On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘I don’t care, I don’t care,’ she sang as she waltzed around the office.

  ‘Well that’s nice, Corporal. Glad you’re happy, for you’ve got a helluva busy day ahead of you. You can read his passionate outpourings between packages.’

  But so pleased was Rose to have her precious letters that she smiled beatifically at WO Carter. ‘Oh, thank you, Warrant Officer. Busy is good, the more the merrier. Where would you like me to go?’

  ‘You don’t really want an answer to that one, Petrie.’ He looked at the sheet in his hand and Rose knew that he was desperately working out how many jobs she could possibly do without falling asleep or starving to death. There was no such thing as a stated shift pattern for some drivers. They drove, day and night, until the ‘packages’ had been delivered. Two o’clock in the morning was no different from two o’clock in the afternoon. If there was a job, a driver was found to do it. Today he chose to take out his own spite on Rose, who provided him with absolutely no joy, for she never complained but smiled and thanked him.

  She was smiling at him now, her letters in her hand.

  ‘Get through that list as best you can without killing anyone, especially your passengers. Let me know at dinnertime how you’re doing, in case I need to find a man to finish the job.’

  ‘Will do, sir. I’ll just check that I have some pennies. Which car?’

  ‘It’ll have to be the new Wolseley. Don’t put a scratch on it. Dismissed.’

  Rose saluted and hurried off. A quick look at the times and the places had told her that a single hold-up of any length could destroy the whole schedule. She refused to dwell on the possibility that Carter wanted her to fail. She tried to summon up a good swear word or a curse but, blaming her parents for her lack of the relevant education, she found herself muttering, ‘“Double, double, toil and trouble.”’ Where that came from she had no idea, but she decided that it had to have come from a book. Had she not read more books since joining the ATS than she had in the whole of her prior existence?

  She was almost skipping as she drove out in the lovely car for her first pick-up.

  For weeks it had been relatively simple to move around London; now, as Rose was held up or diverted, she felt sure that this was how it had been to drive through London during the Blitz.

  ‘What’s the hold-up?’ she asked a policeman who was valiantly trying to handle the chaos.

  ‘A bloody bomb last night or early this morning, love, but a new one, right out of the mouth of ’ell it is. Hit a railway bridge at Mile End and the line, blast it.’

  ‘What do you mean, a new bomb?’

  ‘This blighter arrived with no warning. Not a sound till it hit.’

  ‘But the planes…?’

  ‘There weren’t any. Seems the bomb’s the plane. The explosion woke everyone up.’

  ‘Many dead?’

  ‘No idea.’ He moved his right hand. ‘OK, why don’t you pull out and pass that milk van?’

  Rose thanked him, restarted the engine and drove off, her mind full now of a silent bomb. She forced herself to concentrate on her job.

  Each package she delivered that day was as silent as the thing that had come in the night. The day before her passengers had been talkative, positive, the atmosphere full of hope. But now each man was sombre, thoughtful, worried. Rose was late for some pick-ups and found her passengers aware of the difficulties but impatient. It was her worst day of driving.

  All that cheered her was the knowledge that in the breast pocket of her tunic were two letters from Brad.

  She knew that they could not possibly have come from France. She remembered the weeks of nervous waiting that the family had endured while hoping to hear from Sam. She prayed silently that she would never receive a telegram.

  It was not until nearly five o’clock that she had time to sit and read Brad’s letters. Her VIP had gone into the Palmer Street building and told her to wait. She had had nothing to eat or drink since six-thirty that morning and had had very little to eat the day before, and she was really hungry. She looked up and down the street for a WVS or Red Cross canteen but they were busy elsewhere and, assuring herself that food would be the last thing on Brad’s mind, she touched the ring hidden under her tunic and took out her letters. The grubbiest had been written weeks before and talked about his hopes that they could soon meet in London. The diamonds against her skin proved that they had met, had walked together, had talked and had kissed – such tender kisses. Her love and longing bubbled up inside her.

  She put the first letter away and opened the second one.

