Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  ‘A technical term?’

  ‘Our engineers were perfectly clueless, so they called in the boffins. Him over there and your prince. The pair of them had to go up the mast in the dark, bless ’em.’

  Vic, up a mast in the dark? ‘That’s pretty heroic. Is it working now?’

  ‘We haven’t had any targets to test it on yet, but the bombers who went out earlier will be back in a few hours, no doubt. Did you hear them?’

  ‘Hitler would have heard them in his bunker.’

  ‘Let’s hope they blast him to hell.’

  Kath’s head was in a spin. It was enough to worry about Mark without the embarrassment of bumping into Vic again. He still had not replied to any of her letters, and she assumed he’d taken umbrage after seeing her with the wretched Larry at Martlesham. The memory of those kisses still left a sour taste in her mouth. If only she’d taken more notice of Marcia’s warning about the cocktails.

  They bid goodnight to the previous shift and immediately settled into their stations. Kath took the first turn on the screen, and for the first hour everything was quiet except for the occasional ship passing by, so they had time to listen in to reports being sent to HQ at Stanmore from other stations. These were usually a staccato blur of acronyms, technical language and map readings that were almost impossible to follow. But every now and again a few terrifying phrases would emerge – ‘taking fire over Bremen’, ‘two down’, ‘identified hostile’ – that could grip you with panic if you listened too hard. It was easier when you were too busy to worry.

  She’d taken her turn on the plotting tables and returned to the screen when it began to light up with faint blips. She took plots, range and height, and calculated that there must be thirty of them, perhaps more, still eighty miles out. Probably our own, she thought, returning from the raid. By now Vic’s mate had ceased his snoring, introduced himself as Monty and was on full alert, peering at the screen over her shoulder.

  As they came closer, friendly aircraft would transmit a signal that showed up on the screen as a small extra downward spike – but only if they weren’t all bunched together, and only if the receiver was working properly. There was no other way of telling except, sometimes, by the tightness of the formations and the distance between the groups.

  The tension, as they waited, was almost unbearable.

  At last, they saw it. That extra little spike. ‘Friend,’ they shouted, simultaneously. Everyone in the bunker cheered, clapping Monty on the shoulder. The system was working again. These were RAF bombers returning to base in a group. She prayed Mark was among them. But that was only about thirty planes out of what they’d calculated to be three hundred who’d flown out.

  Over the next hour or so they counted them back, reporting to Stanmore and keeping their own score on a blackboard. The numbers crept up but the formations were all over the place, twenty-plus here and thirty-plus there. It was no doubt they’d had a rough time. Aircraft returning from a raid would often arrive in ragged bunches of sometimes only twenty, or fewer. Even in ones or twos. You could read it from the screen, like a picture in the sky, as you worked your way along the length of the trace, plotting every blip, then back to the beginning again. Plot, range, height, plot, range, height. All of them friendly.

  A lone aircraft appeared at forty miles out, very low and coming in very slowly. She tracked it carefully: twenty miles, fifteen miles, ten, then just five. The message went to Stanmore, and she imagined telephones ringing at Sutton Heath, calling code red for the fire and ambulance crews. She prayed that it managed to land safely.

  They estimated that at least five planes were still missing. She tried to calm herself by calculating the odds: five out of three hundred had failed to return, less than 2 per cent. Or, put another way, there was a 98 per cent chance that Mark had come home safely. She moved from the screen to the plotting table, but there was nothing to plot, so she continued watching over the shoulders of her fellow WAAFs.

  ‘Stragglers!’ The shout made them all jump. ‘One, perhaps two, coming in low.’ Everyone ran to look. The blip for one of the planes came closer and closer before passing right overhead. One of them at least was probably safe. The other suddenly disappeared about ten miles out. The message went out: someone called air-sea rescue, giving map references of the last sighting. Ten minutes later a blip appeared, most likely the spotter plane. Kath prayed that the men had managed to get out safely before they crash-landed.

  Now only three planes were still unaccounted for.

