Читать книгу Bird's Eye View - Elinor Florence - Страница 15

I tore open the envelope and pulled out my orders. Closing my eyes, I said a silent prayer before unfolding the stiff white sheet and reading: “Report to the Central Interpretation Unit, RAF Medmenham, 1300 hours, April 1, 1942.”

My disappointment was so intense that I felt dizzy. I raised my hand and pressed my fingers under my collarbone. Now I understood what that final interview was about, when they asked all those questions concerning family and friends. They were going to park me in some stuffy intelligence office. I’d never even heard of a place called Medmenham.

I requested a meeting with my commanding officer.

“You know it’s bad form to question a posting,” he said with a stern expression. “You should consider yourself lucky indeed to be assigned to this position. For one thing, it will put you in line for promotion. Many British girls would jump at the opportunity.” There was a faint emphasis on the word “British.”

He looked at my face and seemed to relent. “Don’t take it so hard, Jolliffe. It’s quite an honour to be selected for intelligence work. We can’t all fight the Hun, you know.”

The journey to my new headquarters, located in the Thames River valley forty miles northwest of London, took place on a typically sodden spring day. The landscape shimmered under a sheet of rain like a watercolour painting.

As the train jogged along, I closed my eyes against the deluge that poured down the windowpanes of my compartment and visualized the farm at this time of the year: new calves frisking around the pasture on legs like spindles, flocks of geese honking their way north, Dad’s rubber boots sticking out from under the tractor.

With my eyes closed, I fingered the set of propellers on my shoulder. My new rank made me feel a little better. Every recruit began as an Aircraftwoman 2nd Class, called an Acey-Deucey, and after basic training was promoted to Aircraftwoman 1st Class. I had gone straight up to the third rank: Leading Aircraftwoman, or LAC. There were still nine ranks to go ending with wing officer, but I was glad to have made it this far.

As the train jerked to a halt, I opened my eyes. “Is your journey really necessary?” asked a threatening message on the wall. How I wished it weren’t. All signs had been removed to thwart the invading Germans, but I had counted the stops on my fingers and knew this was my destination, the town of Marlow.

I slung my gas mask container over one shoulder and struggled off the train with my kit bag. Why did they make us carry so darned much stuff? A canvas tube tied around the top with a rope, the kit bag contained my shoes, clothing, rain cape, and ground sheet. When my helmet fell out of the bag, I resisted the impulse to kick it across the platform.

“LAC Jolliffe?” A young transport driver with acne was walking toward me. I dropped the heavy bag on my foot and winced as I returned his salute.

“The lorry is around the corner, ma’am. Let me help you with that.” He picked up the bag and set off while I trotted along behind him, then hoisted myself into the cab of the transport truck while he loaded several boxes from the train.

We left the town and headed west along a winding road that followed the northern bank of the Thames River through a dense forest. The showers ended abruptly, as they often did in England, and the sun broke through the clouds, piercing the dark green leaves and dappling the road with golden coins of light.

As always, the sunshine lifted my spirits. Through an opening in the trees, I caught a glimpse of the Thames, the opalescent water gliding past the low riverbanks dotted with flocks of woolly sheep like huge fluffy dandelions gone to seed.

After a few miles, the driver turned off the main road and changed gears as the truck laboured up a steep, narrow incline. We broke through the trees at last and my new home came into view. The driver glanced at me with a smile. “Here we are, ma’am.”

Standing on the brow of a hill overlooking the river was an enormous white two-storey mansion, topped with red brick chimneys and a row of crenellated stone teeth. Square towers rose from both ends, and a wing ran straight back from each tower so the house formed a three-sided rectangle, open at the back. Across the full length of the ground floor, a series of arched openings gave it a Mediterranean appearance.

Emerald lawns surrounded the house, sloping down to the river’s edge. Magnificent beech and willow trees were scattered across the grass. Long flowerbeds bursting with Wordsworth’s yellow daffodils lined the pebbled driveway.

“We don’t really work here, do we?” I asked in amazement, looking around for the ubiquitous metal huts.

The driver chuckled as the truck pulled to a stop at the front door. “Yes, ma’am, there’s room for offices and living quarters as well. The darkroom technicians bunk in the north wing, under the clock tower.”

