Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  ‘I might just as well ask the same of you.’

  ‘This is my brother, Mark. And my friend Joan. We met Captain Burrows earlier.’

  ‘If I’d known you had such a handsome brother, Kath, I’d have asked for an introduction earlier.’ The wide brim of Nancy’s hat emphasised the coquettish tilt of her head.

  ‘Nancy and I work together,’ Kath explained, feeling suddenly protective of her brother. She’d break his heart with the flutter of an eyelash.

  ‘The captain is going to show me his joystick,’ Nancy giggled. ‘How can I possibly resist?’

  As they watched the pair walking away, Kath looked at her brother’s crestfallen face. Poor Mark, she thought, he’s just a kid interested in model aeroplanes. A girl like Nancy would eat him alive.

  8

  Vic was standing at the base of the wooden steps beside the aircraft, awaiting his turn in the queue, when a tall man in naval uniform pushed to the front with a glamorous young woman in a red dress whose face he vaguely recognised.

  ‘What a ruddy nerve,’ someone in the crowd muttered. ‘We’ve been here half an hour.’

  The girl giggled and simpered, hanging on the pilot’s every word. Vic could never imagine any girl, pretty or otherwise, showing him such attention. Not that he’d have any idea how to respond, even if they did. Since the age of seven he’d lived in male-only institutions: prep school, boarding school, Cambridge and now here at the research station. Sometimes, when feeling low or under the weather he would recall his ayah in India, or his mother, and long for the physical comfort of a woman’s arms.

  Other boys at school and university talked openly about their experiences with girls and although he knew that much of their talk was wishful thinking he understood, too, that he was unlikely ever to reach what they called ‘first base’, let alone ‘go the whole way’, at least until he found someone stupid enough to marry him. What would any girl see in him: his thin and weedy frame, his brown skin and thick glasses? No, it was far better to push any thoughts of such encounters to the back of his mind. In bed at night, he found that trying to solve theorems or other mathematical puzzles could be a great distraction.

  At last the pilot and his companion descended the steps and disappeared through the crowd.

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ someone muttered.

  ‘You wish, you randy old devil.’ Everyone laughed.

  Vic didn’t envy the pilot. On his tenth birthday, his father had taken him up in a glider. He could still remember the terror of the take-off as they bounced along the airstrip, towed behind another plane like a flimsy toy, and the way his stomach churned as they lifted into the air. He’d found himself praying that he wouldn’t embarrass himself. Then the tow rope disappeared and as the other plane peeled away everything went quiet, save the whistling of the wind. It was only then Vic realised that the glider had no engine.

  ‘Terrific, isn’t it?’ his father had shouted, apparently unaware that at any minute they could plummet like a stone to the ground. But through some inexplicable piece of magic the plane stayed up, and they even landed safely, if a bit bumpily. Vic managed to climb out and dash to the side of the field before being violently sick.

  He had decided there and then that flying was far too dangerous, and he wasn’t going anywhere near an aeroplane ever again. Yet here he was, twelve years later, queuing to sit inside the cockpit of a Fairey Swordfish, because Robert Watson-Watt had given him the enormous honour – that’s how Vic saw it, at least – of asking him to join a team working on an extra-secret and vitally important mission, that required familiarising himself with the construction, mechanics and electrics of as many types of aircraft as possible.

  At the Manor, developments had moved faster than Vic could have anticipated. Just after Christmas Watson-Watt had announced that the RAF would be using it as the base for the first ever training school for radio direction finding, meaning that the systems they had been working on would be integrated into mainstream government planning for the defence of Britain in case of war. Within a few days new accommodation buildings were being constructed, and before very long the first intake of recruits arrived.

  Teams of workers braved all weathers to erect three more masts and below them tons of concrete were mixed and poured, constructing heavily fortified bunkers into which the transmission and receiving equipment would be fitted. Similar installations were being built all around the east and south coast, along with a set of operations rooms at Fighter Command HQ at Stanmore in West London. The aim was for Bawdsey to become the very first ‘Chain Home’ station to come on line, and that the network would become fully operational by September. All of this activity was being conducted in the utmost secrecy, information being shared on what they called a ‘need to know only’ basis.

