by Tricia Goyer
As a spy, Albert had been faithful at record keeping for the führer—the numbers of planes and pilots, the numbers of workers in the underground machine works factory, lists of plane parts produced. But Berndt had realized long ago that records would never end the war.
And even if the right bombs hit the airfield at the right moment, the efficient English would be up and running again in no time. Hadn’t the bombings of London during the Blitz proved that? Instead of attempting to cut off a limb, Berndt had decided to go for the brains. For even as he counted airplanes, Berndt had also counted the number of diplomatic cars that drove to Danesfield House in the nearby village of Medmenham. After hearing two pilots talking about some women they knew who interpreted photos at the large estate down the road, Berndt put two and two together. Not only bombers flew from the Benson airfield, but unarmed Spitfires too. Photographic reconnaissance planes. And the photos had to be of Germany—his fatherland. Cut off the brains, and the bombers wouldn’t know where to bomb. The Fatherland could spend the energy put into defending itself into cutting the throat of the island nation who deserved to swallow the bitter pill of defeat with their afternoon tea.
Today would be his last day at the hospital. Tomorrow he’d take on a new role. And the fact that a beautiful woman would lead him closer to this target was an added benefit of his new work.
THREE
Emma, I have tea for you here, love.” Georgette tipped the electric kettle and filled two cups. “I even asked Henry in the kitchen if he could spare a few lumps of sugar. A real treat today.” The older woman’s hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Gray strands mingled with the dull red color, and the olive drab color of the woman’s uniform did nothing for her complexion, yet Emma would never tell her so.
Instead, Emma rubbed the back of her neck, feigned a smile, and stood. “Georgie, you’re a dream. Do you know that? I’m not sure I’d make it through this war without you.”
“I’m inclined to agree. If I didn’t make you stop working to take a break, who would?” Georgie lifted the tea to her lips and sipped. The warm steam fogged her glasses.
Emma moved to the table. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when I’m back in the States without someone making me afternoon tea. Maybe my mother will pick up the tradition again.” Emma moved to sit at the table across from her friend.
Georgette nodded. A wistful look came over her face. “During the Blitz we lined up for tea time, even down in the Tube. Tin tea cups were passed out, and Mary Cason used her watering can with the pointed end to fill the cups. My mother couldn’t hide her smile, but Mary assured us she’d scrubbed it after bringing it in from the garden.”
Emma chuckled and then turned her attention to the notes she’d brought with her over to the table.
“Today’s covers haven’t even arrived yet and you’re already hunched over looking at yesterday’s notes.”
“Just eager to—”
“Eager for the next discovery to shut down Hitler, isn’t that right?” Georgette interrupted.
“The sooner we stop him, the sooner I’m home,” Emma chirped as she looked down at her cup of tea, strong and dark, just as she liked it. She picked up one of the sugar cubes Georgette had acquired and dropped it into her cup, stirring slowly. Then she added a bit of milk.
Georgette pouted. “Oh, don’t go talking about leaving us so soon. England’s a bit livelier with all you Americans around, even if it did take a war to bring you here.”
Sadness clouded Georgette’s smile. Emma knew she’d lived a lonely existence before the war, as many English women had. Many of the older women whom Emma had met were either war widows or “surplus women,” as the Brits liked to call spinsters. She’d remembered hearing about them from her mother.
“So many women alone after the Great War. Husbands and boyfriends killed left so many with no one to marry. That’s why I’m so glad I had your father.” Her mother hadn’t talked about the war often, but when she did, Emma knew the subject stung. Her mother had lost cousins and countless friends. No one thought they’d be here again just twenty-five years later. Yet here they were. And here she was.
She’d been the first from the States selected to be part of the Allied Central Interpretation Unit by being in the right place at the right time, but now the Second Phase team of photographic interpreters was made up of Canadians, Americans, and British of all ages. The group included former professors, geologists, and professional military men who now sauntered into the offices, preparing for their shift.