I sat motionless, still staring in disbelief. “Is it very old?”

“No, ma’am, it was only built around 1900.” The driver put the truck into neutral and leaned back in his seat, assuming a self-important expression. “Danesfield House was built by the heir to the Sunlight soap company. He hired an architect to design this place in the Italian Renaissance style. It went through two or three owners before the war broke out, then the RAF requisitioned the house and all sixty acres.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s pretty,” he said scornfully, “but it isn’t great architecture or anything. There are follies all over England — that’s when somebody with plenty of dosh decides to build a monument to himself. Locals call this one The Wedding Cake.”

I tried to view the house critically, but I still saw a fantastic fairytale castle. “Why is the stone so white?”

“It’s chalkstone, a type of rock native to this area. The entire village of Medmenham down the road is made of chalkstone.”

He pointed toward the door. “Your section officer is waiting for you, ma’am.”

I clambered out of the truck, hoisted my kit bag over my shoulder, and mounted a set of broad white stone steps to the grand entrance where a woman stood, a pleasant-faced officer about forty-five years old with steel-grey hair and spectacles.

“Welcome to RAF Medmenham. I’m Section Officer Hamilton.” She returned my salute and led me into a front hall the size of our barn. I had another one of my Alice sensations as I felt myself shrinking to the size of a mouse under the twenty-foot arched ceiling.

Up the curved mahogany staircase we marched, and down a long hallway leading to the north wing. Upstairs most of the carved wood panelling was draped with sheets, and the furniture had been removed. The walls showed lighter rectangles where paintings and tapestries had once hung. There were no floor coverings, and our heels clattered on the large square flagstones.

Mrs. Hamilton turned and headed down another long hallway before opening the door to a palatial bedroom. Even the metal bunk beds along the walls didn’t diminish the elegance of the room, with its ornate mouldings and leaded glass windows.

“You’ll kip over there,” Mrs. Hamilton said, pointing to a lower bunk. “The others are on shift in the darkroom. I’ll brief you after you’ve put away your things. You’ve already been added to tomorrow’s duty roster.”

After dumping my meagre belongings into the military chest at the foot of my bunk, I was taken into Mrs. Hamilton’s office where I signed The Official Secrets Act. I was not to breathe a word about my work to anyone — not loved ones, friends, or acquaintances — neither in letters nor in conversation. If I breached this oath, I would be court-martialled.

Then Mrs. Hamilton briefed me on RAF Medmenham. When the war began, photo reconnaissance was rarely used. But after the continent fell, there was no way to find out what the enemy was doing except to spy on them from the air.

To minimize the usual wrangling among the army, navy, and air force, a single Photo Reconnaissance Unit was created to fly the planes and take the photos, and a Central Interpretation Unit to decipher the results. The flying unit was located on the nearby riverbank and this luxurious house was fitted out with all the necessary photographic equipment.

The head of the interpretation unit was RAF Group Captain Martin Shoreham, a First World War veteran with a sterling reputation. I met him when Mrs. Hamilton escorted me to the south wing, down more hallways as long as runways. “He has an artificial hand,” she warned, before opening his office door. “Please don’t stare at it.”

Although simply furnished, the commander’s office was an elegant chamber with an elaborate plaster frieze around the ceiling, and a pair of French doors that opened onto a stone balustrade overlooking the sweep of the Thames.

“Glad to have you on board, Jolliffe,” he said. A vigorous man with a chest like a rain barrel and a huge RAF moustache, he rose to his feet with his left hand behind his back, smiling at me like a friendly uncle.

“We’re completely swamped. We’ve doubled our staff in the past year — we have forty interpreters now, and we could probably use another hundred. It’s very difficult to find the right people. What part of Canada are you from?”

“Western Canada, sir. The prairies.”

“Excellent. I haven’t been farther west than Ottawa, myself. Perhaps after the war. Welcome to Medmenham. Mrs. Hamilton will take good care of you. Dismissed.”

