Early in the New Year of 1941, the ATA suffered a grievous loss. Amy Johnson, so famous for her flying exploits and who had been ferrying aircraft for them, was lost. The aircraft she was flying was seen to go down in the Thames Estuary. Wreckage was found, but not Amy. Everyone at Hatfield was saddened by her loss. She had been well-liked amongst the girls and a ‘celebrity’ face which had brought credibility to the other women ferry pilots.
But Pauline Gower never gave up fighting for her girls to be able to fly all types of aircraft. By April, she had permission for the ATA women to fly obsolete operational aircraft, which now had other uses.
‘It’s even more important,’ the Operations Manager, Mary Bryant, told them as she handed out the chits, which contained some unfamiliar names, ‘that you study your ferry pilots’ notes carefully.’
‘Oh, I’ve got a Westland Lysander,’ Daisy said gleefully. ‘I’ve flown one of those. Uncle Mitch has one at Brooklands. He calls it his “Lizzie”.’
‘I understand that’s its nickname.’
‘Is it?’ Daisy glanced up at Mary Bryant. ‘I thought it was just Uncle Mitch’s name for his aeroplane.’
‘Evidently not. It’s what the RAF boys called the Lysander. It still has a very valuable role,’ Mary Bryant said. ‘It’s used for’ – she stopped and then ended, rather lamely, Daisy thought – ‘all sorts of things.’ Mary turned away and busied herself handing out yet more chits for the day’s deliveries.
The bombing of London, the southern counties and major cities in the north of the country continued right through the spring.
‘Isn’t it ever going to stop?’ Milly moaned to Paul on one of his rare visits to Weybridge. ‘I want to come home. I can do so much more in London.’
‘But you’re helping your mother with her war effort and your granny loves having you here, darling. Just hold on a little longer.’
But a devastating air raid in May almost broke even the steadfast reserve of the hardened Londoners. Over five hundred German bombers dropped incendiaries and high-explosive bombs through the night hours. The House of Commons was hit and Big Ben damaged. Westminster Abbey’s square tower fell and St Paul’s Cathedral, which had miraculously survived previous bombs, was hit again. High above the carnage Luke, Johnny and their fellow RAF fighter pilots chased the bombers and brought down twenty-nine enemy aircraft.
Patrolling his usual street, Mitch saw and heard the bombs falling. He watched in horror as the apartment block where George and Pips lived took a direct hit.
He began to run. All he could think of was George’s words: ‘She comes home every two or three weeks, usually at a weekend.’
And tonight was Sunday, 11 May.
‘Have you heard that the bombing was really bad in London last night? I hope your relatives are safe, Daisy,’ Gill said.
‘I expect they will be. Pips is away somewhere, though no one will say where and Uncle George will be in whatever shelter the War Office staff use.’
‘What about Milly?’
‘She’s gone to her parents’ home near Weybridge.’ She paused, reflecting. ‘There’s only Uncle Mitch who might be in real danger. I know Johnny worries about him.’
‘What about your folks at home? Will Lincoln get bombed, d’you think?’
Daisy hesitated. ‘I rang home last night. Some bombs fell on the outskirts of Lincoln four nights ago, but nothing near us.’
‘Dad thinks we should be OK out in the middle of the Yorkshire countryside, but you can never be complacent, can you? If they’re on their way home and have got any bombs left they’ll just chuck ’em out anywhere.’
‘Presumably, Lincolnshire will be a prime target anyway because of all the airfields there.’
‘Mm. Yorkshire’s got a few too.’
The two young women were standing in line at the office waiting for their orders for the day.
‘Right, come on, we’re next. Where are we today?’
As they were handed their chits, they compared notes.
‘Blimey,’ Daisy said. ‘I’m off up to Scotland. I’ll be away for a night or two by the looks of it. A Tiger Moth.’
‘That’ll be a long, cold haul in an open cockpit, even though it’s May. I’m just pootling around locally. I’ll see you when I see you, then. Good luck.’
In Weybridge, Milly answered the telephone when Paul rang in the early afternoon instead of waiting until the evening as usual. At once, she knew something was wrong.
His voice was husky. ‘Milly, darling. Are you with someone?’
‘Yes, Mummy, Daddy and Granny. We’ve just had luncheon.’
‘I have awful news, my darling. The apartment block where George and Pips live took a direct hit last night. George wasn’t at work, so we are assuming he was at home, but he hadn’t gone to the nearest shelter. We do know that. We don’t know if Pips was there or not. They’re still searching and I’m trying to get a message to her at – um – at where she works.’
‘Has anyone let her parents know? Or Rebecca?’
‘Matthew went back to his home this morning – he’d been working all night – but Rebecca wasn’t there. He’s still trying to find her. He thinks she must still be out somewhere helping the injured from last night’s raid. It was appalling. Some are saying the worst ever and Rebecca could be anywhere.’
‘Do you think I should go up to Lincolnshire? It’s an awful thing to tell them over the telephone. I could go by train or perhaps Daddy would let his chauffeur drive me there.’
‘I’m sure he would. I think that’s a good idea.’ He paused and then added quietly, ‘You know, Milly darling, I’m very proud of you. That’s not an easy task to undertake. But Pips always said you had a lot more courage than anyone ever gave you credit for. Now I see it for myself.’
