He was home, walking through his hometown. It was full summer, and the sun beat down on him, warming his back. This wasn’t the feeble sunshine you got in England but the strong heat of a Czechoslovakian summer. It threw the terracotta tiles on all the roofs into sharp relief, the waves of each one marked by clear light and shade. The smell of resin from the sun-warmed pine trees beyond the buildings filled the air. Hens scratched the dry soil in the front yards he passed, their soft clucks mingling with the deep grunts of the few pigs to form the background noises of his childhood.
The road sloped downhill and soon he had left behind the small town and had turned onto the track leading into the woods. The track where his home lay. He strained to look ahead, seeking out his childhood house. The house where Eliška and Franta lived. Were they still there? He quickened his pace.
Neighbours called out to him as he passed: ‘Milan – welcome home!’
He nodded to them and said a brief hello in return but didn’t slow his pace. His heart sped up as he followed the track around the bend. There it was! The large, solidly built house with its white walls, deep-set windows and terracotta roof. Were they there?
He pushed open the gate, dry mouthed.
A high, piping voice called out. ‘Strejdo Milane!’ Then Milan saw the tiny figure of his nephew running down the path, kicking up puffs of dust with each step. Eliška followed. Even from this distance Milan could see the tears running down her cheeks.
Milan dropped his case, grabbed Franta and swung him around, whooping and laughing. He was home, and everything was exactly as he remembered it. Nothing had changed. His fears had come to naught.
Franta was speaking again but a bell jangled in his ear, making it impossible to hear.
Milan opened his eyes and fumbled his arm free of the bed covers to turn off his alarm. Then he stared up at the ceiling, disoriented.
He would have thought by now that he would have got used to the dream, wouldn’t experience the horrible lurch of realisation when it hit him that he wasn’t home. He was in England, the war still raged, and he had not heard from his sister and nephew since the Nazis invaded and he had been forced to flee. He couldn’t understand how he could dream the same dream night after night and awaken every time with a fleeting sense of lightness until reality crashed in.
Half an hour later, having been to the station Met Office to confirm the weather was suitable for flying and then eaten a light breakfast, he went to the Ops Room to check out what missions were on. While he studied the blackboard where the flying programme was listed, Jiří arrived.
‘Nothing for me,’ he said, sounding disgruntled.
Their flight commander chose that moment to arrive. ‘Should have returned your Spitfire in one piece yesterday instead of full of holes,’ he told Jiří. Then he turned to Milan. ‘You’re doing a run to the Netherlands.’ He handed Milan instructions on the target to be photographed.
‘Sounds like a milk run,’ Jiří said, once the flight commander had moved off.
‘Should be. See you at lunch.’ Milan gave Jiří a casual wave and headed outside to where the Humber Snipes were waiting to transport the pilots to the Intelligence Room for the briefing.
Concentrating on the briefing and then marking up his course on his chart, Milan was able to push his dream from his mind. However, once he was alone at the controls of his Spitfire, up in the air and watching the coast of Northern France coming into view, it all came back to him. He gazed east across the rolling landscape, straining his eyes until the horizon met the sky. That was the way to Czechoslovakia and home. Somewhere out there were his sister and young nephew. Pray God they were still alive. If only he could keep on flying, he would get there eventually.
A futile wish, of course. Even though his Spitfire was fitted with extra fuel tanks to give him the range, he would be shot out of the sky long before he got there. The modifications that transformed his Spitfire into a reconnaissance plane left no room for guns.
Yet again he marvelled at the irony that had brought this change of fortune. When he and Jiří had protested against being rotated to quieter duties, they had done so because they wanted to continue the fight. What on earth had possessed Fighter Command to decide some of their best pilots should be moved to reconnaissance? He didn’t want to shoot pictures; he wanted to shoot Nazis. He wanted to kill and keep killing until he’d cleared a path for the Allied Advance all the way to Prague.