  My darling Rose,

  I’m writing this letter as we wait to begin the invasion of France and I may not be able to mail anything until we reach Paris. Don’t fret if you don’t hear for a while, my heart. My guess is I’ll be walking!!! Right now I’m looking at your picture in my billfold and thinking of how lucky I am that you love me.

  Forgive me, but I gave Dad your address. We’ll be a while and if he comes back to London maybe you guys could keep each other company now and again.

  We’re being called.

  I love you with all my heart and will love you for ever,

  Your Brad

  Tears were running down Rose’s cheeks and she did not see her passenger return.

  ‘Here, miss,’ he said as he handed her a beautifully ironed handkerchief and half a bar of chocolate. ‘My daughter always feels better after a good cry and a bit of chocolate.’

  His kindness almost made her weep again, but she wiped her eyes and blew her nose on his lovely handkerchief, murmured her sincere but embarrassed thanks, and ate his chocolate.

  To spare her further embarrassment he was now sitting on his seat, apparently engrossed in his papers. Rose started the engine and drove him as smoothly as she could to his next destination.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again as she reached the address, and it was only when she returned to the depot that she realised she still had the handkerchief. He wouldn’t want a grotty hankie, would he?

  The new bomb that now rained down on London was called the V1. The British called it a doodlebug or buzz bomb. No one was safe. Among countless incidents, Bow in East London was hit, and some days later Victoria Station received a direct hit, but one of the most poignant tragedies took place on 18 June.

  Rose had been sent to pick up a VIP at the Guards’ Chapel on Birdcage Walk. She loved this drive, which took her past many of the most famous sites in London, including, of course, Buckingham Palace.

  A service was taking place in the chapel, for Rose could hear singing, many manly voices raised in praise. She thought she heard a buzzing sound, not unlike the buzzing of a bee trapped against a window, but it grew louder and louder, completely drowning out the singing and then – dead silence. Rose’s heart seemed, for a moment, to stop beating. There was a boom, and with an almighty roar, the roof of the chapel collapsed, burying everyone inside. She screamed in both horror and terror. The engine stalled, leaving her in the middle of the road; part of her consciousness noted that there were other vehicles in like state.

  After that she reacted instinctively, but had no idea what she and the many others who tried to help had done or tried to do. Much later she was taken back to her rescued car by a Red Cross helper. The beautiful car was covered in dust. Carter would be furious, especially if there were scratches or dents under that dirt.

  ‘It’s a car, Carter,’ she yelled across the miles, ‘only a car.’

  Later she was to learn that 121 guardsmen had died in the bombing, with nearly 150 more seriously injured, together with almost 200 members of their families. Huge piles of bricks and mortar and general devastation marked the scene for some time, as piles of rubble were doing all over London.

  Rose grieved for the soldiers and she grieved for their families. Had some of the men been preparing to go into battle; had family members come up to London to participate in the service and to pray for their husbands, fathers, sons or lovers? Had they
stood there singing lustily as their minds prayed that their beloved one would not die in battle?

  Oh, Brad, war is so cruel and I miss you so much.

  She knew that she must not dwell constantly on the horrors that were happening all around her. She resolved to carry on doing her duty as well as she could. She decided even to try to find some sympathy for WO Carter, who had said nothing at all about the car.

  ‘Would have been a damned nuisance if you’d got yourself killed, Petrie. I haven’t got time to train up another half-decent driver. Get yourself off to bed early. You’ll be right as rain after a decent night’s sleep.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

  She had reached the door when he called her.

  ‘Have a hot shower, Petrie, and wash your hair; it’s a disgrace.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Again his voice stopped her. ‘Heard from your Yank?’

  ‘Too early, sir.’

  ‘He’ll come back.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  She reached the door. She could not possibly have heard him say, ‘If you were waiting for me, I’d come back.’

  Could she?

  In late September, an annoyed voice calling, ‘Petrie, is there a Rose Petrie around?’ sent her flying out of her billet.

