Aileen leant across the table and touched Elsie’s arm. ‘Not all of your friends would have disowned you.’
Elsie smiled, her eyes beginning to prickle.
‘Sorry,’ Aileen said. ‘Insensitive of me. And ruddy nosey. Tell me to mind my own business next time. Let’s change the subject.’
‘It’s okay, really,’ Elsie insisted. ‘Sometimes it’s good to talk about it. I guess the short answer to your question is that I don’t know if I made the right decision.’ She took a moment, then asked, ‘Tell me about your love life.’
Aileen laughed. ‘Ha! What love life?’
‘Well,’ Elsie began, ‘if there’s one thing there’s two-a-penny of on this island, it’s men. Every nationality, every rank, every service, every age. Take your pick! Or maybe have one from each category.’
The women laughed and continued chatting about past loves, as they finished their breakfasts. They thanked the waiter and left, retracing their steps back to the War Rooms.
At the top of a steep winding staircase Elsie and Aileen showed their pass books to the guard and descended into the gloom below. A veritable rabbit warren of tunnels had been carved into the limestone rock beneath the ancient capital city of Malta. The tunnels, mostly poorly-lit by exposed bulbs, linked together offices, accommodation and the RAF Filter and Sector Operations rooms.
‘How do I look?’ Elsie asked Aileen, plumping her breasts.
‘Stop it,’ Aileen said with a grin, as she lightly tapped on a closed door.
‘Enter,’ a male voice thundered from the other side.
Elsie pushed down on the brass door handle and stepped inside, closely followed by Aileen. The two women stood to attention and saluted.
Behind the desk sat the chief signals officer, Wing Commander Shorter, a man bearing out his own name with a diminutive stature. He had wide frog-eyes, a high forehead and a bushy moustache. ‘Sit down,’ he directed. He waited until they were seated and he had their full attention, then continued. ‘Right, I’ll come straight to the point—you’ve been sent to hell. We’re being blasted night and day by hundreds of bombers at a time and the only place you’re safe is down here. Other than taking your meals at the Westminster, I wouldn’t advise you leave here unless it’s to board an aircraft home. Why they sent me two women, when I need several squadrons more Spitfires and a good four dozen pilots, I haven’t a clue. I’ve got plenty of other jobs more suitable for a woman; but there you have it. Now, which one of you is Mike?’
‘Me, sir,’ Aileen answered.
Shorter acknowledged this with a dip of his head, then faced Elsie. ‘And what’s your name? David? John? Richard?’
‘Elsie, sir.’
Shorter puffed out a mouthful of air, then stood and made for the door. ‘Follow me.’
Elsie shot Aileen a quick glance that expressed her amusement and bewilderment at the small man in whose shuffled footsteps they were now following along the corridor.
Shorter stopped and opened a door to his right. It was the controller’s dais. An RAF man wearing a set of headphones was peering down below. ‘Out,’ Shorter bellowed and the RAF controller scarpered past Elsie and Aileen without a murmur. ‘Look down over there,’ Shorter said, waving the two women over.
Below them was a large plotter’s table. It was a pale-blue map, on which was marked Malta and, just above it, the Italian island of Sicily. Five RAF men moved coloured wooden blocks around the map with long croupiers’ rakes, as several RAF officers looked on.
‘I don’t suppose you can identify the trouble, can you?’ Shorter muttered. ‘I expect you’re more used to pushing those jolly sticks about on the map than intelligence-gathering or military strategy. Let me explain in plain English—’
‘—The trouble,’ Elsie interrupted, ‘is that this dear island is in a critical position for the Allies, offering, as it does, a base from which to launch attacks into the Mediterranean and North Africa. However, being just sixty miles south of Sicily means that the Luftwaffe and the Règio Aeronautica are attempting to bomb the island into submission, so that they have free rein in the area. Up until now, your field stations have been monitoring German and Italian transmissions in Morse code, but you don’t have any operators experienced in decoding German R/T, which you’ve had a recent flurry of from Sicily. I would say that was your trouble. Sir.’
Shorter’s little round face reddened and his cheeks puffed. ‘Since you are so highly informed, I’m going to send you out.’ He barged between them and flung open the door.
Elsie shrugged and they reluctantly followed him out into the gloomy labyrinth, traversing the corridors until they reached the base of the stairs which they had descended only moments before.
‘Hear that?’ Shorter said, placing a foot onto the first step. ‘It’s starting again.’
He was referring to the air raid siren. It grew louder the higher they climbed.
‘Oh, it’s exactly the same sound as at home,’ Elsie complained.
Aileen laughed. ‘What were you expecting? Some jazz number?’
‘Be quiet,’ Shorter exclaimed, stopping to wipe sweat from his brow. ‘This war is bad enough without two women twittering on in my ear.’
They continued to the top in silence, where their senses were immediately overwhelmed. Elsie didn’t know whether to cover her eyes or her ears first. Instead, she wrapped her left