The Allies would be somewhere on the ground, far below. Not that he could see them from this height, but they would be there, strengthening their grip on the territory they had already taken back from the Nazis and chipping away at the retreating forces where they were trying to dig in. Too slow, though. They hadn’t even succeeded in liberating Paris yet and they’d been in France since May. At this rate it would be months, maybe years before they reached Czechoslovakia.
Milan clenched his jaw. If only his Spitfire was carrying machine guns instead of cameras, he’d do his bit to oust the Nazis. But he didn’t have so much as a pea-shooter.
A glance at the coastline and then the chart on his knees told him he was now over Belgium and therefore enemy territory. He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Anyone who thought reconnaissance flying was a safe option needed their heads testing. If the Luftwaffe sent planes after him he had nothing with which to defend himself. All he’d be able to do was take some nice photos of the scenery as it came rushing up to meet him.
His collar chafed his neck as he turned his head to scan the skies. No sign of enemy aircraft, and the Spitfire wasn’t leaving a vapour trail, so the blue plane would be difficult to see against the sky. He could only hope the Luftwaffe was too busy defending the German troops in Paris to bother about a single RAF plane making its way to the Belgium–Netherlands border. He consulted his chart again then looked at the ground, looking for the Scheldt. Once there, he needed to fly due east to the area of woodland he’d been sent to photograph. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he spotted the ribbon of blue threading its way inland, and adjusted his course. Not long now and he should be at his target.
From his height of thirty thousand feet, the ground looked like a piece of green pottery, with roads and canals appearing like cracks in the glaze. As he studied the ground, he was aware of his hands growing uncomfortably cold. He warmed his hands against his neck in turn, wishing someone would invent a pair of gloves that didn’t make his hands feel too clumsy to handle the aircraft.
Glancing at the ground again, he saw a patch of darker green, roughly trapezoidal in shape, and knew he’d reached his destination. He relaxed slightly. All he had to do now was take the photographs and head for home on a direct course. He banked until the target disappeared beneath the Spitfire’s nose then straightened and turned the cameras on. This was the best way to capture the target, as the cameras were mounted behind the cockpit. Thankfully there was no cloud cover so once he was past the target he knew he would have taken clear images of the ground. It was strange to be taking photographs of woodland. He could see nothing but trees with just a single straight line cutting through them marking a road. At his briefing he’d been told it was a possible launch site for flying bombs, but he could see nothing to indicate anything suspicious. He ground his teeth. Here he was photographing trees when he should be fighting Nazis.
By this time he was past the target so he turned off the cameras and checked his compass, preparing to turn and plot his return course. It was as he banked that he saw them: three Messerschmitts maybe ten thousand feet below, climbing in his direction. Then a glance over his shoulder turned his heart to lead. He had been so occupied in photographing the target that he had neglected to check if he was leaving a vapour trail, and now a white ribbon stretched out behind, guiding the Messerschmitts straight to him. If they caught him up, he didn’t stand a chance.
Although he had no weapons, he had one advantage: his Spitfire’s greater manoeuvrability. If he could prevent the formation of a vapour trail, he would have the best chance of escape. Making sure he was on a course heading for the sea, he dived to lose height, continuously switching his gaze between the enemy planes and the treacherous trail. He could only pray he didn’t have too much height to lose before the atmospherics were right to prevent formation of a contrail. The Messerschmitts came closer as he lost height. He held his breath, heart hammering. At last the white trail faded and petered out. Immediately he banked sharply, veering away from the fading contrail. Just as he did so, something struck his machine, and he knew he’d been hit. He could only pray the bullets had struck nothing vital. He changed direction again and again, all the while checking that his general course was bringing him closer to England. No further bullets struck, and after another series of course changes, he looked out to see the Messerschmitts were tiny dots far behind.
Milan slumped in his seat, the tension draining. They wouldn’t catch him now. They certainly wouldn’t chase him across the channel where they would be likely to run into RAF patrols.