  ‘Telephone, Petrie, and don’t hog it.’

  ‘Thank you. No. Of course not.’

  Rose practically flew across the ground.

  The telephone receiver was sitting on the shelf. Breathlessly she picked it up. ‘Brad?’

  ‘Rose?’ It was not Brad’s voice.

  ‘This is Rose Petrie.’

  ‘Anderson Hastings, Rose, Brad’s dad.’

  Joy turned to utter despair. ‘Oh, God no—’

  ‘Rose, honey, he’s fine. I pulled every string within reach and then his mom pulled a few more. What we know is that he’s well and out there with his platoon. They promoted him, Rose, on the battlefield. I bet he’s mad as hell, excuse my French, but he’s Captain Hastings now.’

  Rose was incapable of speech. Her legs trembled and she leaned against the booth for support.

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said, annoyed that even her voice was trembling. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘Rose, I’m in London for the next month. Do you think…I mean, would you care to have lunch in town one day so we could begin to get to know each other, maybe take in a show some time? Brad asked me to look out for you and we really want, his mom and I want, to get to know the girl our boy loves. Just till he gets back.’

  ‘Mrs Hastings?’

  ‘She’s thrilled. She’s already planning her share of your parties. She’ll come over if Brad hits the UK before the US.’

  How positive he sounded. He was Brad’s father and he was positive, and she would be too.

  ‘I’d love to meet you, Mr Hastings.’

  ‘Call me Anderson. And, Rose, we can’t meet in the Goring or the Ritz, I’m afraid.’

  What a strange thing to say, thought Rose. Was he saying he would be ashamed or embarrassed to be with her in those beautiful hotels?

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said.

  ‘You see, my son told me very severely that the Goring is very special to both of you and he says, next time he sees you, he’s determined to take you dancing at the Ritz.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘Have your sister and your brother managed to arrange their wedding dates yet? And isn’t there an ATS friend too?’

  How did he know?

  ‘Yes, my friend Chiara’s mother will marry next year, but I’ve heard nothing about dates.’

  ‘Then, when I take you to lunch – and soon, I hope – I won’t expect to see you wear your ring. I do hope everything goes well for each of them.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Good night, Rose. Welcome to the family from both of us.’

  Rose thanked him, said good night, replaced the receiver and went outside.

  How quickly it was beginning to get dark – earlier and earlier. Rose stood for a moment in the slightly chilly evening air and breathed deeply. Soon it would be autumn. Was that too early to hope to see Brad, or should she think of winter? Her mind and heart were full of hope. She would wait for Brad, and she would worry, she knew she would. She was a woman in love with a soldier who was fighting a war, but she would not be waiting and worrying alone.

  Time to write to Brad and to her parents. There was so much that she had to tell them. Rose’s hand went automatically to the place between her breasts where the beautiful ring rested. She closed her eyes, remembering, with such sweet joy, the moment when he had given it to her. They had laughed together at the idea of her wearing both his class ring and the engagement ring on a chain round her neck. ‘I’d clink,’ she had told him, as she’d returned his university ring. They’d raced to the station and there they had clung to each other until the very last moment.

  ‘Not goodbye, my heart,’ he had said. ‘Cheerio.’

  Cheerio. He was coming back to her. She had to be strong just a little longer, for surely the servicemen in France would be sent back to their last base. Soon he would be there with her. Oh, yes, there was so much she had to tell the families.

  TWENTY-SIX

  October 1944

  At the beginning of October, Rose was given a weekend’s leave. Before she left for the station she checked again to see if any letters had been delivered, but there was nothing. Nothing from Brad’s father either, but she knew he had been recalled to Washington DC and so she was not really disappointed. The war had not ended on those blood-soaked beaches as they had prayed. But surely the men involved in that mighty push should be sent home. She tried so hard to think of other things but, when she was not driving, all she could think of was seeing Brad, or at least hearing from him.

  She did not read on the train to Dartford but, as usual, fell asleep almost as soon as she sat down. Only the conductor’s parade-ground voice alerted her when they pulled into the station.

