anxious to feel his warmth, his strength.

  ‘Then?’ She could say no more.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Darling, I have to go or I’ll miss the last train. Let me get you a cab?’

  She tried to smile. ‘Even if you could find one, the poor driver wouldn’t have the petrol. I’ll be fine. Come on, I’ll walk with you to the station.’

  Hand in hand they hurried along. In Victoria Station, Brad pulled Rose to him and he kissed her, trying to show her how much he loved her and longed for her, and she responded. They were not alone. Couples were glued together everywhere one looked. Finally Rose and Brad broke apart.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

  ‘Not goodbye, my heart, cheerio,’ and Brad was gone.

  Agatha was reading a magazine when Rose finally got back. ‘Did he love the shoes?’

  Rose pushed her left hand deep into her coat pocket. She had forgotten to remove her engagement ring. Engaged. When she told her parents, they would probably put an announcement in the local paper. That is, if Flora could tolerate the idea of both her daughters marrying foreigners.

  ‘Shoes, Rose. Did he like them?’

  ‘Of course, and we had tea at the Goring on Beeston Place. So elegant.’

  ‘Not the Ritz?’

  ‘No, another time we’ll go there to a tea dance. But the Goring is fabulous too, and the food looked so pretty we were afraid to eat it.’

  ‘But you got over your fear?’

  ‘Absolutely, and I wrapped this one up for you.’ Luckily the tiny cake, the one with a swirl of chocolate, was in her right pocket, and so was removed without Rose having to take her left hand out of her pocket.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  May 1944

  May, purportedly the loveliest month of the year, brought with it a killing frost. Blossom died on the trees and disgruntled farmers and housewives eking out decent meals on fewer and fewer choices of ingredients saw their hopes of fresh fruits, jams and apple pies disappear almost overnight. To add insult to injury there was a drought, and many of those citizens who had been urged to ‘dig for victory’ looked forward to a summer without salad leaves, carrots, or peas fresh from the garden. Enterprising gardeners re-used bath water, and even put to good use water in which the family clothes had been rinsed.

  ‘Think positive: soap’ll take care of the greenfly,’ declared the more optimistic.

  Rose managed to keep her engagement and the magnificent ring a secret. All her friends knew that Brad had gone and, equally, everyone seemed to know where. The world was afire with rumours. The Second Front, the invasion of mainland Europe; it was going to happen tomorrow, in a week, a month, before midsummer. Had the Americans and their Canadian allies not been rehearsing their tactics for months in the waters off the south coast?

  The enemy did not sit patiently and wait to be invaded, however. Occasional bombing raids were suffered in spring and early summer. Rose wrote long loving letters to Brad when time allowed and quick notes in between. There had been only one letter from Brad, and Rose kept it as close to his ring as she could. Their presence comforted and strengthened her.

  She could not believe how much she missed him and worried about him. This, then, was true love – and yes, it was wonderful, but there was pain there too. She buried herself in her work.

  ‘Rose? Miss Petrie, it is you?’

  Rose recognised the voice immediately and smiled. ‘Yes, it is. Dr Fischer, how very nice to see you.’

  ‘Ah, you recognise an old man from the past.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Commander, I have had the pleasure of knowing this young lady since she was a child.’

  ‘Had I answered my own front door more often, Doctor, I would have known her then too.’

  ‘No? You are from Dartford?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, but let us all reminisce later. Corporal Petrie, as usual I have no idea how long we’ll be.’

  ‘I’ll be here, sir.’

  He smiled and Rose watched them walk away. She saw how protectively the commander held his left arm out in case the elderly scientist stumbled. Some nice blokes in Dartford – and in the aristocracy.

  How Daisy would love to hear about her meeting with the former German refugee who was, at last they knew, working on something very special, and for the British Government.

  Rose had picked the two men up at Westminster Abbey, an unusual spot, but it s
eemed that the abbey reminded Dr Fischer of a cathedral in his German home town and, when he had time, he liked to go there, and sit quietly in the enveloping peace of the church. She had thought she recognised him, but she had not been as close to him as Daisy, who had been in the habit of seeing the old refugee every day; and besides, it was not her place to speak to her Very Important passengers.