Four hours ago—at about four in the afternoon—Allied survey pilots had returned from their flights photographing German points of interest—bases, airfields, manufacturing plants, bridges.
Upon landing at Benson airfield, First Phase photo officers debriefed the weary pilots, attempting to pinpoint the exact positions where the photos were taken. Once the actual photographs were printed, the prints were plotted and initial information put into a report. Then both the photos and reports were sent to Emma’s team. And that’s where her work began.
She sipped the tea, returned the cup to the saucer, and then rubbed her hands together, eager to get a peek at what the Germans had been up to.
Every morning she said a prayer for the pilots as they roared away in their Spitfires, armed only with cameras. Heroes, every one of them. And now she couldn’t wait to see what they’d captured on film.
As playful banter filled the room, Emma sipped her tea and nibbled on one of the hard biscuits the English were so fond of. She glanced at Georgette. The woman was right. Emma wasn’t here just to do her job. She wanted to make a bigger difference, to be the one to find the hidden factory or the secret bunker. Something inside drove her. More than her brother’s death. From the moment she’d stepped out of the transport car and saw the large white villa on the massive estate, she knew she was here for a purpose.
“Georgie, what was the war really like? On the front, I mean. Was it like they show in the movies?”
“You mean in France, during the last war?”
“Yes. I know you were a nurse.”
“Just for a short bit, at the very last. And the newsreels can’t really capture it.”
Emma returned her teacup to the saucer. “Is this job hard for you? Do you go relive it all when you’re looking at the prints?”
“Sometimes. How did you know?” Instead of waiting for an answer, Georgette continued. “Sometimes when I’m peering down at a bombed-out town, floating over the photo like a sparrow on the wind, I can smell the rubble. I can hear the cries of the injured.” She waved a hand and gave a soft laugh, attempting to camouflage her pain. “But who am I to think about my pain? I wasn’t injured. And I made it home again.”
Emma added another sugar cube to her cup and thoughtfully stirred the tea with her spoon. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t hurt. Haven’t all of us been injured? Then. Now. War tends to do that.”
Georgette looked away, and Emma knew she was looking into the past. Georgette did the same thing sometimes when she was studying the photographs on her desk. What does she see in the past? What does she worry about for the future?
The door opened, interrupting Emma’s thoughts, and Vera Miller, Emma’s bunkmate and best friend, stepped in. Vera was a slip of a girl, small-boned with flawless skin, blonde hair, and round, dark eyes. Emma couldn’t have been more opposite—tall with dark hair, blue eyes, and broad shoulders she always thought would work better on a man. Emma’s jaw was square, and if she wasn’t careful she looked upset—angry even—when she concentrated. And while Emma was always early, Vera considered ten minutes late as fashionable. She paused and looked around at the high ceilings, papered walls, tall chandelier, and ornate fireplace as if she were seeing it all for the first time. Vera came every day, delivering the day’s covers and updating them on any old prints they needed to reevaluate. But today her hands were empty.
Voices stilled as all wondered what Vera was up to and why she hadn’t brou
ght any pictures with her. She placed a hand on her hip and her mouth gaped open. “So this is how the better half lives?” She hurried toward the small table where Emma sat. “Do you have an extra cuppa for me?”
Emma and Georgette exchanged glances. Both were eager for the day’s work to begin, but where were the prints? Emma’s stomach sank, and she released a silent prayer under her breath that no planes were lost.
“Any news of the covers?” a voice called from a desk on the other side of the room.
“They’re on their way. Flat tire on the transport lorry,” Vera called back. “I thought I’d enjoy myself in the lap of luxury as we waited.”
“A flat tire? I hope it’s nothing more than that.” Georgette poured her a cup of tea. “Any word on when they’ll be coming?”
“They sent for help back to the airfield.” Vera sat in a vacant chair and wiggled her eyebrows at Emma. “Maybe they’ll send a handsome pilot to deliver the prints.”