  She peered out into the darkness but could see only anonymous shapes.

  Rose stepped down onto the platform and was startled to find her case taken out of her hand and a soft voice she had not heard for a very long time saying, ‘Hello, Rose, we thought we’d come to meet you.’

  ‘Grace, Sam, oh how good…’ Rose got no further but burst into tears of joy and found herself wrapped in her oldest brother’s strong arms.

  ‘Best tell her, Sam.’

  Rose’s tears did not prevent her seeing the obvious affection and trust between her brother and her friend. She turned from Sam and hugged Grace, Sam’s fiancée. Her heart lifted with joy at the thought that perhaps they were in Dartford to arrange their wedding.

  ‘Dry your eyes, our Rose. Phil’s home for the weekend and Mum’s baking, so we’d best get a move on.’

  Talking all the way, they were soon home, and Rose was thrilled not only to see her parents, her adopted brother, George, and the recuperating Phil, but a beautiful blonde girl whom she had no problem in recognising as Grace’s Polish friend, the Land Girl Eva.

  ‘Eva’s been accepted at a terrific college, the Royal College of Music in Kensington.’

  ‘Super,’ said Rose, ‘it’s just across from the Albert Hall, very easy to reach, Eva.’

  ‘It will be if Lady Alice’s father can get her out of the Land Army,’ Grace explained. ‘Now that the war’s over in Europe, there shouldn’t be a problem, should there?’

  ‘Nothing is over, sweetheart,’ said Sam. ‘There are thousands of Allied soldiers all over Europe – heck, isn’t Sally somewhere over there?’ Sam stopped as he saw expressions of joy wiped from his family’s faces. ‘We have to face facts. Until we hear officially, from the Prime Minister, from His Majesty himself, the war in Europe is not over.’

  It was Eva who was brave enough to mention the war in the East. ‘There is war still in my homeland in East Prussia and in Japan,’ sh
e said. ‘But today is for us happy days, yes?’

  ‘Of course, Eva,’ said Grace, taking her friend’s hand, ‘and there will be war in this kitchen if Mother Petrie can’t serve her wonderful dinner.’

  Rose felt the heavy atmosphere lift, and the rest of the evening was full of talking and laughter; of good, if somewhat plain food; of plans discussed. Throughout this Rose sat, all too aware of the beautiful ring warm against her skin. At last, after Phil, helped by George, had cleared the table, Sam made a large pot of tea and carried it into the front room, and Rose steeled herself to tell them about Brad.

  ‘Spit it out, lass,’ coaxed Fred. ‘You’ve been like a cat about to have kittens since you came in the front door.’

  Rose followed the teapot and sat down beside Phil, who squeezed her arm with his good hand. ‘Got a nice chap, our Rose? Not before time.’

  ‘You know most of it already, but yes, Phil, I’m now officially engaged to a nice chap.’

  ‘A Yank. I told you, Phil,’ came in a loud whisper from George.

  ‘Officially?’ Fred was on his feet. ‘Without a word to us?’

  ‘Maybe Yanks do things different, Dad Petrie.’ George’s unwelcome comment was ignored.

  ‘He couldn’t come to ask you, Dad, Mum; he was part of the Normandy push – he’s still there somewhere.’

  ‘And so when did this take place, officially?’ Flora was hurt.

  ‘Before he shipped out, Mum.’

  Flora turned away from the family and Rose looked at her mother’s ramrod-straight back.

  ‘Months, Rose, near six months, and not a word from you or from him.’

  ‘Sit down, Flora love, you knew they was making promises last Christmas.’

  ‘And you told Grace and me you were quite happy he’s American,’ said Sam.

  Flora, who had suffered in so many ways since the beginning of hostilities, fought back gamely. ‘I never said I were happy; I said I didn’t mind. I’m a modern woman; I know the war’s changed everything – and not for the better – but at least Tomas came to meet us. Never imagined for a minute my eldest daughter would get engaged without us ever setting eyes on the lad.’