  She had finished A Tree Grows in Brooklyn some time before and had found another novel to read in the camp library. At first she had been rather disappointed in the book because she had seen the film just after she and her sister had left school, and had thoroughly enjoyed it. The book, again a classic recommended to the ‘bright girls’ like Sally, but one of which Rose had never been made aware, was called The Thirty-Nine Steps. Rose had expected a nice love story along with all the spies and murders, but there was no love story in the thin little book. The more she read, however, the more she enjoyed it. She was right there in the theatre with Richard Hannay, when a rap on the window alerted her to the return of her passengers.

  I’ll have to ask if I can tell Mum and Daisy that I’ve driven Dr Fischer, she thought as she opened the door.

  ‘The War Office,’ said the commander’s voice.

  ‘Sir.’

  Rose drove carefully, her eyes and ears alert. These days one just never knew, what with bombs and assassination attempts, but they arrived at their destination safely.

  ‘And what does Mrs Petrie think of this “austerity bread”, Rose?’ asked Dr Fischer as Rose helped him out of the car.

  ‘Austerity bread? Sounds dreadful, sir – so far, she hasn’t mentioned it.’

  ‘Please tell her how I long to enjoy again one of her apple dumplings.’

  ‘I will, sir. She’ll be thrilled.’

  Again Rose watched the two men. She remembered how her family – and especially her sister – had worried about their former customer. Wait till I tell her how well he’s being looked after.

  Rose had no idea what Dr Fischer’s skills were, or what the project was that was so important that they had had to steal him away in the middle of the night to complete it, but she could see that he was completely at ease with the commander, who treated the old man with the greatest respect. But still she wondered what would become of Dr Fischer when the war was over. Would he want to return to Dartford or would he prefer to stay in London? Only time would tell.

  She returned to the depot and was immediately sent out to deliver a sealed envelope.

  ‘Selfridges’ annexe. Just ring the bell on the door on Edward Mews – know where that is? – and hand it in. Possible they might have a parcel for you to deliver. Better use the old Morris; look like anybody.’

  Wonder if this is an order for his mum’s birthday present. Can’t see the PM popping in to Selfridges…but stop thinking and get your job done, Petrie.

  She delivered the envelope, was told to wait, and fifteen minutes later was given what she felt sure was the same envelope and was ordered to take it immediately to a familiar address on Palmer Place. There she was ordered to wait. She did – for almost an hour, and then was surprised when a man in an American uniform jumped into the back seat and barked, ‘US Embassy, and hurry.’

  Rose drove as quickly as traffic would allow to Grosvenor Square and drew up at the American Embassy. Before she had stopped the car, the soldier was out and was being waved on into the building.

  As always, being near the huge building filled Rose with excitement. Would she one day soon come to this centre of power to ask for permission to enter the United States of America? She tried to clear her thoughts. Right at this moment should she wait or should she return to base? She decided to wait. A second car drew up, depositing men in uniform, one Canadian, one French. Then another car, which dropped off two men in civilian clothes – British, she thought, the suits more Savile Row than New York.

  She had not noticed the marine approach her car until he rapped on the window. She jumped and wound it down.

  ‘Your passenger requests that you return to base, ma’am.’

  Rose thanked him and started the engine. Ma’am. Ma’am – she loved that word. It did not make her feel old but…sophisticated. That would be something to write to Brad about.

  There was a thrill of excitement at the bottom of her stomach. Was this meeting anything to do with the great enterprise? Somehow she knew that whatever it was, it had begun, and her euphoria turned to fear.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  London, June 1944

  The summer months passed in a blur of activity and rumour, but with no word from either Brad or his father. Every day Rose waited for news, but went to sleep each night telling herself that Brad was well but busy and would write as soon as he could.

  And then it was June and the atmosphere was charged, expectant, waiting – but for what?

  Rose seemed to be busier than ever, transporting her human packages here and there. Other ATS drivers were just as involved and there were rumours and hurried conversations – ‘This is it, you mark my words. I heard as the King, God bless him, is going to be on the wireless.’

  His Majesty the King? If this piece of gossip was true, then something of great importance had taken – or was about to take – place. Rose crossed her fingers and wished that she would not be driving at the time of his broadcast. Crossed fingers were no weapon, though, and she did not hear the breaking news bulletins.

