Bobby's War

by Shirley Mann

  ‘Want some soot?’ Sally asked, coming in carrying a small pot of grey dust. She nudged Bobby out of the way to use the mirror and smear it on her eyelids.

  Bobby peered from behind Sally, examining the results.

  ‘No, thanks. I never bothered before the war when I could have used a proper colour, so I don’t think I’ll start now when all that’s on offer is a bit of grey dirt.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Sally replied, moving on to the dish of beetroot she kept for lipstick.

  ‘This makes a nice change, doesn’t it?’ Bobby said, pushing her blouse into her skirt. ‘We don’t often get a night out all together, do we? We’re normally stuck somewhere round the country on our own. It’s nice for us all to have the chance to kick up some dust on our own doorstep.’

  Sally passed over the little pot of ash to her. ‘Here you are,’ she laughed, ‘here’s some dust to start you off.’

  Bobby gave in and used her little finger to spread some ash on her eyelids. They did look bigger, she decided. ‘I just hope it stops raining; I don’t want to look like a corpse!’

  ‘There’s a car waiting for you girls,’ Mrs Mason called from the bottom of the stairs.

  They both grabbed their coats and as an afterthought, Bobby put on a splash of Soir de Paris perfume with a shrug. She may as well enjoy this, she decided.

  The girls were in a giggly mood as they piled into the car with the RAF pilot to go to Gosport round the coast. He had already picked up Daphne and Patsy in Hamble itself. His name was Paul and he was quite good looking, with sleek brown hair. Sally, who had actually doused herself in the rest of the Soir de Paris, made sure she sat in the front. The perfume was overwhelming and Bobby grinned as she saw the pilot open the top of his window to let in some air.

  ‘Are you based on the south coast?’ Sally asked him as soon as he started off down the driveway.

  ‘Yep, we’re all just enjoying this bad weather, it’s giving us a much-needed break, so a good excuse for a party, we thought.’

  Sally looked round at the three girls in the back and winked. ‘We ATA girls like a good party,’ she told the pilot.

  ‘So I’ve heard!’ he laughed.

  The crowd of men in RAF uniform parted when the girls walked into the mess to let them through to the bar. They were becoming used to causing a stir wherever they went and, it was obvious that word had soon gone around that some ATA girls were coming. There was a group of sulky WAAFs standing in the corner, anything but pleased that their crews were about to be commandeered by the ‘glamour girls.’ Their resentment was not helped by the fact that the ATA girls, as a civilian organisation, were in civvies while they were in their Oxford shoes and uniform.

  The men rushed to buy drinks for their guests and Bobby found herself with a cider in each hand. She was laughing at the feeble attempts of two pilots to outdo each other for attention when another pilot elbowed his way through.

  ‘Hello Bobby,’ he said.

  ‘Gus!’ she exclaimed with pleasure. She suddenly felt the need to adjust her hair and she discovered she was nervous.

  ‘I got your message. It was lucky I wasn’t away flying,’ she could not resist pointing out, a little put-out that he had not doubted she would turn up.

  The other two pilots backed off, knowing when they were beaten and Gus signalled Bobby towards a table in the corner.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to track you down but it’s been a bit busy,’ he said. ‘I had a couple of days’ leave and I thought there might be an opportunity to see you so I grabbed a lift and got them to send you an invitation. We needed to talk face-to-face, you know I can never say anything in a letter.’

  He touched the side of his nose and she smiled, understanding. Secrecy was everything in this war.

  She knew that air activity had been getting more and more intense and she could see by his strained face that the last few weeks had not been easy.

  ‘So, how are you?’ he looked piercingly into her eyes, as if trying to read the small print.

  ‘I’m OK . . . it seems everyone wants aircraft, lots of them and now.’

  His face darkened for a moment. All around him, pilots were holding in the tension they were feeling, almost trying too hard to have fun. Tonight was a chance to let their hair down and many of the men at the bar were already beginning to show signs of having drunk too much. Gus fingered his own glass of beer. His latest trips to France had been a disaster. The one when his ‘package’ had been shot along with all the resistance fighters had been followed by two more ops when two aircraft and their pilots had been shot down. Something was going badly wrong on the ground in Normandy. The enemy were being primed and, looking at Bobby’s sympathetic face, Gus had a sudden desire to offload some of the pressure that was mounting inside him. He sighed and longed for a normal conversation where he did not have to watch every word he uttered.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened in France?’ Bobby muttered through the corner of her mouth. She glanced up to make sure no one was listening.

  ‘I can’t say much, but we had a bit of a tricky time on a mission a few weeks ago and ended up rescuing this French guy. He asked if I knew Norfolk. When I said I did, he asked if I could take him to Salhouse Farm. He said Mr Hollis would look after him. I was a bit surprised, I have to be honest. Who is he?’

  Bobby was wary, she could not reveal the truth behind Michel’s relationship to her father. ‘He’s a distant relative,’ she said, finally.

  ‘Ah, I thought as much, he really does look like you, doesn’t he? So that’s why your father taught you French.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Bobby replied vaguely. ‘But what can you tell me about his rescue?’

