Time passed, the Allies continued to make progress, albeit slowly at times, and suddenly it was the year 1945. The New Year gilded with expectation, fraught by doubt. The general view was that Hitler’s plans were crumbling, but no one seemed able to tell him. The spirit had abandoned the ordinary German soldier, conscious of an advancing Russian army to the east, but the die-hards, the unquestioning servants of Nazism, hung on tenaciously. If an opportunity arose for desertion, Hilda hoped many would take that risk without facing certain repercussions, which would surely not occur when Germany finally admitted defeat. Perhaps Otto had already taken his chance for escape, and returned home to Hamburg to hide until the last days of conflict were over; she devoutly hoped so.
The work still poured in and she had to undertake double shifts; one week she was on call all night before starting her day shift. By spring, there were signs that the war in Europe would end very soon. The more optimistic thought the Battle of the Bulge might prove to have been the last stand-to engagement. The papers suggested that Germany was cut to pieces by the forces of both east and west. Hilda wondered how much retribution the victors would exact. She hoped not nearly as much as they took after the previous war. That was undoubtedly a contributory cause of this war. Surely, there would never be another? These questions she had to ask herself because she needed to find Otto, Karl and Renate. She wanted to get back to Hamburg as soon as she could.
In May, the war ended. It was something of an anti-climax to the BP workers after the relentless activity of the previous three years, and Hilda felt rather at a loss. She had no idea if Thornton had more plans for her, or if she was free to pick up the threads of her own life, whatever that turned out to be. In any case, she felt very strongly that he owed her some help, and she decided to telephone him. Knowing calls were monitored, she simply told him her days at work were ending and she wanted, indeed needed, to see her family, especially her son. She couched it in terms, which were clear enough to him, but in a way, that no one could suspect that it meant a return to Hamburg.
The following week several Wrens and civilian staff gathered at Hut 13 where they received a stern lecture from a brigadier. His message was simple. They might be leaving Bletchley, but what they had done during the war, and indeed the fact that they had worked at BP at all, must never ever be divulged to anyone, anywhere or at any time. If people asked what their war work had been, they were to describe it as routine secretarial work; the nature of that work itself must remain completely confidential. The venue, too, must remain top secret. They had been warned. The full force of the law would come down on anyone divulging BP’s existence.
After they agreed one by one to this commitment by signature and oath, they were free to leave, subject to the needs of the slowing-down operation. The work being done at BP was far from over, as a realignment of Europe was now on the political agenda. However, the technical German translations had trickled down to nothing, leaving Hilda with empty days. It was time for her to return to London.
She left BP during the first week of June and made for the capital to seek out Dynes and Thornton. The centre of the city was alive with flags, and people wore broad smiles of relief. She encountered a group of American naval ratings having the time of their lives with English girls hooked on their arms. Crowds of people of different nationalities and wearing a variety of service uniforms were congregating, along with policemen, special constables and members of the home guard. The bars were full, as were the cafés, all doing a roaring trade.
As she made her way to the MI6 offices, she passed a twelve-piece Salvation Army band belting out Onward Christian Soldiers at full volume while bonneted women handed out paper cups of hot tea. It seemed that the country was enjoying an extended victory, even though the war in the east had not concluded.
The familiar building still had sandbags around the front entrance. Hilda climbed the steps and informed the unfamiliar young woman at the desk that she had arrived. When asked for her name, the devil was in her head.
‘Tell Mr Thornton that Frau Hilda Richter has arrived.’
She hid a smile as the receptionist took a sharp breath. A German woman at MI6, and so soon after the end of hostilities; whatever next? However, the girl kept such thoughts to herself, though she gazed open-mouthed as Hilda swept past her, brushing aside her offer of directions to Thornton’s office with a crisp, ‘I know the way, thank you.’
She received a far warmer welcome from Thornton himself.
‘My dear Hilda, do come in,’ he said, striding forward to greet her and shaking her hand warmly.
‘Thank you. I trust you are well.’
‘Yes, very well thank you, and so relieved that this dastardly war is over.’
‘I certainly am too.’ She looked around the room. ‘Mr Dynes, is he about?’
‘No, he’s gone to Birmingham today. Anyway, I am delighted to see you survived the war in one piece. It’s been a while since we met.’
‘Survived? I have spent the past three years closeted in a hut! Except for a couple of concerts, we managed to organize.’ She sat down on a chair facing Mr Thornton.
‘I’m sure everyone enjoyed that, even though they were a captive audience, as it were.’ They laughed, and Hilda felt some of the stress flow out of her muscles.
‘Yes, captive and sworn to secrecy. I’m sorry I can’t tell you what the work entailed.’
He gave a patronising smile. ‘I know. I sent you there, remember.’
‘Yes, but I don’t even know the full picture; how we received messages at such a rate, and which ones had to be translated; but there I go again, in breach of the Official Secrets Act already.’
They laughed again, then Thornton stood up and walked over to the window. When he turned around, he looked a like a dark ghost. ‘What can I do for you, Hilda? I know you too well to assume this is not purely a social call.’
Her smile accompanied a nod of her head. ‘I was wondering if you would have any more use for me,’ she said slowly, ‘though I’m not sure what that could possibly be.’
