…
Scarlett’s knees trembled as she watched Jameson sprint past the fire that used to be hanger two. Her fear for his safety outweighed the concern for her own but rivaled that for her sister. Oh God, Constance.
Scarlett turned and sprinted for the car, nearly losing her footing once or twice on the scattered debris.
Constance beckoned her forward, motioning wildly with her hands while glancing toward the sky. She was alive. Jameson was alive.
That was all she could rely on for right now.
Scarlett yanked the door open and threw herself into the back seat, shutting the door quickly behind her.
Constance didn’t need any instructions; she already had the car in reverse. “Tell me you’re okay!” she shouted over her shoulder as she whipped the car around, then threw it into drive.
“I’m fine. You two?” Scarlett asked as her hands began to shake. She gripped her knees, then hissed. Her palms came away bloody.
“We’re steady as can be!” Christine answered with a trembling smile.
“Good,” Scarlett answered. Seeing that the bottom of her skirt already bore bloodstains, Scarlett muttered a curse and wiped her hands clean on the fabric of her uniform. “Drive faster, Constance. Jameson’s going to be on the board.”
…
Scarlett wasn’t tired after one watch, so she took a second, replacing another filter officer who hadn’t come in. Constance refused to leave her side, but her exhaustion was palpable, so Scarlett set her up on a cot in the break room so she could rest. In four hours, they’d both be on again.
Then she headed back to the board.
Their board was covered in markers tracking the raids currently assaulting RAF airfields all over Britain, including the one that had taken place at their own. The hectic, quick movements of the plotters happened in silence while the control officers overhead in the galley made movement decisions, relayed orders, and talked to pilots directly.
For hours, she listened to the voice in her headset, plotting the markers.
Code number.
Estimated size of raid.
Height.
Coordinates.
Arrow.
Every five minutes, the locations were updated and a new arrow marked the direction of the raid, changing with the color designation on the clock.
Red. Blue. Yellow.
Red. Blue. Yellow.
Red. Blue. Yellow.
She kept her mind on task, knowing if she let herself wander, she couldn’t fulfill her duty. Without her and the women around her, the control officers couldn’t relay coordinates to the pilots in the air.
Without her, Jameson was flying blind. She’d tried to watch for the 609 yellow flags on top of the raid markers, signaling which raids they’d engaged, but there was no time for any section of the board but her own.
On hour four, she should have taken a break, but her replacement hadn’t arrived. She tried to not think of possible reasons why.
On hour eight, that break would have been over. Four hours on, four hours off—that was the rule.
On hour nine, Constance took over the section to her right.
At hour ten, Constance pushed a marker into Scarlett’s section, as she’d done countless times before as flights moved across the map. But this time she took the scant seconds to make eye contact with her sister.
The marker had a 609 flag.
Jameson.
Scarlett’s heart lurched. She hadn’t spoken to him since the hangar. She’d hoped like hell that he’d flown and returned and might have been resting, but the pit in her stomach told her he was with his squadron, engaged against an estimated thirty German aircraft.
Every five minutes, she returned to that marker, moving it across the coastline and swapping out the arrow for the next color. Every five minutes, she allowed herself one fervent prayer that he would make it through the night.
Even if he chose not to believe her about Henry.
Even if she never saw him again.
She needed to know that he was all right.
Thank God she hadn’t been assigned with the control officer, where she could hear the voices of the pilots come through the radio. It would have driven her mad to hear the losses reported.
By hour twelve, her arms trembled with exhaustion. The 609 flag had disappeared from her section as the board slowed. No doubt it would fill again by nightfall. The raids came in waves, each one taking a little more than they could afford to lose.
Two more Radio Direction Finding stations had been lost.
She’d lost count of how many RAF bases they’d bombed.
How many more hits could the airfields sustain? How many more fighters could they lose? How many more pilots—
“You ready?” Constance asked as they passed through the doorway of the operations room.
“Yes,” she answered, her voice thick with lack of use.
“Your poor knees.” Constance’s brows knit.
Scarlett glanced down at the clean skirt her Section Officer had insisted she change into, since hers had been ruined by rips and blood, and glimpsed her scabbed-over knees. “It’s nothing.”
“Let’s get you into a bath.” Constance offered her a shaky smile and linked their elbows. “Christine, would you mind driving?”
“Not at all.”
“Assistant Section Officer Wright?” a high, feminine voice called across the small lobby.
Both women turned to see their section officer stride forward.
“Scarlett,” she clarified, beckoning her with a hand.
Scarlett gave her sister a pat on the shoulder, then met Section Officer Gibson in the middle of the small lobby. “Ma’am?”
“I wanted to commend you for keeping your wits about you tonight. There aren’t many girls who could perform for twelve straight hours, and even fewer who could do so after…experiencing a raid.” Her lips were tight, but the older woman’s eyes were soft.
“Just doing my job, ma’am,” Scarlett answered. There were men doing far more than she was in far worse circumstances. Doing her best was the least she owed them.
“Indeed.” She dismissed her with a nod, but there was a hint of a smile before she turned to walk away.
She joined Constance at the door, and then the pair walked into the morning sunlight. Scarlett blinked, the light stinging
