‘It wouldn’t happen—they’d whisper it to their neighbour, who’d tell their son or daughter, who’d tell their best friends and so on,’ Jean answered. ‘They’ll share the same feeling that you are now feeling—that you must try and help others. It would spread like wild fire.’
‘The best thing you can do to help your parents is to assist with Operation Coldwater,’ RKB added solemnly.
‘Would you just sit back and do nothing if it were your parents?’ Elsie demanded, facing them each in turn, aware that she was looming dangerously close to insubordination.
‘Yes,’ they answered simultaneously.
‘It’s for the good of the country,’ RKB said.
‘I’ve had to stand by with the advance knowledge of several London raids, knowing that some of my dearest friends are there,’ Jean added. ‘It’s jolly hard. The first time I was literally holding the telephone, crying my eyes out. But I just knew I couldn’t do it.’
RKB stood and addressed Elsie. ‘Look, take a few minutes. Go and get a coffee, have a cigarette. Try and clear your head while it’s quiet here. The people of Coventry—all of them—need us to be on top form tonight. Okay?’ He turned to Jean. ‘Billy, go and make her a drink, would you?’
Elsie raised a hand. ‘I’m fine. I’ll be okay.’ She left the office and bee-lined for the lavatories, rushing through the operations room.
‘You okay, Elsie?’ Betty called from her machine.
‘Fine, thanks,’ Elsie called back without turning around.
Inside the toilet, she locked the cubicle door and cried. She had known the moment that she heard confirmation that Coventry was the target that she had no chance of warning her parents. Their fate now rested in the hands of Operation Coldwater. She thought of the last time that she had seen them—when she had told them of her plans to join the WAAF—and her father’s reaction. Since then, her mother’s letters had been cheerful and filled with news, but there had been no direct communication whatsoever from her father. Given what Elsie had just learnt, her parting with him tore at her emotions.
She placed her hand on her tummy, sending probing fingers into her flesh. The baby was marinating in the juices of dread and absolute fear, she realised dispassionately.
After several minutes of unstoppable tears, Elsie wiped her face with her handkerchief and tried to regain her composure. RKB was right, she needed to be on top form. Her parents and the people of Coventry were relying on them. She took long deep breaths then smoked a cigarette sitting on the toilet.
At last, she left the cubicle and checked herself in the mirror. A horrid wretch of a woman stared back. ‘Come on, Elsie,’ she muttered. ‘You can do this.’
For the first time since she had left her old life behind at Bramley Cottage, time had dug its claws into the ground, refusing to budge like an obstinate dog. Since being told that Coventry was the destination of the X-Gerät beam, Elsie had paced the operations room, constantly checking the clock and peeling back the blackouts, waiting for time to finally release the evening and release her from her stewing torment. All afternoon, the operators’ pencils had remained resolutely on the desks beside them, as the women fruitlessly searched the airwaves for any hint of what might be about to happen.
It was just gone six o’clock when Elsie left the building for some fresh air. She pulled her greatcoat tight and leant against a small oak tree that stood in front of the old toy factory. It was, she thought, quite possibly the brightest night that she had ever seen. The moon had rebelled against the blackout, painting the building behind her with an eerie pale blue. As Elsie lit a cigarette, her eyes followed the illuminated chalky road into the village, where she could clearly make out the moon-kissed roofs that the Luftwaffe would also be able to see so very clearly. But still the skies were ominously empty.
It was the stillness that bothered her the most. She could cope with the frantic copying down and translations of R/T intelligence. She could cope with interpreting the communications and prioritising what should be sent off by dispatch riders to the analysts at the Air Ministry. She could cope with organising the other WAAF girls. But, what she couldn’t cope with was the quietness.
Elsie took the final drag on her cigarette and stared up into the skies. Nothing. Not even a night bird or an insect. Not even any bloody wind, for goodness’ sake. The Luftwaffe high command had certainly picked a perfect night for their attack: they were about to dominate the skies above England.
She shuddered, tossed down the stub, and re-entered the operations room.
‘Quick, over here,’ Betty called to her.
From Betty’s animated expression and pencil poised in her hand, Elsie guessed that she had heard something of significance on the R/T. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s KGr 100—they’ve just left their base in Vannes.’
Elsie nodded and blew out a puff of air. KGr 100—Kampfgruppe—were the most highly skilled, precision bombing unit in the Luftwaffe. In recent raids, the aircraft—specially modified Heinkel He 111s—had been used to drop incendiary bombs on the targets, giving following bombers a precise location to hit.
‘It looks like there are around fifteen of them,’ Betty added.
Elsie took the headset and listened. A few moments later she heard, ‘Wurden die Leitstrahlsender richtig ausgerichtet?’ She carefully scribed the question—Have the beams been adjusted correctly? The answer, from the Luftwaffe control was a simple confirmation that yes, the beams had been set.
She handed the headset back to Betty, picked up the log book and headed over to the Intelligence Office. The door was closed, with RKB, Aileen and Jean conversing over a large map of England. Elsie knocked on the door and RKB looked up
