Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.
The undermentioned are appointed Assistant Section Officers. 30th November 1940.
887509 Sergeant Mrs. Elsie Finch
Morton smiled as he saved a copy of the image onscreen. He returned to the search results to see if Elsie had received any further promotions. He found two more and clicked on the next entry.
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.
The undermentioned are appointed Flight Officers. 3rd February 1942.
887509 Assistant Section Officer Mrs. Elsie Finch
Having noted and photographed the promotion, Morton looked at the final entry.
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.
The undermentioned are appointed Squadron Officers. 17th January 1943.
887509 Flight Officer Mrs. Elsie Finch
Morton was impressed; Elsie had reached the rank of Squadron Officer. Perhaps his initial assessment of her, that she had had little impact on the world, had been far too harsh and hasty.
It didn’t surprise Morton greatly when, after several minutes of searching, he discovered that WAAF records were held by the Ministry of Defence and subject to a strict closure order. Only a copy of the person’s death certificate, thirty pounds and permission from the next-of-kin would give access to the records. Morton made a note to print the application form and email it to Barbara. Then he thought about his last disastrous visit to her and how incompetent he must have appeared, and decided instead to take the form to her personally. He could also show her the photograph of William and Elsie together, which might just inspire some confidence in his abilities.
Separate links began to join together in a possible chain of thought: Elsie had joined the WAAF and been sent to Hawkinge owing to an ability to speak German. Once there, she had met William Smith at a dance and a brief relationship had resulted in the birth of an unwanted child. That relationship had ended when William Smith’s Hurricane had mysteriously crashed. And there the chain ended; he needed more insight into William and Elsie’s time at Hawkinge. It was time to pay a visit to the Kent Battle of Britain Museum, but first, he wanted to check out the reference section of the library for any books on the aerodrome or the work that went on at Maypole Cottage.
It was two hours later when Morton parked his Mini at the Kent Battle of Britain Museum in Hawkinge. He had found several history books on the area and now had a good understanding of both the aerodrome during the Second World War and the nature of the work that went on at Maypole Cottage. If his suspicions that Elsie had been employed there were correct, then her work had been of national importance, something that he was sure would please Barbara.
He locked the car and bounded towards the entrance. Inside was a low-ceilinged gift-shop jam-packed with memorabilia, model aircraft and books on the Battle of Britain. Sitting behind a desk was a wiry old man who snarled out at him. ‘Seven pounds, please,’ he demanded. ‘And your mobile.’
Morton handed over the money requested and chuckled.
The man passed a small ticket across and repeated his request. ‘Your mobile phone and any camera equipment, please.’
‘Really?’ Morton asked incredulously.
The man reaffirmed and pointed to a sign. No mobiles, cameras or recording equipment.
‘Why’s that?’ Morton asked, reluctantly fishing his mobile from his pocket.
‘They set the alarms off,’ the man replied.
Morton frowned. ‘What, even if the phone’s switched off?’
Another nod.
‘So, any camera would set your alarms off, even an old-fashioned film type?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Morton was unable to prevent himself from laughing. He hated this type of absurd officiousness that made no sense. ‘I think you need to invest in new alarms, then,’ he mumbled. ‘Or a better excuse.’
‘Do you want to go in, or not?’ the old man snapped.
‘What about a notebook?’ Morton asked.
‘As long as it’s the paper version and not the computer.’
Morton handed over his phone and, biting his tongue, followed the signs to enter the museum. A short concrete path led to another door on a huge camouflaged hangar. He stepped inside and absorbed his surroundings. The hangar, it seemed to him, was an original from the war. A narrow, roped-off walkway passed through an eclectic mixture of replica aircraft, original army vehicles, various engine relics and display boards. He tried to mentally remove the clutter, instead imagining it as it would have been on the 15th August 1940, filled with pilots, mechanics and aircrew hurrying to get the aircraft combat-ready. In his mind, he saw William Smith strolling through in his RAF uniform, hands slung in his pockets, heading out to the dispersal hut in anticipation of a scramble. His last scramble. In Morton’s reverie, William was smiling, happy. What, then, had happened that day? William disappeared, and with him went Morton’s imagined scene. He was back in the jumbled room. He moved to the first display board and began to read the copious notes that explained all about the Spitfire engine in front of him. The notes were exceptionally detailed, including biographical information on the pilot, details of the aircraft and eye-witness accounts of the crash. Morton read the board from top to bottom, then moved on to the next and began to read. He stopped after the first sentence, realising that he would need at least a month in here to read everything properly. Changing tack, Morton skim-read the board for keywords and dates, then proceeded to the next engine and the next display board. The place really needed a good curator, he thought, as he scanned through the text.
It took twenty minutes for the keywords to spring out at him. Pilot Officer William Smith…32 Squadron…15th August 1940.
He had found it. He looked carefully at the display, wishing that he had some method of taking a photograph for the case file. It was a large black
