Connie Willis - Blackout

“Is it the Germans?” Bess asked in her piping voice.

“No, of course not,” Mrs. Brightford said, but it was obvious that was what they were all thinking.

The rector took a deep breath and then crossed the room, unbolted the door, and opened it. Two young girls in ARP coveralls and carrying tin helmets and gas masks tumbled through it.

“Shut the door!” Mrs. Rickett said, and Mrs. Wyvern echoed, “Mind the blackout,” exactly as they had with Polly.

The girls shut the door, and Miss Laburnum smiled in welcome. Trot let go of her mother, Irene took her thumb out of her mouth to give the newcomers the once-over, and Viv scooted over closer to Lila to give them a place to sit. Mrs. Rickett continued to glare suspiciously, but then she had done that to Polly, too.

The young women looked around the room at everyone. “Oh, dear, this isn’t it either,” one said, disappointed.

“We were going to our post, and I’m afraid we’ve got lost in the blackout,” the other one said. “Is there a telephone here we might use?”

“I’m afraid not,” the rector said apologetically.

“Then can you tell us how to get to Gloucester Terrace?”

“Gloucester Terrace?” Mr. Dorming said. “You are lost.”

They certainly were. Gloucester Terrace was all the way over in Marylebone.

“It’s our first night on duty,” the first young woman explained, and the rector began to draw them a map.

“Are they Germans?” Trot whispered to her mother.

Mrs. Brightford laughed. “No, they’re on our side.”

The rector gave them the map. “Shouldn’t you stay till this lets up?” the rector asked, but they shook their heads.

“The warden will have our heads for being late as it is,” the first one said, raising her voice to be heard above the din.

“But thanks awfully,” the other one shouted, and they opened the door and ducked out.

Michael Davies should have come here, not Dunkirk, if he wanted to observe heroes, Polly thought, looking after them. She’d just seen them in action. And it wasn’t only the young women and their willingness to go out on the streets in the middle of a raid. How much courage had it taken for the rector to cross the basement and open that door, knowing it might be the Germans? Or for all of them to sit here night after night, waiting for imminent invasion or a direct hit, not knowing whether they’d live till the next all clear?

Not knowing. It was the one thing historians could never understand. They could observe the contemps, live with them, try to put themselves in their place, but they couldn’t truly experience what they were experiencing. Because I know what’s going to happen. I know Hitler didn’t invade England, that he didn’t use poison gas or destroy St. Paul’s. Or London. Or the world. That he lost the war.

But they didn’t. They’d lived through the Blitz and D-Day and the V-1s and V-2s, with no guarantee of a happy ending.

“Then what happened to Rapunzel?” Trot asked as if nothing had happened.

“Tell us the rest of the story,” Bess and Irene chimed in and were both asleep before their mother had read a page, and Trot was struggling to keep her eyes open. They were too young to understand what was going on, of course, or what might happen. Polly was glad.

And the others must feel the same protectiveness toward them that she did. Mrs. Wyvern and Miss Laburnum dropped their voices to a whisper, and Mr. Simms reached over to pull the blanket up over Bess’s shoulders. Mrs. Brightford smiled at him and went on reading. “… ‘and after many years of searching, the prince heard Rapunzel’s voice…’”

“Mummy,” Trot said, sitting up and tugging at her mother’s sleeve. “What if the Germans in vade?” she asked, pronouncing it as two words.

“They won’t,” Mrs. Brightford said. “Mr. Churchill won’t let them.” She went on reading. “‘And Rapunzel’s tears, falling on the prince’s eyes, restored his sight, and they lived happily ever after.’”

“But what if they do? In vade?”

“They won’t,” her mother said firmly. “I’ll always keep you safe. You know that, don’t you, darling?”

Trot nodded. “Unless you’re killed.”

Meanwhile, it is important not to give the enemy any information which would help him in directing his shooting by telling him where his missiles have landed.

BY WEDNESDAY MORNING, MARY WAS BEGINNING TO WORRY. There’d still been no mention of Bethnal Green railroad bridge or the other V-1s that had fallen the night of the twelfth. If the first four V-1s had hit when her implant said they had, they should have heard something by now.

But even though the last two FANYs-Parrish and Sutcliffe-Hythe-had returned with a box of sticking plaster from Platt, which was only four miles from where the first V-1 had fallen, and Talbot had rung up Bethnal Green to ask them to save back any dancing pumps that came in for her, there’d still been no mention of explosions or of odd-looking planes with yellow flames coming out of their tails.

There was nothing in the newspapers either, but Mary’d expected that. The government had kept the V-1s secret till after the fifteenth, when more than a hundred rockets had come over and made their existence impossible to keep quiet. But she’d thought there might be something about a gas explosion, which was the story they’d put out.

But there were no stories at all in the London papers, and the big news in the South London Gazette was the engagement of Miss Betty Buntin to Joseph Morelli, PFC, of Brooklyn, New York. And the FANYs’ only topic of conversation was who got to wear the pink net frock first. If she’d been dropped into the post without any historical prep, she wouldn’t even have been able to deduce there was a war on, let alone that they were under attack. And the next rockets wouldn’t be launched till tomorrow night, so there was no way to introduce the subject.