  It was WO Carter who enlightened her. ‘Heard the news, Petrie?’ He assumed that she had not and carried on without giving her time to reply. ‘Seems the PM told Parliament that thousands of Allied troops landed on the coast of Normandy today. Put that in your diary, Petrie. Sixth of June 1944, the first day of the end of this damned war. Troops were dropped from planes but even more arrived by sea. The King was on the wireless but you and me has missed him. Sorry about that. Can’t really believe it till you hear it, right?’

  The next day, returning late from dropping a ‘package’, Rose heard a newsboy shouting. Did she hear the word ‘invasion’? She stopped the powerful car and got out. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘We’re in the land of the frogs, oh General. Buy the paper and read it for yourself.’

  Cheeky monkey, thought Rose, remembering her young foster brother’s early days. ‘May I please buy a copy of today’s Daily Telegraph?’

  ‘Certainly, General. Thruppence to you; it’s a tanner to anyone else.’

  Rose handed him a sixpence and took the newspaper.

  It was true. There was a huge banner headline announcing that thousands of Allied troops had invaded Europe.

  Her immediate thought was of Brad. Those strange boats he had talked about? Had he sailed to France? She pictured him, jumping into the sea and walking, his rifle – she supposed a soldier would carry a rifle – above his head, struggling to keep his balance over those last few yards. She returned to the car and hurried back to base as quickly as she could, taking into account the blackout, the dimmed headlights. When she was finally free of all duties, she went to the cookhouse where she was given a cup of what the cook called ‘Victory coffee’.

  ‘Victory coffee? Is it due to today’s invasion?’

  ‘No idea, love. Have we won? This is,’ he said, pointing to the white cup of dull-brown liquid, ‘as far as I know, the latest idea from those as has our health at heart. Taste it.’

  Rose did. ‘That’s vile.’

  ‘Fussy. It’s made from ground acorns; there’s at least five future trees in that cup, all sacrificed to make you a cup of coffee.’

  ‘I appreciate their sacrifice, but would prefer that this bilge at least smelt of tree. Got anything edible to go with it?’

  ‘Beans on some mashed potatoes.’

  Rose asked him to ensure that the food was hot; when he brought the steaming plate over to her, she thanked him and unfolded the paper.

  She read avidly.

  ‘Mulberries!’ she shouted.

  ‘What, love?’

  ‘Sorry, no
thing – this is delicious.’

  The writer explained one of the startling developments that had allowed the troops to invade and Rose read the piece over and over again.

  The people at the party were talking about a man-made harbour – not fruit, but a floating road that moved up and down with the tide and allowed army vehicles to drive off their ships and onto the beach. Rose could not begin to imagine the scale of the enterprise, the brains that had dreamed it up and worked out the plans.

  Oh, Brad, my darling, where are you? What part have you had in this? What are you doing now? So many dead.

  She left her food and her Victory coffee unfinished, and took the newspaper to her billet, where no one slept much that night.

  The conversation next morning was of nothing but the Normandy landings.

  Thousands of men and machines were now covering the entire length of the French coastline from Cherbourg to Le Havre. Was one of them Master Sergeant Bradley Hastings? When would she know? How did the people who write the newspapers find out? Telephone calls? Radio messages? Pigeons? Letters took so long.

  Rose wondered if Sam was familiar with the French names. She would ask him in her next letter. Next letter? How would she address the next to Brad? ‘Somewhere in France’? She said the words again, pronouncing them as best she could. Senator Jarrold would know how to say Le Havre and Cherbourg. Now Brad did too – if he was there and still alive, for the enemy had not waited for all the men to disembark and dig themselves in before opening fire.

  Work, as always, was the best way to deal with the fear that was eating her. She would work and she would remain positive. She slipped the chain out from its hiding place, held the ring tightly and kissed it before slipping it back inside her shirt. That became her routine. The simple routine, the connection with Brad, kept her spirits up.

  Rose would never forget the date: Tuesday, 13 June 1944. A red-letter day, a glorious day. Two letters – dirty, creased, the address smudged – were sitting like little birds of paradise in her pigeonhole. Two letters, the first communication from Brad in two months. She held them in her hand, smelled them in the faint hope that they would contain some trace of him, but they smelled of damp, and the code to show which had been written first had been obliterated by what might have been water.