  ‘Not much, we weren’t there to get him, he just sort of ended up having to be brought out.’

  Bobby thought longingly of the pre-war days when everyone could talk honestly and openly. Both of us are hiding secrets, she thought.

  Sally’s voice called over from the bar: ‘Come on, you two, someone’s unearthed the gramophone. We’ve got some jiving to do.’

  Bobby and Gus both shrugged and got up. He grabbed her hand as the tones of Duke Ellington filled the wooden building.

  Two songs later, Bobby was puffing and panting. Sitting in a aeroplane all day had not helped her fitness for dancing.

  ‘Can we sit down?’ she pleaded with Gus, but then the gentle strains of Vera Lynn’s ‘(There’ll be Bluebirds Over) The White Cliffs of Dover’ came on the gramophone and Gus pulled Bobby close to him.

  She suddenly realised how tired she was and relaxed her head onto his shoulder. He tightened his arms around her. As the last notes of the song finished, Gus leaned in and kissed her.

  *

  Bobby got into her bed quickly at the end of the evening. The room was freezing and from under the covers, she manoeuvred one arm so she could throw her skirt and blouse, slip and underwear onto the chair next to the bed and then hurriedly snuggled down. She found she was shivering, and pulled the counterpane further up around her shoulders. She stared into the gloom and frowned. She had been taken aback by Gus’s kiss and especially about how her own stomach had turned over as their lips met. She realised she could still feel the imprint on her waist where his hand had pulled her towards him.

  Bobby plumped up her pillow fiercely and tried to analyse the evening honestly. The kiss had been so quick she had hardly had time to respond, Bobby reasoned, reassuring herself that she had not led him on. She knew from the other girls’ tales of romantic conquests that RAF pilots found it a heady experience being with an ‘Attagirl’ and the intensity of Gus’s arm around her had worried her.

  She also realised she had never felt such a strong physical attraction to a man before.

  Chapter 14

  It was another ‘washout day’ and all the girls were listlessly spending time in the restroom. The mail had been delivered and Bobby had a letter from her aunt and another from Harriet, who regaled her with the news of how she had ditched Ge
rry, been out with three new airmen in a week and it was only in a final postscript that she demanded to know how good a dancer Gus was and did Bobby swoon in his arms?

  ‘Bobby, can I see you for a minute?’

  Margot Gore, the commander at Hamble popped her head round the door of the restroom.

  As she disappeared again, everyone looked at Bobby expectantly.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said to the questioning faces of her fellow pilots, outwardly smiling but inside, quivering with nerves. ‘I haven’t broken any aircraft recently so it can’t be that bad.’

  Margot was always very friendly with the girls, but she was still the boss.

  Bobby knocked on the door marked with a plaque bearing Margot’s name and title.

  ‘Come in, Bobby,’ Margot called from inside but as soon as Bobby got through the door, she halted in surprise. Standing with his back to the window at the side of Margot’s desk was Edward Turner.

  He smiled at her and she feigned a smile back.

  ‘Do sit down,’ Margot said, pointing to the green leather-backed chair in front of her wooden desk. ‘I believe you’ve met Mr Turner?’

  Bobby gave a weak smile of recognition and sat slowly on the seat, clasping her hands together. She looked from one to the other and waited, completely perplexed.

  Margot picked up some papers, banged them into shape on her desk and got up to leave.

  ‘Bobby, Mr Turner would like to speak to you in private.’ She glanced at Edward, who took over and Margot left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  ‘Miss Hollis,’ Edward had decided it would be easier to revert to formalities between them. ‘I think you are aware there is a young Frenchman who needs to be returned to his country. I cannot say much more but there are problems over there and Michel Bisset is the person we need on the ground. His unscheduled visit here has given us a rare chance to brief a member of the Resistance in person, now we need him to go back as soon as possible. It is a crucial time.’

  That revelation took Bobby by surprise. The last she had heard, Michel was being cosseted by her mother and was not capable of having a proper conversation, let alone leading a resistance network. So much had been happening at home while she had been having slow dances with Gus.

  ‘I am not sure how strong Michel is,’ Bobby registered with surprise how protective she felt about the young man who was, after all, her half-brother.

  ‘We are aware of that,’ Edward interjected, ‘he’s not confident about his new role. It’s imperative that he has someone with him that he trusts during the journey to get him on and off that plane so, with your permission, we will arrange for you to have leave to do that. Obviously, as an ATA pilot, you are not at liberty to travel abroad so it will have to be on your own time, I’m afraid. I’m sure you understand we need a strong network over there and there is only Monsieur Bisset who is sufficiently aware of the problems from both sides. The knowledge his unexpected visit here has allowed us to impart, means he will now be able to reorganise and do some investigations for us. We have, as you may be aware, problems with radio communication in France since the Germans confiscated them all.’

  Bobby looked at him in surprise. If she had heard him correctly, she was to fly with Michel over to France. It was unheard of but Edward Turner was adamant. There was no sign of the shy, blundering man she had met at the farm. This was a man used to being in control.