It was only when he crossed the coastline that he thought to check his fuel gauge. It was low and sinking fast. The strike he’d felt must have holed his fuel tank. The question was, did he have enough fuel to get back to England?
Moments later the engine spluttered and died.
‘Feels like the first day at school, doesn’t it?’ Jess said to May as they set off after breakfast with the other officers of A Watch. A heavy dew lay on the grass and the early morning sunlight lit the garden with a golden glow, shining on dew-beaded cobwebs that decked the towering runner beans on their canes. Despite it being only mid-August, there was an autumnal feel to the morning that intensified the back-to-school feeling.
May nodded. ‘I just hope I don’t do something stupid.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ Evie told them. ‘But any problems or questions, just ask me.’
They set off at a brisk pace down the road, passing several large houses behind high walls or hedges. ‘You certainly see how the other half live around here,’ Jess muttered. It was a far cry from the narrow, crowded streets where she had grown up. It was hard to believe they were in the same city.
Before long they arrived at an imposing red brick house set behind a high wall. Beyond it the road ran downhill, and for the first time Jess could see they were situated on top of a hill. Through gaps in trees and buildings, she could catch glimpses of London spread out below. She would have loved to walk further to get a better view, but the others turned through the gateway, showing their passes to the guard at the entrance. To Jess’s surprise, however, they didn’t enter the house – more a stately home, Jess thought, gazing up at it. Instead, they skirted the buildings, taking a path that led into extensive grounds.
‘Blimey,’ Jess said, taking in the gardens and trees and even a small pool twinkling in the sunlight, ‘you could fit the whole of Poplar in here.’
‘We’re in the building across the lawn,’ Evie said. ‘There’s a canteen up on the third floor in the main house.’
Jess looked back at the house. ‘Looks like it would take most of your break time to get there.’
‘It’s no fun in the dark,’ another girl told her. ‘I’m always terrified I’ll fall in the pond.’
‘I thought we’d be in a bunker.’ Jess wasn’t sure how she felt about working somewhere that seemed unprotected against attack.
‘The Filter Room used to be in a bunker up at Bentley Priory,’ Evie answered. ‘But I hadn’t been there long when it was taken over. We found out later it was used for planning the Normandy landings. We got sent down here to Hill House.’
The guard at the entrance saluted them as they showed their passes. Jess’s nerves returned as she put her pass away and followed Evie inside.
Shoulders back, chin up and smile, she recited in her head. It was one of the first things she had learnt as an actress and was the best way she had discovered to trick herself into feeling confident. She glanced at May and gave an approving nod when she saw her friend correct her own posture and raise her chin. The Christmas they had put on a pantomime felt a lifetime ago, but May had clearly remembered Jess’s lessons.
The other Filterers, Evie included, went through the inner doors into what Jess knew must be the Filter Room. However, the Filter Officer, Flight Officer Laura Morgan, took Jess and May aside. ‘Good. Neither of you look like you’re dying of nerves. While I’ll do what I can to support you, of course, we need Filterers who can work quickly and accurately with the minimum of direction. You might think Rudloe Manor and RAF Watnall were busy, but this is something else again.’ She put a hand on the door then glanced back at the two friends. ‘We stagger the changeover here to minimise disruption.’
Jess nodded. She was used to this from her previous posting.
‘You two will change in last. Take the time to observe the Filterer you’re relieving and familiarise yourself with the tracks and Chain Home stations in your area.’
May and Jess followed Morgan through the doors that led to the Filter Room. Immediately Jess was struck with the hum of noise. She was used to the chatter filling a Filter Room from her other posts – so different from the near silence she had worked in as an Operations Room plotter. The layout of the room was the same as the other Filter Rooms she knew, with the large map table showing the coast, divided into grids with coloured arcs radiating out from each Chain Home station. Above was the balcony occupied by the Controller, the Filter Officer, and the Movements Liaison Officer, who co-ordinated information on the movements of friendly aircraft. The Tellers, who reported the filtered information on to the Operations Room, and the Speed Orderly had their own corners.