  When Vic first arrived, the atmosphere at the Manor had been rather like a dignified gentlemen’s club, but now all that had changed. The sense of urgency was palpable. While everyone worked hard, weekends were for letting off steam, and the formerly peaceful air of the place was now shattered by the noise of football games, rowdy bathing parties and picnics. Someone overheard Vic practising ragtime tunes on the out-of-tune upright piano in the hall and he was reluctantly press-ganged into performing for one of the variety shows staged every Sunday evening. Thereafter he sometimes found himself addressed as ‘Maestro Mac’.

  While non-commissioned RAF men were billeted in temporary huts, their officers were to be given rooms in the Manor, so this meant new sleeping arrangements for the civilian scientists and engineers. They would have to share, chosen by lottery. Vic feared he’d be stuck with Frank or one of the other more tricky customers, so when the list went up he was greatly relieved to find that he’d been paired with Johnnie. They were allocated one of the bedrooms on the first floor of the Red Tower.

  ‘Lucky bastards,’ he heard Frank muttering behind him. ‘You’re on the VIP corridor. Who’d you have to bribe to get that one?’

  ‘What do you mean, VIP?’ Johnnie asked.

  ‘They’re the largest rooms with the best views, where the family used to live.’

  He was right: the room was fully twenty feet square, with two full-length windows overlooking the gardens and the sea. Squinting to the right, you could even glimpse the mouth of the estuary and Felixstowe beyond.

  ‘Whatever did we do to deserve this?’ Johnnie asked.

  ‘Search me,’ Vic said.

  The scale of the room dwarfed its meagre allocation of furniture, which was the same as that in the smaller rooms: two narrow iron-framed beds, military issue, with the thin hard mattresses everyone called ‘biscuits’, two thin-ply wardrobes incorporating a chest of drawers, two wooden chairs. They discovered hidden behind a screen a large, rust-stained Victorian hand-basin, and the taps even worked. What luxury.

  In addition they had apparently inherited from a former occupant two baggy, ragged easy chairs and a coffee table, placed in front of the window. Johnnie sank into one of the chairs before rising again with a yelp. ‘Bloody hell, those springs are a bit sharp.’ He felt the back of his trousers. ‘Hope I haven’t torn anything.’

  ‘We’ll have to steal cushions from the Green Room,’ Vic said. ‘But who cares, old chum, when you’ve got a view like this? I could look at it forever.’

  ‘How long do you think we’ve got?’

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘Now the RAF’s taking over, will they stand us down, do you think?’

  ‘Cripes, do you really think so?’ The notion simply hadn’t occurred to Vic, and it certainly wasn’t welcome. How could he face going back to those dusty old labs at Cambridge after the excitement of Bawdsey?

  By now it was clear that they were not going to be stood down any time soon. Even as his original ambitions were being turned into reality, Robert Watson-Watt’s restless mind was already moving ahead.

  ‘We’re becoming victims of our own success, chaps. The navy is pestering us to develop direction finding for their shi
ps, the RAF want it installed in every one of their planes and the army want us to make the kit portable so they can drive it around to bolster coastal defences. And as I’m sure you’re all very aware, there are still many weaknesses in our basic systems. The magic eye is still far from magical. Our masts are not clever at detecting low-flying craft, and we’re still picking up signals reflected off tall buildings inland, which is damned unhelpful to say the very least. We’re not here to identify East Anglia’s many medieval churches, ancient and impressive though they may be. Perhaps most urgent of all, our system still can’t distinguish between friendly planes and enemy craft, which will leave us in a right fix when the buggers come a-visiting.

  ‘So if you thought you were going to be able to rest on your laurels now the RAF are here, you’d be very wrong,’ he went on, tamping tobacco into his pipe. ‘The work is going to be even harder, and more urgent, than before. We’re recruiting more specialists and will divide you into new teams, each tasked with a specific set of problems. As ever, you may exchange information between your groups, but you will never, repeat never, discuss it with anyone else – not even the officers or the training lot. Is that clear?’