‘I am afraid we will have to part company in due course,’ he said. ‘But I am certain you have more pressing matters on your mind, not so?’
‘Well… there is just one favour I need to ask of you.’
‘And that is?’ he asked as he cocked his head.
Hilda could hold back no longer. ‘I need to get to Hamburg,’ she said rapidly.
‘I see.’ Thornton stroked his chin. ‘To trace Otto, and your brother-in-law and his wife?’
‘Exactly.’
Thornton opened his desk diary and turned a few pages. She wondered if he could pull this rabbit out of his hat. She felt sure it was no more than a thin chance.
‘You know Hamburg will not be as you left it?’
‘You mean the bombing?’
‘Yes, but do you know the extent of the bombing?’
‘No, I can’t really imagine.’
‘The docks were at first our main target. Any device that did not hit the quays hit the city. No pilot wanted to waste a bomb over the sea. Then a little later the city became the main target.’
‘I don’t care. I need to get to Hamburg,’ she pleaded.
‘I can see you’re quite determined.’ He continued to leaf through his diary, then he lifted his telephone.
‘Hello, Transport? Yes, Thornton here. Anyone going to Hamburg? Let me know when one is leaving. I have a live package.’ He replaced the telephone.
‘There. If they cannot get you there, no one will. I suggest you stock up on groceries before you go. It will be very rough over there. It is likely nothing will be functioning properly, there are no shops, and provisions of any kind will be scarce. You will have to work quickly and get back promptly. It’s not a place for the fainthearted – but you were never that.’
She should have been downcast by his account of her city’s fate, but she retained a hope of finding some semblance of life in and around Hamburg, and she needed to see for herself.
‘Perhaps you can leave notes and forwarding addresses,’ Thornton suggested. ‘And you never know – perhaps Otto will be heading there too. You could even bring him back with you.’
‘That would be ideal,’ she said, her hopes buoyed up by his optimism.
‘Come back at three this afternoon and see if we have made any progress.’
‘Thank you, Mr Thornton. Thank you very much indeed. You have been very kind.’
She set off in search of a supply of easily portable groceries, but they were not easy to find. Rationing had not affected BP directly, and though everyone had been issued with a supply of coupons when they left the complex, she was unfamiliar with the system. Eventually, she managed to purchase some packets of dried American soup, dried fruit and a loaf of bread. She found some slices of ham and cheese and tins of fruit, as well as some tins of spam, the latter apparently being of the few plentiful things in the shop. She asked the shopkeeper for six tins. He seemed surprised. ‘Not party food I suggest,’ he said.
‘I know. It’s not a party I am going to,’ she managed to convey without saying any more. Spam had become a staple meat in the meagre wartime diet. Moreover, she had eaten a fair amount of it at BP and was used to it.
She bought a canvas rucksack so that she could carry the food on her back. The fruit tins were heavy, but the packet of water biscuits, which filled it to the top, added very little extra weight. She returned to Thornton’s office five minutes early.
‘We’ve got you a flight to an airport just outside Hamburg,’ he announced.
‘Oh, thank you, that’s wonderful news. Thank you so much,’ she smiled.
‘Don’t thank me, thank the Yanks. They will be over here shortly to pick you up and take you to their base. You’ll be heading for Hamburg early tomorrow morning.’
She gave him a broad smile; her face had not stretched so far for many months. Just one issue remained, now that she was so heavily laden with provisions.
‘I wonder if you could keep my oboe with you until I return. I will not need it in Hamburg, and the case is quite heavy. Anyway, it really has no home to go to yet. I’m still not at all sure where I’ll settle down.’
Thornton smiled. ‘I’ll be delighted to help. Regard this office as your base. I fully understand. Mind you, I thought you two were inseparable,’ he said with a wink.
‘We are. But I know I can trust you not to sell it.’
He laughed as he walked over to a high-walled cupboard and climbed a small stepladder.
‘Here, this cupboard is locked every night. It will be perfectly safe here,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s if we both can remember where it is.’
Hilda did not have to wait long. There was a knock at the door. In came an American pilot in smartly creased, mushroom-coloured trousers and a flying jacket.
‘Sir, Colonel Zak Withers reporting for duty. A damsel in distress I’m seekin’. I’m sure lookin’ for one stunning dame,’ he said. His eyes turned towards Hilda.
‘You can’t possibly mean me, Colonel, but I hope you’ll fly me to Hamburg all the same. Do I detect a southern accent there?’ she asked in her friendliest tone.
The colonel looked at Hilda. ‘Louisiana man I am, ma’am. Got to the dance late, but saw some action in the Battle of the Bulge.’
‘Excellent flying skills required for that engagement, I imagine, officer,’ she said.
‘Thank you, ma’am. Sure was a tricky op. Hamburg, eh? You sure got guts.’
‘Guts? I’m not flying the machine,’ she joked.
‘Your boys hit Hamburg real bad. Not easy to get around.’
‘I know where I am going,’ she said, injecting more confidence into her tone than she was feeling.
