‘Well, I know that she was in the Y-Service, stationed at Hawkinge for a while in 1940. The WAAF took over an old house there and the girls used to listen in to the German pilots flying overhead. Good at her job, so she told me,’ he laughed. ‘Then, I believe I’m right in saying, the Y-Service moved to West Kingsdown in north Kent. After that, she had a brief spell in Malta—Valletta. She advised the bigwigs on the problems with intelligence-gathering there before returning to West Kingsdown. I think her last posting was RAF Bentley Priory…’
Morton made hasty notes as the old man spoke, then asked, ‘Do you know what happened after that?’
The old man turned towards the window and frowned. ‘I can’t recall now—she might have left the service—yes, I think that’s it.’ A throaty cough spluttered from his mouth, making him sit up sharply.
‘Are you okay?’ Rose said.
He nodded and exhaled noisily. ‘Rose, could you fetch me a glass of water, please?’
‘Won’t be a moment.’
His gaze followed Rose out of the room then he turned sharply to Morton. ‘Look, what is it you’re after, exactly?’ he demanded fiercely.
Morton was slightly taken aback. ‘Just information about Elsie during the war.’
‘Hmm,’ he mumbled, stroking his chin. ‘I think you’re not showing me your hand, are you?’
‘I could say the same,’ Morton replied.
‘Can you come back tomorrow—alone?’
‘I’ve got a meeting tomorrow afternoon. How about in the morning?’
‘Fine—I shan’t be going anywhere,’ he said. ‘Ah, here she is.’ He took the glass of water from Rose. ‘I was just saying to our friend here that I’m afraid I can’t remember anything more.’
Rose pulled an I told you so face at Morton. ‘That’s okay, I’m sure Morton’s got one or two bits of information out of you.’
‘Yes, thank you so much,’ Morton agreed, standing. ‘I’d better get off. It was nice to meet you.’ He shook his hand then turned to Rose. ‘Thank you,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘I’ll find my own way out.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
11th July 1943, RAF Bentley Priory, Greater London
Elsie Finch was in her element. She was six months into her new role as Squadron Officer in the 11 Group Filter Room of RAF Bentley Priory—the busiest and most central Filter Room in the entirety of the RAF. It was from here—in this very bunker—that the defence of important British coastline and the capital city was orchestrated. This Filter Room had been the linchpin in the organisation of the Battle of Britain.
Elsie was standing at the balcony, overlooking the large plot table of southern England. It was only just after six o’clock in the morning yet the room and the table were already a veritable hive of activity. The table was littered with tracks. Several squadrons of Bomber Command and Fighter Command were grouping in the skies over Sussex, preparing to head out for raids connected to Operation Husky that had started two hours ago. The Allied invasion of Sicily had begun.
At last, Elsie thought, we’re fighting back. As she watched the dozen female plotters and filterers below her, repeating the information being fed to them from coastal radar stations, Elsie cast her mind briefly back to her time in Malta and the continual air raids there. She had since learned that just one twenty-four-hour period had occurred in the first six months of 1942 without an air raid. And yet the islanders had stood firm, refusing to capitulate. Elsie prayed that Operation Husky would be a success; it would finally give Malta a chance to recoup. Upon returning home from the island, she had been summarily called to the Air Ministry, where she was informed that hers and Aileen’s recommendations had been fully implemented and, because of her work there, she was to be promoted. A new role at RAF Bentley Priory then followed.
Of course, it wasn’t just she who felt a heightened anxiety today; there was a general sense of nervous anticipation that lingered in the warm, fetid underground air. Already this morning she had heard whispers, people daring to wonder if this might just be the beginning of the end.
‘Shift over,’ a cheery voice chirped from behind her. It was Mary Nye, the Squadron Officer from ‘C’ watch, coming to take over.
With some reluctance, Elsie yielded her position. On such an important day as this, she would ordinarily have been minded to stay on and assist. But today, she had no choice; she needed to get back to the billet, get some sleep and get ready. Violet was coming to stay for the night and the pair were finally going to head into London for the evening out that had first been suggested three years ago.
‘It’s all yours,’ Elsie answered. ‘I think we’re going to have an eventful few hours.’
‘Great,’ Mary grinned.
Elsie left the bunker and headed out into the fresh air. She loved working in the bunker—or the Hole—as it had been dubbed, but it was a nightmare for air quality and temperature. Like most Filter Rooms, in the winter it refused to warm up and in the summer it refused to cool down.
Feeling that she had squeezed the last of the mildewy air from her lungs, Elsie strode the short distance to the No.2 Officers’ Mess. Due to the security of the work that they were undertaking, Elsie and the other officers who worked in the bunker were kept apart from the other members of the WAAF.
The building was a grand eighteenth-century former stately home, and Elsie was fortunate enough to have her own simple room upstairs.
She closed her bedroom door, stripped down to her underwear, and picked up the airgraph that had arrived yesterday from Woody. To