We returned to the north wing, where a monstrous bathroom had been converted into a darkroom by removing the toilet and bathtub and adding several large sinks. On the floor was an intricate Grecian key pattern of dark blue and white mosaic tiles, repeated at waist level around all four walls.

I forced myself to concentrate as Mrs. Hamilton began my briefing. “As soon as a recce aircraft lands, the rolls of film are rushed here straight away, and we develop and print two sets of photographs.” At first I was confused, thinking she had called them “wrecky” aircraft. Then I realized this was air force slang, short for reconnaissance.

“One set of prints goes to the first phase interpreters for a quick once-over. Next they are passed to second phase interpretation for the next twenty-four hours. If something suspicious is found, the photos go to third phase. That requires the most intense scrutiny by subject specialists, who are divided into fifteen sections: aircraft, bomb damage, camouflage, and so forth.”

I listened intently, trying to remember everything.

“We also receive negatives and prints from every air base in the country. These are filed here in our central library, and reviewed frequently. For example, if a new factory is detected, the industrial section will request all the cover from that area be brought out for another examination.”

Mrs. Hamilton examined me over her spectacles. “I’m warning you, it can be very high-pressure. You’ll know what I mean when you have two or three officers hanging fire outside the darkroom door. In a crisis, they may want to see the negatives first. Or they may want a quick-and-dirty. That’s when we print the wet negatives under cellophane, without waiting for them to dry.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I felt charged with duty and responsibility.

“These rolls were brought in last night. I’ll walk you through the procedure.”

Touchwood

April 27, 1942

To my very own Sweetheart of the Forces,

We saw the first robin today — that’s ten days earlier than last year. The road is pure mud so we’ve been sticking close to home until it dries up. I cut a bouquet of pussy willows and your mother has them on the kitchen table.

I’m hoping to get an early start on the seeding since Jack isn’t around to help. I wanted to keep him here, but I couldn’t say no when all of his friends have gone. He’s hankering to fly a Spit, but I told him not to count his chickens. His last letter was from Trenton, Ontario. He’s not much for writing, but he dashes off the odd postcard.

George Stewart and I have worked out a plan to help each other this year. We’ll use both seeders on his place, then come over to ours. He said Charlie has been posted to a new station in the north of England. Charlie isn’t allowed to say where, but before he left they worked out a rough code. I can’t tell you what it is, or the censors will be cutting holes in this letter, too.

There are planes buzzing around all the time now that the new relief airfield went in next to the Stewart place. The base built a hangar and radio shack there, even a barracks building. I was worried about the cattle but they’ve gotten used to the racket now. Two airmen came over this morning looking for something to do, so I gave them a couple of .22s and told them to shoot gophers. I hope they don’t shoot each other.

Did the British newspapers report anything about our plebiscite on conscription? Everyone in English Canada was in favour but the Quebeckers voted no almost to a man. MacTavish tried to defend them in an editorial, but he made himself pretty unpopular down at the Legion hall, not that he cares.

I wish you could describe your work but we know it’s top secret. We’re glad you’ve been posted to a safe place away from London. That’s where the balloon will go up if things get worse.

Your loving Dad

Somewhere in England

May 1, 1942

Dear Mother and Dad,

Today I met a real lord! His name is Lord Alfred March. One of the public relations officers was showing him around, and he introduced me by saying: “Leading Aircraftwoman Rose Jolliffe is a real asset to the Commonwealth.” For the life of me, I didn’t know whether I should salute, shake hands, or curtsy! I gave a nervous nod and said how do you do.

He didn’t look very lordly. Tall and thin, with a bowler hat and a fusty black suit, satin waistcoat, and bow tie. Maybe he was trying to imitate Churchill. He had lots of room for a bow tie because his neck was so long and skinny.

After they left the room, one of the other girls told me that Lord March has contributed his entire fortune to the war effort and turned his estate in Devonshire into a home for war orphans. I felt awful then, judging him by his appearance!

I go for long walks whenever I’m not on duty. The countryside around here is so pretty. I amuse myself by trying to identify the unfamiliar flowers. The barrage balloons look like big silver jackfish floating in the sky. I sat on a stile last night to watch the sunset, and the bottoms of the balloons turned the loveliest shade of pink.

All my love, Rose