V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,40
red-faced WAAF sergeant emerged, followed by half a dozen others, jolly-looking women in their twenties carrying their suitcases. After them came the section officers. Kay counted seven in all. She studied them uneasily. She had never been good at joining in with a gang, especially not one that had already formed. Something about the way they were laughing together reminded her of a school lacrosse team at an away match. She picked up her suitcase and went out onto the apron.
No one paid her any attention. The WAAFs were already lining up to board the plane. The thin flight officer was supervising the ground crew, who were loading the boxes into the tail section. Knowsley had his back to her, talking to the pilot. She waited till his conversation ended.
‘Wing Commander?’
He turned and peered in puzzlement through his thick spectacles.
She saluted. ‘Section Officer Caton-Walsh, sir.’
Recognition spread across his face. ‘Yes, of course. You were at the Air Ministry.’ He returned her salute. ‘Cicely!’ he called to the flight officer. ‘This is your new recruit.’ The woman looked irritated at being interrupted. She came over, frowning. Kay saluted her. She had a hard, humourless, clever face. Knowsley said to Kay, ‘Flight Officer Sitwell is our scientific observer. This is Section Officer Caton-Walsh from Medmenham.’
The woman ran a sceptical eye over her. ‘Medmenham – so you can use a slide rule?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Logarithms?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have some grasp of mathematics?’
‘Some, yes.’
‘You’ve heard of Euler?’
‘No, ma’am.’ Kay already regretted her reply.
‘Jacobi? Legendre?’
She shook her head.
‘The theorem of the ballistic curve?’
‘No.’
‘Then you don’t have much of a grasp at all!’ Sitwell sighed. ‘Well, I suppose you’re probably no worse than the rest of them. You’d better get on board.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you.’ Kay saluted.
The door was just behind the wing. Feeling vaguely humiliated, she climbed the steps and ducked her head into the gloomy, crowded cabin. Ten seats on either side faced one another. Almost all were occupied by WAAFs. There were a couple of army officers. Square windows behind the seats admitted a weak morning light. Everyone’s luggage was at their feet. She picked her way awkwardly along the centre of the fuselage until she found an empty place on the left near the front.
‘May I?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The WAAF sergeant shifted along reluctantly, just enough to enable her to squeeze into the seat, then very pointedly turned her head away. Kay smiled a greeting around the other women. None would meet her eye, officers or sergeants. Clearly she was unpopular before she’d even started. Well damn them, she thought, with sudden irritation, and damn that dried-up old stick who’s in charge of them. She dragged the two halves of her seat belt out from beneath the WAAFs on either side of her and clipped them together.
At the back of the cabin, Flight Officer Sitwell stooped through the doorway, followed by the wing commander. They took the last two seats. One of the ground crew stowed the steps and closed the door. The engines coughed into life. The propellers sawed the air. The pitch rose quickly to a roar, and with a lurch the plane began to trundle across the apron and onto the concrete runway.
It was too noisy to speak. They all stared straight ahead. Kay could feel the tension. The accident rate on these flights was notorious. There was always a chance, even at this stage in the war, of encountering a stray Luftwaffe fighter. The WAAF opposite her was moving her lips, and Kay realised she was saying a prayer. She turned away, embarrassed, to look out of the window. She felt her own anxiety clench inside her chest and tried to concentrate on the take-off. So this was what it was like – the pause at the top of the runway, the sudden acceleration that forced you off balance, the buildings and the trees flashing past, and then the transition to slow motion as the landscape fell away and your stomach seemed to fall with it. The Dakota shuddered and creaked as it turned eastwards. She glimpsed the traffic on Western Avenue, the red-roofed houses, and then all too quickly veils of cloud whipped across the window and the view disappeared.
They seemed to be climbing too steeply for the power of the engines. The cabin bounced and rattled. The WAAF who had been praying began to cry. Kay gripped the edge of her seat. It felt as if they were in a submarine trying to surface. After what seemed an inordinately long time but