By force of habit, Jess glanced at the pulse clock and colour code indicator as she took her place then studied the tracks on display, making note of the times each had been placed. The Filter Plotters were clustered around the table, speaking into their headsets. Each Filter Plotter was connected with one of the Chain Home stations displayed on the map, and communicated with that station’s RDF operator. Whenever they received information of a new track from the RDF Operator, the Filter Plotter would place a counter on the map showing the position, then place numbers showing the range, height and estimated number of aircraft and also whether the track was ‘friend or foe’. Jess, who had done a stint as an RDF operator herself, knew friendly aircraft carried a transponder that caused a ‘double blip’ to appear on the screen. The number of aircraft was estimated from the size of the dip the signal returned on the cathode ray tube the RDF operators viewed. It took skill and experience to estimate these numbers, and it was part of her duties as Filterer Officer to get to know the Chain Home Stations so she could assess the accuracy of their readings.
Of course, different Chain Home stations could receive signals from the same flight, meaning two tracks on the table might represent the same aircraft. It was the Filterer Officer’s job to assess the tracks and decide if they showed the same information. If they did, the Filterer Officer combined them into a single track, placing a ‘halma’ – literally a plastic piece like those used in the game of Halma – for each individual track. She also had to make a judgement on the correct information to give for range, height and number of aircraft. This process was called filtering. It was vital to perform this quickly, as the information could not be passed on to the Operations Room – and thus sent out to the various sector stations around the country – until the information had been filtered.
Jess’s nerves faded as she observed the table. It might be busier here and even more pressured, but she knew her job and she could handle it. She caught May’s eye and saw the same relief in her expression. She gave an encouraging smile.
After that there was no more time to think. Laura Morgan directed her to take her place, relieving the Filterer she’d been observing, and now Jess was in the thick of things. Thankful she’d had the time to get to grips with the situation, she quickly combined a track already on display with information that had been reported by the next RDF station along the chain. It had been identified as a friendly flight – probably a bomber raid returning from a mission. Soon other friendly aircraft were reported following the same course, confirming Jess’s opinion that this was a returning bombing raid. She had tracked many such flights in her time and knew that although the bombers set out en masse, they tended to get spread out on return, depending on how much damage they had sustained during the raid. She knew to keep an especial eye on any stragglers, as they could be severely damaged and in danger of needing to ditch in the sea. If their signal disappeared, the relevant Operations Room would need accurate information of their last known position so help could be sent.
There was one such straggler Jess was concerned about, although it hadn’t appeared from the same direction as the main flight of returning bombers. Instead it had been picked up just off the coast near the border between the Netherlands and Belgium. She was sure it was a single aircraft, and it emitted IFF identification, the signal that it was friendly. It was heading for the coast of East Anglia, but losing height. Jess felt a twinge of anxiety. In all likelihood, the aircraft had sustained damage.
‘Ask Bawdsey for another reading on that track,’ she said to the plotter.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied the plotter and spoke to the RDF Operator at Bawdsey over her headset. A moment later she moved the track a little closer to the English coast, but the altitude was another thousand feet lower.
‘It looks like he’s going to end up in the sea,’ Jess said. ‘Tell Bawdsey to keep an eye on it and let us know the instant they lose the signal.’
Although the table was busy, Jess managed to keep an eye on the straggler, knowing quick action could mean the difference between life and death to the pilot. It held out for much longer than she could have expected, making it to within a mile of the Essex coast before the signal was lost. This was the bit Jess hated. She had done her job and knew a rescue launch would even now be setting out towards the last known position of the ditched plane. The trouble was, she would probably never find out if the pilot had made it. Once the information had been sent to the relevant Operations Room, that was the end of her job. Nevertheless, she spared a thought for the unfortunate pilot whenever there was a lull in the action and hoped he had been found alive.