Emma cocked one eyebrow. “And risk you not getting any work done as you followed him around like a lost puppy?”
“I was thinking of you, Emma. You need some love in your life to lighten you up.”
Emma waved a hand in the air. “I’ll worry about love after this war. Who wants to add heartbreak on top of all the pain?”
Vera sipped her tea. “Don’t you worry, Em.” She smoothed her uniform skirt. “We’ll find you a beau from Benson airfield if it’s the last thing we do. Maybe the strong, silent type.”
“Not a pilot, and you know that,” Emma countered.
Vera leaned close so her voice was heard only by Emma. “I understand. I suppose your brother’s death makes you want to protect your heart.”
“Yes.” Emma tucked a stray hair back under her cap. “Something like that.”
It was a good explanation, even though it wasn’t completely accurate. Her brother Samuel’s B-24 bomber was only on its twelfth mission—targeting German airfields in Holland—when it crashed, but Emma had decided long before Samuel had become a pilot that she’d never marry someone she had to watch leave day in and day out, wondering if he’d come back.
Growing up on the coast of Maine, she’d witnessed the worry, the fear, in the eyes of wives as they watched their husbands sail away on the Atlantic Ocean. She didn’t want to live like that. She didn’t mind risking her life, but the last thing she wanted was to risk her heart.
Two of the staff took out a deck of cards and settled down to wait. Vera and Georgette chatted about the German sub sunk by the RAF a few days prior. Emma listened, remembering when Georgette first spotted the sub and how they’d followed its journey for a few days before the officers decided to send the bombers to strike.
“Sometimes I wonder if this war can last another year,” Vera commented. “I mean, the Germans won’t be able to hide everything from us, will they? God bless those Spitfire pilots.”
Emma sighed. “We can’t be everywhere, all the time. That’s the problem. It takes just as much skill to know where to send our photo planes as it does deciphering the photos.”
The clock clicked nine o’clock, and they got word that the night’s prints were finally on their way. Emma settled in for her evening shift. The prints were an hour late, which meant even more pressure to get through them, seeking out the most critical information. For the next eleven hours, while most of England slept, she’d lose herself in the black-and-white landscape. Even though her eyes felt heavy now, once she placed the first cover on her desk and peered into her stereoscope, all weariness would disappear.
Vera cast a quick glance at the clock, gave a sheepish grin, and then rose. “I need to head back to the cave, but don’t forget, tomorrow’s my birthday and our day off. Still up for traveling to London with me? You can’t say no.”
Emma smiled at Vera calling the photo archives a cave. It was in the basement level, and she supposed Vera often felt hidden away in the cavernous space. But if ever there was need of a specific print, Vera could get her hands on it within minutes. It was a gift, actually.
Emma rose and moved toward her desk. “I wouldn’t think about saying no to London. Who needs sleep? But you have to promise we go by that bookshop. Remember, the owner was going to look into that book for me?”
Vera nodded. “Grace Darling: Her True Story. You’re such a romantic, Emma. I’m certain that even though you claim to have come to England to aid in the war, the truth is that you simply wanted to get closer to your hero.”
“Is there anything wrong with that?”
“I’ve heard of Grace Darling,” Georgette piped in. “She lived in that lighthouse off the coast of Northumberland, didn’t she? What is it about Grace that fascinates you so?”
Emma shrugged. “Oh, simply the fact she was an ordinary girl who was willing to row out toward a shipwreck in order to rescue lives. I remember what Mum said the first time she told me the story—”
“I know,” Vera quickly interrupted. “One’s true character shines brightest in the midst of storm.” Vera brushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “The wisest thing my mum ever told me was to wear my rubbers when it looked like rain.” She chuckled. “But speaking of storms. Make sure you bring your raincoat and rubbers tomorrow in case we have to slog home.”
