Colette
Copyright© 2022 by Iskander
Chapter 3
November 1940
I asked at the airfield guardhouse and they directed me to a hut where I’d find my pilot.
A man in flight gear glanced up from a chart spread on a table. “You’re early.” He growled.
“Sorry, sir.” I gulped.
He saw my kitbag. “Not got the kitchen sink in there, I hope?”
“No sir.” I lifted my bag in one hand, indicating it wasn’t heavy.
He grunted and turned away to consult a different chart and I sat in a corner, trying to be unobtrusive.
About fifteen minutes later, the door banged, letting in another officer in flying gear with a gust of wind that lifted the charts, sending them twirling to the floor.
“Bloody hell.”
“Language, Freddy. There’s a lady present.” The new officer made a half-embarrassed and half-amused face at me.
The pilot turned and scowled. He barely controlled himself, words slipping halfway off his tongue. “You’re late, Pilot Officer Charles.”
He retrieved the charts, folding them to show a heavy pencil line – our track, I supposed. With a glower at his co-pilot, he grabbed his flight bag and strode out of the door.
Pilot Officer Charles stared after him for a moment, one eyebrow quirked up, then turned to me. “Must’ve got out of bed the wrong side ... or something.” He sighed. “Ah well, I’m sure we’ll get you to where you need to be. Come on, Miss. We mustn’t keep the boss waiting.”
I hoisted my kitbag onto my shoulder and followed P/O Charles.
He watched me lift my kitbag. “Need a hand with that?”
“No sir, thank you sir.”
We walked across to the Anson, parked on the apron with a couple of ground crew waiting nearby. The prospect of my first flight excited me. Once aboard, the two engines fired up and we bounced across the field. After running up the engines, creating a deafening noise, we turned into wind and took off. From my window, I watched the ground fall away as we headed out over the sea. Despite my excitement, the engines’ drone seduced me into a doze. The change in engine noise as we neared our destination woke me and I watched the ground rise to meet us until we bumped across the grass, slowing and then turned towards the airfield buildings.
Once the engines shut down, the ringing in my ears persisted for hours. At the guardhouse, I found a truck headed for the main railway station in York to continue my journey south to London. I arrived at Kings Cross station well after midnight; we’d waited an hour to the north of the city for a raid to end. I’d watched the searchlights and Ack-Ack probing a sky lit by the fires on the ground, wondering how we might use radar to guide fighters against the bombers during the hours of darkness.
There had to be a way...
I found the station NAAFI cart. “A mug of tea and a sandwiche, please.”
“Here you go, love. You look beat – Navy, Army and Air Force Institute to the rescue, eh?”
I gave her a weary smile. “Thanks.” I found a quiet corner and sat on the ground, munching on the sandwich washed down with strong NAAFI tea. I had to wait for the Underground to open in the morning – the best way to get to Baker Street as streets would be closed from the raid. I spent the rest of an uncomfortable night on the floor of Kings Cross station, bundled against a wall in my greatcoat, using my lumpy kitbag as a pillow.
Tired and bedraggled, I arrived at 64 Baker Street at zero eight thirty and searched for a sign on the building indicating an RAF office. Not finding one, I showed my papers to the army guard post. They inspected my documents and waved me inside.
“I have an appointment with Flight Lieutenant James.” I told the reception desk – manned by a civilian.
What a strange RAF office.
She waved me to a row of chairs against a wall. “Take a seat.”
I dropped my kitbag down beside a chair and sat. My eyelids drooped and I fought a losing battle to stay awake.
“Roberts?”
I jerked upright to find an army officer standing in front of me.
I stumbled to my feet and saluted. “Yes, sir.” I felt myself swaying from a mix of fatigue and confusion.
Why army?
“Papers?” He held out his hand.
“Yes, sir.” I dragged the now crumpled papers out of my greatcoat pocket and passed them over.
The officer examined them, his eyes inspecting me before handing them back. “Follow me.” He strode off down a corridor.
I grabbed my kitbag and ran a couple of steps to catch up. We went along a dim corridor and then downstairs into a dingy office in the basement.
The officer indicated a chair and then sorted through a tray of files. He extracted one out of the pile and leafed through it. After a while he leaned back, speaking Parisian French. “How well do you know Paris?”
I felt my brain shift gears as I answered in the same language. “Quite well, I think. I lived there for about fifteen years.”
As we talked, in French, it became clear that this officer knew Paris quite well.
“You have relatives in Normandy?”
I blinked in surprise at this. “Er ... Yes, sir. My aunt and cousins live near Caen ... or lived. Mother has still heard nothing from Aunt Evangeline. Two of her sons served in the French Army...” I petered out and found myself giving a Gallic shrug.
“Are you enjoying your work with the RAF.” He asked, switching back to English.
The sudden change of subject and language threw me for a moment. “Umm ... yes, sir.” I made an effort to concentrate through the fatigue-induced fog invading my head.
“Does that mean you want to continue doing that work?”
I tried to reach behind the words, to sense the direction he wanted to go, but nothing came to me, so I responded with care. “That depends, I think, sir.”
The officer leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “What do you mean?”
I tried to gather myself, realising that what I said might see me sent off to count spoons and forks at some remote base. “I think it depends, sir, on the other options.”
The officer remained still, peering at me over his fingertips.
“We need people who speak French.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force myself to think. “Doing what?” I opened my eyes and saw a frown forming. “Sir.” I added. The incipient frown faded.
“Well now, I can’t tell you that.”
Was that a smile in his voice?
I frowned. “I beg your pardon? ... Sir?”
He leaned towards me. “Our job is top secret and dangerous.” His brown eyes darkened as they scrutinised me, an assessment that became uncomfortable as the moment lengthened. Then he slid back in his seat, propping a foot nonchalantly on the edge of the desk. “If that interests you, come back tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty hours.”
I cleared my throat, but he spoke over me. “There’s a bed for you at this address.” He flipped a slip of paper across to me. “If you decide not to join us, report to Flight Officer Swan at RAF Hatfield by sixteen-hundred hours tomorrow.”
The paper held an address ... Flat 2, 16 Montagu Square.
The officer reached across, stripping the slip out of my fingers. “Off you go then, but not a word about this place or what we’ve discussed.” He fixed me with a hard stare. “Not with anyone.”
I sat there for a moment until he waved me away from his desk. “Go.”
I stood up, my exhaustion warring with rising anger at his off-hand manner, anger that momentarily overpowered my fatigue and enabled a salute, sarcastic in its perfection. “Sir.”
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