‘Glad to take you on board, ma’am. However, we leave early tomorrow. I’m taking you back to base at Northolt, not too far from here, a bit north of the city. We leave early tomorrow. Y’all ready to go?’
‘I know Northolt. I sure am ready to return to Hamburg tomorrow.’ She did her best to copy his American accent, and he slapped her back paternally, even although he was young enough to be her son.
At the airbase, her bunk bed was located in a row of small rooms with a shower at the end. An opaque plastic shower curtain drooped down in the centre with a few hooks missing, hardly protecting anyone’s modesty. Any passer-by could see that someone was using the shower.
Hilda chose not to remark on the drawings of nude women in various poses, which decorated the hut common room. She understood their frustration.
‘Excuse the artwork. We’re all randy around here,’ laughed a young flying sergeant perched on the corner of a table, his left leg swinging above the floor. He held a Lucky Strike between his fingers and tapped the ash into an empty beer can. ‘Don’t really get women here,’ he added. ‘We chose the best room for you. The others are less tasteful.’
She did not doubt him.
‘Meal in the main hut across there,’ said the sergeant pointing out of the window. ‘Six p.m. sharp or you get the scraps. Breakfast from six a.m. till eight, but you’ll be away by then, I guess.’
Hilda risked a shower in the early evening and sang loudly to deter any visitors. The airmen respected her privacy, and she returned to her room to dress, excited that she’d be returning to her home and family in Hamburg, but more than a little apprehensive about what she would find. Something niggled at the back of her mind: was she being unrealistic to hope she would find her son? So many young men had died. She made up her mind to assume he was dead, and to deal with it if it proved to be the truth. If he were alive, she would be overjoyed. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, she told herself. Only time would tell.
It was time for her evening meal in the company of her American hosts, and she made her way to the mess hut, which the amiable flight sergeant had pointed out.
The meal was Cobb salad, something quite unfamiliar to her. She had not tasted bacon for weeks, and the avocado was quite new to her. It was accompanied by a plentiful supply of sourdough bread that one of her fellow diners told her was baked fresh every day. The American chef clearly had access to a wider range of ingredients than was generally available, but Hilda decided not to ask too many questions. There was even a glass of white Alsace wine to wash down the food; liberated by some troops they had airlifted home, a young pilot confided.
Hilda’s plateful was more than substantial, and she was full even before the banana split arrived. She had attracted a full table of service members. They were all young men and she guessed they were longing for home, for loved ones and their mothers’ home cooking. That night Hilda was their substitute mother.
‘Say, ma’m, you got any kids in the war?’ one of them asked.
She wondered if she would need to tell a white lie, but decided to improvise.
They were no longer at war after all.
‘Yes, one son.’
‘In the navy?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Britain’s got a good number on the high seas. Okay, he’s a pilot like some of us here? Did he fight in the Battle of Britain?’
‘No, he’s in the army. Light armour infantry.’
‘Wow, I bet he’s seen some action,’ he stated as his eyes drilled into her.
‘I am sure he has.’
‘Is he back home safely now?’ he enquired in a more consolatory manner.
‘That’s what I’m flying out to discover.’
The answer must have confused the flyer. He stood up to leave the table. He pulled his hand from his pocket and flung a packet on the table.
‘Chewing gum. Helps the ears from popping in the plane.’ She smiled her thanks. Her brief flirtation with chewing gum at BP had ended quickly, but it might prove useful in the morning.
The following morning she arrived at the table at a few minutes past six. Her pilot Zak Withers put down his coffee mug.
‘Hi, Good morning, Ma’am. Southern grits on the hob, staple Louisiana diet, fills you up. Have some.’
‘Sounds just what I need,’ she said, helping herself to the grainy porridge.
‘Best breakfast in the world, our grits. Those in the north make fun of us.’
‘So it’s a southern recipe?’
‘Well, matter of fact, native Indians gave us it. You like it?’
She swallowed a mouthful with difficulty. ‘An acquired taste, perhaps? But I’m hungry.’
‘Okay, I hear you,’ he said. He shouted through to the kitchen staff, ‘Two eggs sunny side up, you got that?’ The chef gave a thumbs-up.
Hilda contemplated a full English breakfast, as it could be the last proper meal she would have for a while.
‘Hilda, so what you goin’ for?’
‘Something quite filling. Not sure when I’ll eat again.’
In a flash, he shouted through her order. ‘Hey, stack of pancakes with maple syrup for the lady with some bacon and eggs on the side,’ he shouted to the chef. He turned to Hilda. ‘Sunny side up or over easy, Hilda?
‘Er, sunny side up please,’ she ordered, not that she knew what over-easy meant.
Once breakfast was over, Zak gave her a few minutes to get ready to pack before they set off for the aircraft. It was a RB-1 Conestoga cargo transport aircraft, a bulky craft big enough to accommodate a row of tenement houses, she thought. The loading was underway when she arrived. Jeeps and lorries, pallets of sugar, flour and milk powder entered the aircraft’s gaping jaws. All bound for Hamburg and the surrounding district. Each bag bore the stars and stripes, though the propaganda was hardly necessary. The German people would surely have rejected Hitler’s dream and swastika emblem by now and would welcome any aid that helped them stay alive.