  That very afternoon Vic found himself in a room with Johnnie and another scientist called Scott, whom he did not know well, along with a couple of electrical engineers. They were obviously the foundation of a team, but no one had any idea what they would be working on. So it was a little alarming to discover that their leader was none other than Dr A. P. Rowe, a senior scientist with the Air Ministry and close ally to Watson-Watt, as the joint ‘fathers’ of the venture. If he was heading their work, it must be a very important project indeed.

  Dr Rowe had a reputation for being terrifyingly stern, and they all stood nervously to attention as he entered the room. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, sit down, chaps. No standing on ceremony here,’ he said. ‘And before any of you start trying to address me as Doctor anything, the name’s Jimmy. And who are you? Tell me your names and what you’ve been working on so far.’

  He turned to Vic with a gaze like powerful headlights. ‘Okay, you first. Let’s have it.’

  ‘My name’s Vikram Mackensie, sir, but everyone here calls me Mac. I was doing a doctorate in radio waves at Cambridge when the boss – I mean, Mr Watson-Watt – recruited me.’ As he spoke he felt, for a brief moment, as though he were standing outside himself, observing a stranger. Is this really me? All these things I’m saying, did we really do all of this?

  The feeling of unreality, of being in a dream, only intensified as the doctor – Vic could no more imagine himself addressing this titan as ‘Jimmy’ than he could calling the boss ‘Robert’ – began to describe the work they would be doing: the most important job on the station, he called it. It was a project called ‘Identification, Friend or Foe’, or IFF, which would involve developing and testing a bit of kit that could reflect or transmit a signal clear enough for the operator to interpret accurately and identify what kind of aircraft they were detecting. It would have to be small enough to fit in any kind of craft, and of course it must be failsafe.

  ‘You will already have ascertained that the success of this country’s air defences – indeed the outcome of a war should we, heaven forbid, have to fight one – will absolutely depend on what you six gentlemen come up with,’ he concluded. ‘The lives of thousands and the future freedom of our country are depending on you.’

  9

  ‘Does your brother see much of that captain?’ Nancy asked, a little too casually, next time they were on shift together.

  ‘You mean he hasn’t asked for a date yet? I’d assumed it was a dead cert,’ Kath said, surprised but also secretly amused. Nancy had never, to her knowledge, been disappointed in love. It was always the men who seemed to suffer.

  ‘Not a dickey bird. Shame, though. A handsome fellow like that needs a girlfriend, don’t you think?’

  ‘He might be wedded to his work, you know. Give it time.’

  In fact, Kath was about to learn rather more about Captain Raymond Burrows than she would ever let on to Nancy – or anyone else, for that matter. His name seemed to appear in Mark’s conversations more and more frequently, and then, one weekend, he came for Sunday lunch.

  ‘He doesn’t get home often,’ Ma said, by way of explanation. ‘Said he missed his mother’s cooking. Now lend a hand with these spuds, would you?’ She pointed to a colander of potatoes that would surely feed a squadron. ‘These young men have big appetites, you know.’

  Kath began peeling. ‘How do you know so much about the captain, Ma?’

  ‘We had a lovely chat after Mark introduced us at the Empire Day; don’t you remember?’

  ‘You invited him to lunch there and then, on the spot?’

  ‘No, silly. Mark suggested it,’ Ma said, turning to her. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with asking someone to enjoy our meal when they’re so far away from their own family?’

  Kath couldn’t put it into words, somehow. There was something about the man that made her uneasy: his over-friendliness and flirtatious manner, first with herself and Joan and then with Nancy, and the way he’d suggested that just by giving the word he could fix it for Mark to become a pilot.

  Despite her misgivings, the lunch was fun. The captain – ‘Call me Ray’ – was the best of guests, complimenting Pa on the excellence of his carving technique and Ma on the deliciousness of the food, accepting second helpings of everything while talking about flying boats in such a way that even Kath found herself fascinated. Afterwards, they took their customary Sunday afternoon walk to the seafront and when they reached the pier, the captain went to buy them all ice creams.