  Then, suddenly, a single plane at sixty miles, then thirty, flying low. Another straggler? They tracked it minute by minute. But something was wrong. It began to act strangely, rising, then levelling off before dropping again. It turned and flew away from the coast, then steadied, as though it was moving along the coastline.

  ‘What the hell’s he playing at? Ruddy thing’s wheeling round like a Catherine wheel,’ the WAAF swore.

  Wheeling. The words she’d said to Mark: It soon becomes apparent when they start wheeling about. ‘Is it hostile?’ she called. ‘Strange time for reconnaissance.’

  ‘Can’t tell. The IFF signal seems to be playing up again. Sometimes I see it, then I don’t.’

  Monty groaned. ‘I thought we’d fixed it? It was working okay before.’

  The WAAF fiddled with the controls. ‘Nope, can’t see it. Not at all.’

  Kath ran back to look over her shoulder. It was definitely a single blip. For a few seconds, she thought she saw the second spike on the screen that would indicate friendly craft, but it disappeared so fast she fancied she must have imagined it. There it was again. Now it had gone.

  ‘D’you mind if I have a go?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ the WAAF said, relinquishing her seat.

  Kath sat at the controls, her right hand on the goniometer wheel. Nudging it gently clockwise, then anti-clockwise, she took readings: height, range and trajectory. She peered at the screen so hard that her eyes burned. Definitely no double blip. She stood up again and the WAAF resumed her place.

  ‘Nope, nothing.’

  ‘Best inform Stanmore, anyway,’ someone said.

  Kath’s head whirled. ‘And have them send a fighter to shoot the poor bastard down?’ she said. It would be her responsibility to make the call, but what if the plane was ours? What if it was Mark?

  ‘That “poor bastard” might be coming to bomb us.’

  ‘But are we really sure it’s hostile?’

  ‘We have to leave it to them to decide. They’ll have tracks from other stations, after all. Make the call, Kath,’ someone said.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Do it, Kath.’ More urgently this time. ‘Before they bloody well blow us to kingdom come.’

  As the phone operator on rota, it was her duty. She dialled and spoke into the receiver, giving the identification code for the station, followed by the time. ‘Craft acting suspiciously, possibly hostile,’ she said, giving range, height and co-ordinates.

  ‘Roger that, thank you.’ As she replaced the receiver it felt as heavy as a stone.

  Everyone was still gathered around the screen, watching as the plane continued to circle, up and down the coast. It was like nothing they’d observed before and hardly likely to be activity of an enemy aircraft, they all agreed. Kath became more and more convinced that the plane and its crew were in trouble, trying to find their route to the crash ’drome at Sutton Heath.

  Ten minutes later they tracked a fighter, heading out towards their latest sighting.

  ‘If they’re German, they’re toast,’ someone said, and the others cheered.

  But what if they’re not? The question repeated itself over and over in Kath’s head. But what if they’re not?

  Moments later, just as the other girls arrived to take over the shift, all trace of the mysterious plane disappeared. Even though she felt nauseous with anxiety and fatigue, she waited as they tracked the fighter home, and the screens cleared of all signals.

  By the ti
me they emerged from the bunker the sun was already rising and the remnants of dawn lingered to the east, sending darts of pink into the sky reflected in an almost flat sea. Birds were staking noisy claim to territory in the trees to the side of the Manor, and a roe deer slipped across the path in front of them.

  ‘Going to be a fine day,’ Monty observed cheerfully.

  ‘Off to bed now?’ someone asked.

  ‘Nope, I’m going to get the boss. I reckon we’re going up that mast again. Need to double-check the IFF receiver just to make sure. At least it’ll be in daylight this time.’

  The boss? Kath realised he must be referring to Vic. After all the stress of the shift and the worry about Mark, she’d almost forgotten. As Monty peeled off in the direction of the Manor, she realised that as civilian visitors he and Vic would be served breakfast in the officers’ mess while she and her fellow WAAFs were heading for the grim fare of the cookhouse. Their paths were unlikely to cross, unless one of them . . .

  On impulse, she called to Monty’s disappearing back, ‘Tell him Kath says hello.’

  He swivelled round. ‘You mean Vic?’