With further fond messages between the two of them and a last promise from Milly to telephone him as soon as she arrived at the hall, they disconnected. Milly’s parents and grandmother knew Pips and George well and were very fond of them both. They did everything they could to help her as she packed quickly for the long journey north. Cook made up a hamper for her and Timson, the family’s chauffeur. ‘Obviously, you’ll be staying at the hall, Milly, but what about Timson?’
‘I’m sure the Maitlands will find him a bed. If not, he can always stay in the village or even in Lincoln. It’s only three or four miles away. He can come back tomorrow, but I shall stay for a few days.’
In under an hour, she was on her way.
Mitch stood up and eased his aching back and gazed at the mound of rubble in front of him. It didn’t seem to be getting any less, even though there were a dozen workers digging in an effort to see if anyone could still be alive. How could they be, he wondered, under all that lot? They’d been working for the rest of the night after the bomb fell, and all day, and now it was early evening on Monday. They’d already brought out two bodies, a man and a woman, but no one had been able to identify them. They weren’t anyone Mitch knew. He knew in his heart it was hopeless, but he had to try. He had to keep on digging. He didn’t even notice that his hands were bleeding, that his face and uniform were covered in dust or the fact that he hadn’t eaten since the previous day. Locals provided a constant supply of tea to the rescuers, but no one had stopped to eat.
Somewhere under there could be his beloved Pips and he wasn’t going to stop searching for her until all hope was gone.
‘We’ll have to stop in an hour or so, Mitch old man.’ The senior air-raid warden put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be dusk and we can’t put lights up, you know that.’
Mitch nodded and bent again. After ten minutes he heard a shout from the other side of the mound.
‘Here – over here.’
Everyone scrambled towards where the voice came from.
‘I’ve found a body. It’s a man and he’s dead, but I think there’s someone else with him. I need help. Just two of you.’
‘Please, let me,’ Mitch almost begged. ‘I might know him. My – friends live here.’
Sympathetic glances were cast his way as most of the rescuers stood back. Only one moved to Mitch’s side. Gently they cleared away the remaining rubble covering the body and then wiped his face.
Mitch nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said huskily. ‘It’s George.’
‘There’s someone else, just a couple of feet away from him.’
They worked carefully, although there was hardly any hope that whoever it was could be still alive.
‘It’s a woman,’ a voice said. ‘Go carefully, boys.’
They lifted the lifeless form from the debris and laid her reverently on the ground. Hardly daring to look, Mitch knelt beside her and gently wiped her face. As her features became recognizable, a sob escaped his throat. Then he leaned forward and rested his face against her shoulder, no longer able to hold back the tears.
When Milly arrived at the hall that evening, the family were gathered in the parlour, as they always were, for a pre-dinner drink. Wainwright showed her in, knowing there was no need to ask if he might do so. Milly was always a welcome visitor at the hall.
‘Mrs Whittaker, madam.’
‘Milly, my dear . . .’ At once Henrietta was on her feet. She was about to add ‘what a nice surprise’, but the look on the young woman’s face and her unexpected arrival stilled the words on her lips.
‘I had to come myself,’ Milly blurted out, glancing around the room. ‘I couldn’t do it by telephone.’ They were all there, so this would be easier. ‘You must know about the awful bombing happening almost every night in London.’
‘Of course.’ Robert stood up and guided her to a chair. He could see, not only with a doctor’s trained eye, but also with that of a friend, that Milly was very upset. ‘Now tell us slowly whilst Mother pours you a drink.’
Henrietta bent to her task, but everyone noticed that her hand was shaking. For Milly to come all this way, unannounced, something must be terribly wrong.
Milly pulled off her gloves. ‘Last night, there was a dreadful raid and – and the apartment block where Pips and George live’ – she swallowed painfully – ‘took a direct hit.’
They all stared at her. Robert sank back down into his chair. ‘Were they definitely there? I mean, George often works late and Pips – well – Pips might not even have been in London.’
‘Wouldn’t they have gone to a shelter?’ Alice asked.
‘Not that we can find out.’
Robert looked towards his father. ‘Have we a number to telephone Pips?’
Edwin shook his head. ‘No, she always telephones us. George is our link, if we want a message passed to her.’
Henrietta had sat down again. ‘So, no one knows where either Philippa or George were last night?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So, they could have been anywhere. Away from London. Out somewhere in the city, perhaps, and taken shelter.’ Henrietta was clutching at straws. She knew it, they all knew it, but could fully understand why. And she had a point. No one knew for sure yet whether they had been in the building at all.
‘Is Paul there? At – at the site?’
‘No, but there is someone we know there helping in the search.’
‘Who?’
‘Mitch Hammond.’
The telephone shrilled as they were about to sit down for dinner, even though no one felt like eating now.
‘I’ll go,’ Robert said, starting to rise, but Milly forestalled him.
‘No, please let me answer it. Paul promised to telephone so that I could – could relay any messages.’
Robert struggled for a moment and then realized that this was exactly why the kind-hearted young woman had travelled all this way. She hadn’t wanted the family to receive bad news in an impersonal telephone call. He forced a smile and nodded.
Milly rushed to the telephone. She returned a few moments later – moments that seemed like hours to the anxious family.
‘That was Paul. He’s in touch with the site. They brought out two bodies earlier. A man and a woman, but they’ve not been identified yet.’ She rushed on, ‘But Paul says it can’t be George or Pips because Mitch is there and he’d know.’
They tried to eat, they tried to make conversation, but both were impossible. They were all listening for the telephone to ring again.