The Light Over London(55)
She nodded, glancing up at him through her lashes. “Would you mind coming back with me one day and sorting through all of this? I could use the help.”
He dipped his head, but not so fast that she missed the little smile that played over his lips. “I’d be happy to help, Cara. That’s what friends do.”
As he pulled down the gate and secured the locks, she wondered if friends was what she really wanted to be.
19 August 1941
Another long night at the top of the Ack-Ack Shack, as all of us have taken to calling our little patch of roof. The sirens went just after nine tonight, but there were no planes spotted over our part of the Thames, even though we could see the orange glow of the fires to the south near Croydon.
It seems strange, but those nights are worse than the ones when we see bombers flying right into range. We spend all our time on alert, knowing that at any moment Mary could yell out the name of a German plane and we’ll have to jump into action. There’s no time for hesitation when seconds mean the difference between a direct hit and a far-off miss. Still, it can make for long nights and frayed nerves. It’s those times Charlie says she wishes we were allowed to smoke, “damn the RA and ATS regulations.”
We could’ve all done with a drink by the time the sun came up this morning. Mary was exhausted, and Williams and Hatfield’s teasing of everyone had become a little too pointed. When Charlie snapped at them, they set about sulking, and then Lizzie tried to sing and Cartruse told her off. As for me—well, I was in my own foul mood.
It was yesterday’s letter from Paul that set me off. I still can’t believe the gall of him.
16 August 1941
My darling,
I must say, I’m surprised and disappointed that it’s been over a week since I’ve had a letter from you. I know you’ve made your journey from your training camp to your new post, but surely you could’ve found time to write to me if you’d really tried. It’s enough to make a man resent this war because it’s turning his girl’s head.
I depend on your letters, darling. Knowing that you’re waiting for me gives me the comfort I need to climb into the cockpit day after day. It’s what all of us fliers rely on, but maybe I misjudged the depths of your feeling for me.
Perhaps it’s best then that I can’t come to London. I can’t say much other than we’re being sent on a mission and all leave has been revoked. No exceptions.
He wrote more but I can hardly hold my pen straight because I’m shaking from anger. How could he question that I care for him when I pour myself into every one of my letters? I’ve been writing him every day for months, while he’s the one who writes in fits and spurts. For two weeks I’ll receive long, loving letters that tell me how much he adores me and wants to see me again, and then for a week nothing. I accepted this because I knew he was flying and I was training, yet now that I’m on active assignment I’m not allowed to lapse while I’m changing bases and shooting down bombers? Sometimes I wonder if, for all his fretting about how dangerous this job is, he thinks of Ack-Ack Command as nothing more than a sewing circle. If only he knew that yesterday a fighter’s bullet hit so close that I found brick dust in my hair back in the canteen.
I’m so furious I could scream!
20 August 1941
I wrote Paul back and told him that if he has so little faith in me, perhaps he should find another girl to write to. One who isn’t a gunner girl and can stay at home, doing nothing but pine for him. I told him that he was acting like a man who wants to infuriate his sweetheart so much that she breaks things off.
It felt good to write the words, my half of a delayed argument. But just like after an argument, I’m now having doubts about what I said, wishing I could take it back. I feel ill wondering what he’ll write back. If he writes back.
21 August 1941
No sirens tonight. We spent our shift in the makeshift mess we’ve created in an old office just off the stairs of the Ack-Ack Shack. There’s an electric fire and a gas ring so we can heat water for tea. Williams, who is quite the card shark, has taught us poker to go along with the game of gin some of us girls were already playing. We play for the biscuits we’re issued at the end of every shift, saving them up for the next night’s game. Nigella is turning out to be a brilliant student and ends every night with a pile of biscuits in front of her, although Cartruse steals them as soon as her back is turned, claiming he’s always hungry.
Our radio operator still hasn’t appeared. And we’ve had no replacement for Bombardier Barker yet either. The RA and the ATS seem to be content to leave us in the hands of Captain Jones. He’s not a bad sort.
No letter from Paul. I know it would be too soon, but I still jumped when Mary came around with our post.
24 August 1941
No letter from Paul today.
25 August 1941
What have I done?
26 August 1941
He wrote to me. Toward the bottom there are spots where the ink is smeared, as though he was writing so fast he didn’t stop to let it dry before folding it up into its envelope.
23 August 1941
My darling,
I received your letter and I realized what a brute and a fool I’ve been. How could I doubt your devotion? I’ve neglected you horribly, and I was feeling the sting of that, wondering if you’d forgotten me for another man. Maybe one of the officers stationed in London or one of the ones on leave. And I can’t help wondering if the men you work with are in love with you. Of course they are. How could they not be?