at the belt to loosen it.
It unwound. He gave the body a violent push, and it fell away into the water, the belt trailing behind it like seaweed. Mike surfaced, choking. He couldn’t see the Lady Jane. There was no sign of her, of anything except black water and burning wood and bobbing gas cans. The sky lit up again, a nightmarish green, but he still couldn’t see her. Just the looming black outline of the cruiser, and, beyond it, the destroyer.
I’m facing the wrong way, he thought, paddling in a circle to orient himself, and there was the Lady Jane, silhouetted against the burning town. Another flare fizzled down, illuminating Jonathan, still in the stern, waving the flashlight around erratically, searching for him.
“I’m here!” Mike called, and Jonathan swung the flashlight out onto the water behind him. “Here!” Mike called again, and began to swim toward the boat. There was a whoosh, a blinding splash, and the water went up in a sheet of flame around him.
The flying bomb is a weapon literally and essentially indiscriminate in its nature, purpose, and effect.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL, 1944
Dulwich—15 June 1944
AT 11:35, FOUR MINUTES AFTER IT WAS SUPPOSED TO—though it seemed much longer to Mary—the alert finally sounded. “What’s happening?” Fairchild asked, sitting up in bed.
“Nothing,” Talbot said. “Those horrid children have got at the siren again. Go back to sleep. It will stop in a bit.”
“Let’s hope so,” Grenville said, burying her head in her pillow. “And let’s hope the Major realizes what it is. I can’t bear to spend the night in that wretched cellar,” but the siren continued its up-and-down whine.
“What if it’s not a prank?” Maitland said, sitting up in bed and switching on her lamp. “What if Hitler’s surrendered and the war’s over?”
“I do hope not,” Talbot murmured, her eyes shut. “I need to win that pool.”
“It can’t be surrender,” Fairchild said. “They’d sound the all clear if it was the end of the war.”
Shh, Mary thought, listening for the V-1. It was supposed to hit at 11:43 on Croxted Road, near the cricket grounds, which were directly west of here, so she should be able to hear it before it hit.
The siren wound down. “Finally,” Talbot said. “If I get my hands on those brats—”
Maitland switched off her lamp and lay back down. Mary ducked back under the covers, switched on her torch, and looked at her watch. 11:41. Two more minutes. She listened intently for the engine’s sound, but she couldn’t hear anything. A minute. She should be able to hear the V-1 coming by now. Their stuttering jet engines made them audible for several minutes before they reached their targets, and it should pass directly over the post.
Thirty seconds, and still nothing. Oh, no, the V-1 isn’t going to hit Croxted Road, she thought. Which means I have the falsified times and locations, and my assignment has just become a ten.
There was a loud crash like thunder to the west, followed by a rumbling that shook the room. “Good Lord, what was that?” Maitland said, fumbling for the lamp.
Thank goodness, Mary thought, looking at her watch. 11:43. She hastily switched off her torch and emerged from under the covers.
“Did you hear that?” Reed asked.
“I did,” Maitland said. “It sounded like a plane. One of our boys must have crash-landed.”
“Alerts don’t sound for downed planes,” Reed said. “I’ll wager it’s a UXB.”
“It can’t have been a UXB,” Talbot said disdainfully. “How would they know in advance it was going to go off?”
“Well, whatever it was, it was in our sector,” Maitland said, and the phone in the despatch room rang.
A moment after, Camberley leaned her head in the door and said, “Plane down in West Dulwich.”
“I told you it was a plane,” Maitland said, yanking on her boots. “Civil Defence must have seen it was on fire and sounded the alert.”
“Where in West Dulwich?” Mary asked Camberley.
“Near the cricket grounds. Croxted Road. There are casualties.”
Thank God, Mary thought. Camberley disappeared. Maitland and Reed clapped their helmets on and hurried out. Camberley poked her head in again and said, “The Major says everyone not on duty’s to go down to the shelter.”
“How many planes does she expect will crash tonight?” Talbot grumbled.
A hundred and twenty, Mary thought, pulling on her robe. They trooped, grumbling, down to the cellar and then back up five minutes later when the all clear went, shrugged out of their robes, and got into bed. Mary did, too, even though she knew the siren