She attempted it anyway. “I was actually supposed to be here on Monday,” she said. “Did I miss anything?”

“The invasion of Normandy,” Reed said, polishing her nails.

“And the applecart upset,” said Camberley, who was trying on the pink frock. “We’d have got you that ecru lace if we’d known you were coming.” She turned to Grenville. “I’ll never be able to eat and breathe in this. It will have to be let out again.” She turned back to Mary. “I say, Kent, you wouldn’t happen to have any evening frocks, would you?”

“Don’t tell them yes unless you’re prepared to share them,” Fairchild said.

“But if you share yours with us, we’ll share ours with you,” Camberley said.

Parrish rolled her eyes. “I’m certain she’s simply panting for a chance to wear the Yellow Peril.”

“It might actually look nice on her, with her fair hair,” Camberley said.

“The Yellow Peril doesn’t look nice on anyone,” Maitland said, but Camberley ignored her.

“Have you a frock, Kent?”

“Yes,” Mary said, opening the duffel she still hadn’t had a chance to unpack. “Actually, I have two, and I’d be glad to share.” She lifted them out.

And knew instantly that she’d made a mistake. The FANYs were gaping at the frocks openmouthed. When she’d got them from Wardrobe, she’d purposely chosen ones that looked worn so she wouldn’t stand out here, but next to the pink net, with its torn hem and obviously let-out seams, the light-green silk and the blue organdy looked brand-new.

“Where on earth did you get such heavenly things?” Fairchild asked, fingering the green silk.

“You’re not having an affair with some rich American general, are you?” Reed said.

“No. My cousin gave them to me when she went out to Egypt. She’s in the medical corps,” she said, hoping no one would say they knew a nurse in Egypt who constantly went to dances. “I haven’t had any occasion to wear them,” she added honestly.

“Obviously,” Parrish said, and Camberley looked as if she was going to cry.

“You’re certain you’re willing to share these with us?” she asked reverently. Which showed how much the war had changed these young women’s lives. They came from wealthy families, they’d been debutantes, they’d been presented at court, and now they were overjoyed at the prospect of wearing out-of-style secondhand frocks. “I haven’t seen silk like this since before the war!” Sutcliffe-Hythe said, fingering the fabric. “I do hope it doesn’t end before I have a chance to wear this.”

It won’t, Mary thought.

And much of the worst of it was still to come, but all the FANYs were convinced the war would be over by autumn. They’d even got up a betting pool on what day it would end.

“Oh, speaking of the war ending,” Fairchild said, “you never did say what date you wanted for the pool, Kent.”

May eighth, 1945, she thought. But the calendar they were using only went through this October and most of the dates already taken were in late June and early July, even though the invasion had been less than two weeks ago.

“You can have the eighteenth,” Fairchild said, looking at the calendar.

The eighteenth was the day a V-1 had hit the Guards Chapel during a church service and killed 121 contemps. If that date and location weren’t an error, too.

“Or August fifth.”

The day one had hit the Co-op Stores in Camberwell. But she had to choose something. “I’ll take August thirtieth,” Mary said, and as Fairchild wrote her name in the square, “Yesterday, on my way here, I heard someone say something about hearing an explosion in-”

“Kent,” Parrish said, leaning in the door, “the Major wants to see you in her office.”

“Don’t say anything about the pool,” Fairchild warned her. “Or about the war being nearly over. She’s an absolute bear on the subject.” She thrust the calendar into a drawer.

Parrish walked her to the Major’s office. “The Major’s convinced the war can still be lost, though it’s difficult to imagine how. I mean, we’ve already taken the beaches and half the coast of France, and the Germans are on the run.”

But the Major was right. The Allied forces would shortly be bogged down in the hedgerows of France, and if they hadn’t stopped the Germans at the Battle of the Bulge-

“You needn’t look so nervy,” Parrish said, stopping outside the Major’s door. “The Major’s actually not bad unless you’re attempting to put one over on her.” She knocked on the door, opened it, and said, “Lieutenant Kent is here, Major.”

“Send her in, Lieutenant,” the Major said. “Have you found any blankets yet?”

“No, Major,” Parrish said. “Neither Croydon nor New Cross has any they can spare. I have a call in to Streatham.”

“Good. Tell them it’s an emergency. And send in Grenville.”

She does know about the V-1s, Mary thought. That’s why she’s been so determined to stock up on supplies.

Parrish left.

“What medical training have you had, Lieutenant?” the Major asked.

“I hold certificates in first aid and emergency nursing.”

“Excellent.” She picked up Mary’s transfer papers. “I see you were stationed in Oxford. With an ambulance unit?”

“Yes, Major.”

“Oh, then you will have met-what is it?” she asked as Parrish leaned in the door.

“Headquarters on the telephone, Major.”

The Major nodded and reached for the receiver. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment…” she said, and into the telephone, “Major Denewell here.” There was a pause. “I am fully aware of that, but my unit needs those blankets. We begin transporting the wounded this afternoon.” She rang off and smiled at Mary. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, your previous assignments,” she said, looking through her papers. “And I see you drove an ambulance in London during the Blitz. Which part of London?”