  She nodded, conscious of the others’ questioning looks.

  ‘Will do, miss,’ he said with smile and a mock salute.

  28

  ‘You old fox,’ Monty said, finding Vic at the breakfast table.

  ‘I’ve been called some things in my time, but to what do I owe this compliment?’ Vic said, tucking into fried bread and scrambled eggs. The bread had a faint but not unpleasant tang of kippers.

  ‘I gather you are acquainted with a certain leading aircraft-woman Motts?’

  Vic took a mouthful of food, then wished he hadn’t. With some effort, he managed to chew and swallow without choking. ‘Yes, I am. What of it?’

  ‘She said to say hello.’

  ‘You met her? What exactly did she say?’

  ‘Just that, nothing more. Sorry to disappoint, old chap. She was on duty in the receiving room. We had quite a night of it, I can tell you.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Monty gave a brief summary.

  ‘So we need to check that calibration again?’

  ‘’Fraid so. Hey ho. Up we go.’

  As he climbed the ladder Vic wondered where Kath would be now. Asleep, probably. Hearing that she’d mentioned his name to Monty, his heart seemed to unfreeze a little. So what if she enjoyed the occasional fling with other men – especially Yanks, who could provide such delights as swing bands, ice cream and nylon stockings? He’d never laid any claim to her and had only hoped, but never presumed, that she might consider him a longer-term proposition.

  Now, more than anything, he wanted just to see her, to straighten things up between them before he had to leave for Martlesham and then, in two weeks’ time, go back to London.

  ‘Phew,’ Monty said, climbing onto the platform behind him. ‘That was easier than last night.’

  ‘It’s a fine view in the daytime.’ Vic shielded his eyes with his hand. ‘You can see for miles. That’s Harwich, down there. That’s Landguard Fort, an old Napoleonic defence and now home of the Territorials. And up in that direction, except you can’t quite see it from this level, is Orfordness, where Watson-Watt first started his experiments.’

  ‘I prefer the Yorkshire hills myself,’ Monty said. ‘But Suffolk has a certain charm.’

  From here you had an almost perfect aerial view of the different gardens, and for the first time Vic realised that the Round Garden was not perfectly circular but actually a slight oval, following the footprint of the old Martello tower that had once stood guard from its clifftop position.

  The IFF calibrations seemed perfect but he tweaked them all the same, and they climbed down the ladder once more. ‘Let’s go back to the bunker to check this receiver’s working properly,’ he said. ‘Then I expect we’ll have to head back to Martlesham.’

  In the receiver room, they waited until a few planes had flown overhead. The system was working perfectly. ‘Your Miss Motts will be reassured,’ Monty said. ‘She was very anxious when they couldn’t identify that plane acting oddly. It must have been a German doing a recce or something. Anyway, he’s probably dust by now.’

  ‘How did it go last night?’ Padmore asked, smoothing his luxuriant moustache.

  ‘There was a bit of a commotion early this morning, sir,’ Vic said. ‘They weren’t entirely sure whether the IFF was working properly, so we’ve been up the mast again this morning. It’s working perfectly now.’

  ‘You went up the mast yourselves? In the dark? And again this morning?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The engineers seemed reluctant without their manager’s say-so.’

  Padmore lifted the phone and barked into it. ‘Find out which engineers were on shift last night and get them to my office. Pronto.’

  He put down the phone and turned back to Vic and Monty. ‘Hmm. This leaves me with a quandary.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come.’

  One of the engineers they’d met the previous evening entered, his face pale with terror.

  ‘Take a seat outside, gentlemen, would you?’ Padmore said to Vic and Monty. ‘Just for a few moments.’ Even through the heavy oak door they could hear his barks. They exchanged glances.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Vic whispered.

  ‘Deserves it,’ Monty mouthed.

  The engineer re-emerged shortly afterwards, now red-faced, and they were summoned back into the office.

  ‘It’s like this, chaps,’ Padmore said. ‘The only engineer who has any gumption is on leave and won’t be back till tomorrow, and I’m reluctant to risk another event like yesterday. With your permission, I’m going to ask Martlesham whether they can spare you, or even just one of you, for one more day just to make sure it’s all tickety-boo.’