  ‘Such perfect manners,’ Ma remarked.

  ‘He says I’ve got what it takes to become a pilot,’ Mark said.

  ‘I suppose we can’t change your mind?’

  ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted, you know that. He’ll be putting my name forward for the next intake in September.’

  ‘If they’re all as smart as that lad, you’ll be in good company,’ Pa said, a glow of pride in his voice.

  Kath remained unconvinced. Of course Ray was charming, with that self-assurance all posh boys seemed to pick up at their public schools. But there was something slightly overdone about him, something a little too perfect. She couldn’t help wondering whether it was all a veneer, as though he was hiding something.

  Joan graduated from college, and with the help of a reference from Kath’s father she landed a job as an office assistant at the Felixstowe Dock and Railway Company. Kath was jealous at first, but on hearing the paltry salary her friend earned, decided she wasn’t going to waste a year in college after all.

  Ma was furious. ‘Joan has prospects now, with her qualifications. What have you got?’

  ‘About double the weekly pay, if you add the tips,’ Kath said. ‘I can work the shifts I choose, and it’s fun.’

  ‘You could always study something else, if you don’t fancy being a secretary.’

  ‘Like childcare? I’ll probably get enough of that once I’m married.’

  ‘Or beauty?’

  ‘Really, Ma? I couldn’t care less about make-up and hairstyles. Look at me.’ She wrinkled her nose and ruffled her curls.

  ‘Or domestic science? You can’t go wrong with a career as a chef.’

  ‘Why would I need to spend a year at college? I’ve got an excellent chef right here to learn from.’

  Not long after this conversation, Maggie lost her job. The school where she had worked for the past eight years had announced it would be closing at the end of term, for good.

  It was distressing to see her mother so upset. ‘You’ll find something else soon enough,’ Kath said.

  ‘But I like it there, seeing the children every day with their eager little faces.’ Maggie wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘And they’re so appreciative of my cooking. There’s a little lad, Eric his name is, I think, and he often comes over specially to tell me how yummy
it was. Once he even said I was the best cook he’d ever known. Oh,’ her voice broke once again. ‘I’m really going to miss them.’

  Pa put an arm around her shoulder. ‘It’ll work out, love. You never know, what you find next might be even more interesting and satisfying.’

  ‘I’ll put out the word at the cafe,’ Kath said. ‘They might hear something on the grapevine.’

  Sure enough, it was only a week later when one of the chefs emerged from the kitchen and approached the waitress station. ‘Watch out,’ one of the others whispered. ‘Grumpy-guts is on the warpath.’ He was the one they feared most, a gruff, often bad-tempered man of few words, except when shouting at the waitresses. But today his sour face almost managed a smile as he pulled out a scrap of paper and handed it to Kath.

  Temporary cook wanted at Bawdsey Research Station.

  Transport provided.

  Telephone Felixstowe 2032 or write c/o Bawdsey Manor.

  ‘Great heavens,’ she said. ‘At the Manor? That top secret place?’

  He shrugged. ‘They’ll probably be okay payers.’

  ‘Wherever did you find it?’

  ‘What you don’t know won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Thank you so much. I’m sure she’ll give it a try.’

  Ma returned from the interview bursting with enthusiasm. Kath had never seen her so elated. ‘You should see it. It’s all turrets and towers outside. Inside, well, it’s a bit run down now, but you can just imagine what it was like when the family owned it. Grandpa was right. It’s quite a place.’

  ‘Did you get the job?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She laughed. ‘I almost forgot to say. They asked me all kinds of questions about where I’d worked before and such like. Seemed interested that I’m used to catering for up to a hundred at a time, even though I did explain they’re only children and they said the culinary tastes of their lot were hardly more sophisticated than kids, anyway. It’s institutional cooking, lots of baking, pies and puddings and cakes, the sort of thing I’m really familiar with. They made me wait while they telephoned the school for a reference. The headmaster apparently told them I was very discreet and trustworthy, as well as being a reliable chef.’