  Edward went on, ‘This is a top-secret mission and only a few people will be informed of it. You have undoubtedly already signed the Official Secrets Act, but this mission is especially important. We are using the same pilot who brought Monsieur Bisset out of France but we need someone he trusts to reassure him in his own language, someone who can communicate with the ground in French, plus, we need someone we can trust on the aircraft to operate equipment, the security of having a second pilot on board, and we can’t risk involving anyone else. And that person, it has been decided, is you.’

  The pause emphasised the stillness of the room.

  ‘I don’t exactly know Michel Bisset that well, Mr Turner,’ Bobby protested, realising at the same time that that pilot would be Gus.

  Edward raised his eyebrows at her. ‘I believe you are related to the Frenchman, aren’t you?’ he replied. It was not really a question. ‘This is a very delicate operation; we need to pre-plan every bit of it and we need Monsieur Bisset’s complete co-operation. You will leave one week from today when you will receive your full briefing on rice paper at the airfield. You must read it thoroughly, learn what is necessary and then eat the briefing.

  ‘I think, at this stage, we’ll just leave it at that. Miss Hollis, you will dress in uniform and the rendezvous will be at 22:00 hours next Thursday to give you time to get to . . . where you are going. A car will pick you up at 20:00 hours and a separate car will pick up Monsieur Bisset to avoid unnecessary risks. He will meet you there. I don’t have to remind you of the secrecy of this operation. Your fellow pilots here must not be told anything.’

  Bobby stumbled out of the room and leaned for a moment against the wall in the corridor. Questions were whirring around her mind. How high up was Edward? Was he not the lowly civil servant she thought? What the hell was she letting herself in for?

  ‘Bobby,’ Edward called from behind.

  He caught up with her and put his hand on her arm, gently.

  ‘There is danger in this mission. You can refuse to go, if you want to. You are a volunteer.’

  Bobby looked into his deep, brown eyes and saw a genuine concern there.

  ‘No, I may regret this, but of course I’ll go.’

  *

  The following week, Bobby gathered up her overnight bag, her wash things and her gas mask and then stood next to her chest of drawers, undecided about whether she needed to pack anything else. All ATA pilots took an overnight bag in case they got stuck somewhere and could not get back, but she could hardly allow herself to entertain that possibility – the thought made her shiver – so she forced her practical side to the fore. She needed to be prepared for all eventualities. If, heaven forbid, they had to land in France, she hoped her uniform would protect her and entitle her to decent treatment under the Geneva Convention but it could be very cold in the air over the Channel, she had heard. She searched into the bottom of a drawer for a woollen sweater she could wear under her uniform. It was one that Aunt Agnes had knitted her. She hugged it to herself, suddenly longing for her aunt’s common sense. Being an ATA pilot was one thing but flying behind enemy lines was a completely different scenario. Her stomach lurched. She felt as if she were drowning.

  She was about to push the jumper into her bag but paused, fingering its warmth and thinking about her family. The strange, unnerving conversation with her father on the landing had left her wondering what would be behind the door they had opened up between them; her mother had finally shown signs of coming out of the shadows and her aunt’s reliable practical common sense had given her strength. She felt a sudden need to hug them all.

  She wondered whether this new need to reach out to people was because of Michel. From the first moment she met him, she had felt an urge to protect him, a feeling that had been completely natural. Maybe that is why I’m prepared to take on this ridiculous mission, she thought. To be able to protect my little brother and start to recreate a proper family?

  The journey to the airfield took longer than she expected, although, realistically, she reasoned, she had no idea how long it should have taken. Without signposts, which had been removed years before to confuse any invaders, she had no idea where she was. She peered around her at the fields, pretty thatched cottages and the river that they were passing. The car suddenly pulled over to one side and Bobby looked up expectantly.

  ‘Put this on, please, miss.’ The driver’s hand came over the front seat and he handed her a blindfold. She reached to take it, feeling slightly sick. The car drove on for about another twenty minutes while Bobby’s mind – and heart –
raced. They eventually stopped and she got out to be led by the driver. He took the blindfold off for her and she blinked. They were at an airfield and the first thing she saw was an Anson, glistening in the distance; it was like a foreboding shadow. Bobby was qualified to fly Ansons around Britain, ferrying ATA pilots between deliveries or back to base, so she breathed a sigh of relief, but she was not used to flying at night and had avoided going anywhere near coastlines, so she hoped she would not be called on to actually operate the controls. This trip was already terrifying enough.

  A man in a pin-striped suit approached her as she got out of the car. The driver stood to attention and saluted him. Bobby half put her hand to her head as well and then dropped it, as part of a civilian organisation, she never had to salute anyone, but she had no idea who he was or what she was supposed to do. He took her into a nearby large brick barn where he handed her a parachute, a small satchel, a brown envelope and, terrifyingly, a cyanide pill. He told her to read the information inside the envelope and then destroy the notes. Before she had a chance to say anything he informed her she needed to be at the Anson in five minutes’ time and then marched off.