  Another day at Bawdsey Manor, with nothing to do except enjoy the comforts of Room Six and the officer’s mess? And perhaps the chance to find Kath?

  ‘Yes, sir, certainly, sir. It will be a pleasure,’ Vic said.

  Padmore picked up the receiver. ‘Get me Martlesham.’ He gestured to Vic and Monty to take a seat. They perched on the leather sofa as the call went through. But there seemed to be some kind of hitch. ‘Yes . . . yes . . . hmm . . . I do understand. But you see my dilemma too . . .? Yes, of course . . . Look, hold the line and I’ll ask. They’re just here.’

  He looked up, hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Seems they’re a bit reluctant to let me keep both of you. Apparently there’s some kind of big pow-wow planned for this afternoon and they’d like one of you RDF fellows to attend. Would one of you agree to stay? Don’t mind who, we can decide later, but do you agree to this, in principle?’

  Vic glanced at Monty, and they both nodded. The CO finished his call.

  ‘Thanks very much for this, lads. Now off you go. Just let me know which one of you is staying, if you don’t mind. The car will be here for the other one at ten prompt.’

  ‘Toss for it?’ Vic said, back in their room. That would give him at least a fifty-fifty chance.

  ‘No, you stay, Mac,’ Monty said. ‘Give you a chance to meet up with that sweetheart of yours. I can grab some sleep when I get back.’

  ‘That’s very generous. I’ll owe you, my friend.’

  ‘Hope it works out,’ Monty said, with a conspiratorial wink.

  On his way back to the receiving room he met Marcia going in the same direction.

  ‘No sleep for the wicked,’ she said with a weary sigh. ‘Have you seen Kath yet?’

  He felt his cheeks flush. ‘No, afraid not. Any idea where she is?’

  ‘She only came off shift at eight, so she’s probably asleep. But if I see her, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.’

  It was all quiet in the skies, so Vic decided to take a walk to clear his head. After the bitter cold of recent weeks the clouds had cleared. He took a lungful of air, fresher and saltier here than anywhere else he’d ever lived. The North Sea looked
beguilingly calm, almost benign, its tea-coloured waters concealing the terrible tragedies of war: burning planes, ditched crews, torpedoed convoys; a burial ground for hundreds of lives lost and bodies never recovered.

  It was surprisingly warm, almost as though spring had arrived, although a nip in the shadows was a warning against complacency. He passed the laundry cottages, the dairy cottages and the mock Tudor frontage of the farmhouse with its curve of stables, all badly neglected these days, before retracing his steps going via the walled kitchen garden. The wooden structure of the lemonry seemed even more derelict than before, but he took a few moments to sit on the bench, resting his back on the whitewashed wall and warming himself in the weak sunshine. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, feeling his shoulders relaxing, perhaps for the first time in months. He did it again, and a feeling of wellbeing crept over him. It felt wrong, somehow, being here in this paradise while other men were risking their lives.

  When he grew chilled he continued his walk, noticing with pleasure as he crossed the kitchen garden that the old vegetable beds were now pressed into full use: sprouts and kale being cropped, other areas tilled and ready for planting. Emerging from the gate at the southern end, he turned towards the entrance to the Cliff Path, only to discover that it had been blocked by an ugly concrete pillbox housing a heavy gun. He remembered now that Kath had written about this, but even so, the disappointment of being barred from his – their – special place came as a shock. He sighed and retraced his steps, heading back to the Manor through the tunnel that led to the Round Garden.

  He was striding with purpose now, hoping to find coffee being served back at the Manor, but as he emerged into the dell his feet stopped in their tracks. The usually deserted garden was already occupied by a figure sitting on one of the benches: a WAAF with her back to him, capped head in her hands. He paused in the shadows, unwilling to disturb her.

  Just as he turned away to retrace his steps the girl sat up and pulled off her cap, running her fingers through curls that caught a stray ray of sunshine with the unmistakeable glow of red.