“Won’t Danny be able to give us a ride?”
Vera’s face brightened at the name. Daniel Lewis was a soldier and personal driver for the officers at Medmenham. He was always keen to give Vera a ride when able. Vera had many admirers, but she wasn’t quick to tie herself to one guy.
“Danny says he’ll try, but no guarantee. One never knows when the brass will be called to London.” Vera winked as she moved to return to her post. “But maybe it won’t rain. And maybe we will get a ride.”
Ten minutes later, the covers still not having arrived, Emma sat at her desk, straightened her slide ruler, and glanced at the door, anticipating it opening any moment. While she waited, she thought about all the things she wished she could write home about but couldn’t. With Vera around, Emma always had something entertaining to tell her parents, but it was work that she wanted to share with them more than anything. As she often did, she composed a letter in her head.
Dear Mum,
I’m part of a team that examines all the photographic sorties flown in northern Europe in a day, and then we issue twice daily up-to-date reports on every aspect of enemy activity. All those headlines you read in the Bar Harbor Times—all those headlines shouted out by newspaper men in New York, Los Angles, London—I knew about them six months ago, and we’re hot on Hitler’s tracks. In fact, last week the Eighth Air Force bombed the locks and U-boat base at Saint-Nazaire, France, because of information gathered with my help…
Every day was full of news that she longed to write, but the letters remained in her head.
And then there were things she never would write about, even if given the chance, like the fact they’d lost more than thirty American bombers during that raid over Saint-Nazaire, including two that collided when one of the bombers drifted off course due to failed engines. She wasn’t supposed to think of that, of course, when she was working. She had one job—to find Hitler’s strongholds. It was up to the brass to determine the whens or hows of destruction.
Her parents had no idea what she was doing in this war. Like everyone who entered the service, she’d signed the Official Secrets Act. Word of her work to anyone breached her oath, and she’d be court-martialed. But her parents not knowing was actually a good thing. Both had been none too happy when she’d decided to jump into the war. Traveling to England to do her part, long before American women were welcomed. It was yet another occasion for her mother to point out her lack of patience. Another opportunity for her father to lecture her on being headstrong.
She’d proved them both right, but here both of those things made her good at her work. She couldn’t be shy; she had to share her gut beliefs of what the photo covers were telling her. She also had to stick to it—to not gi
ve up trying to decipher an excessive number of tire tracks and large vehicles that proved a shoe factory had been recommissioned as munitions work. Or if new concrete stages set up along the coast of Germany had to do with the new wunderwaffe—wonder weapons—Hitler raved about.
Emma visualized crumbling up the imaginary letter and tossing it in the wastebasket. Her parents would never know—not until the end of this war, if ever—of her work. It was a burden she must carry alone.
FOUR
The door swung open, and Sergeant Edward Blackbourne, her section officer, hurried in. He’d been a geologist at a prestigious university before the war, and over the months he’d showed Emma how to read the contours of the earth. To see what the Germans attempted to hide or disguise.
Edward placed a set of covers on each person’s desk. Everyone had their specialty. Georgette had been watching German vessels, and Emma the airfields. Edward stopped before Emma’s desk. He had no file for her.
He placed his hands on the desk and looked down at her.
“Emma, I need to speak with you. Something important has come up. Out of everyone here, you’re the first to jump at the chance to tackle hard subjects. You said yes to joining our unit even before we could tell you what we’re about.” Edward cleared his throat.
“Now I have to ask you if you’re willing to jump off a cliff with me again.”
Emma studied the man’s eyes. They were dark and narrowed into slits as if he was always thinking, always processing. Edward put business first and was never one to socialize. To him the war was serious business, and she knew if she ever wanted to make a difference in this war, it would be helping Edward—with whatever the project was.
She nodded, taking his offer as a compliment and inwardly chiding her father. Dad always told her she leaped before she looked. Well, maybe she’d finally found a place where that was a good thing.
