V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,47
from white to grey. She turned to look out the porthole behind her. They were coming in low over a town. She could make out streets and red-roofed houses, several big square church towers in the distance, and beyond them a wide navigable river with docks and cranes, shaped like a mortise key with a long straight handle and stubby levers. The distinctive pattern was familiar to her from Medmenham, so that when the sergeant next to her said, ‘Where are we, ma’am?’ she was able to answer, ‘Ghent.’
She had expected them to land at an aerodrome like Northolt, and as they lost height, she kept looking out for one, but at the last moment she realised they were coming down onto a field. Trees flashed past alarmingly close and she braced herself for the impact. They hit the ground once and bounced up again, then hit it a second time and a third before jolting at speed over the uneven ground. The Dakota braked suddenly and flung them forward. The engines cut.
‘Christ,’ drawled one of the army officers, ‘that was bloody awful.’
Kay laughed with the others.
Never had she been more relieved to arrive anywhere than she was that November morning, carrying her suitcase the length of the fuselage, stepping out of the fetid cabin into cold fresh air and down onto the damp grass. The RAF airfield consisted of nothing much: a couple of big tents, a fuel tanker, two lorries, a staff car and half a dozen jeeps, one of which had a machine gun mounted on its back. But to her it was the primitiveness that was thrilling. She walked up and down and took a few deep breaths and pressed her shoe into the spongy ground. So this was Belgium – an enemy-occupied country less than three months ago. This was what it had all been about. This was the war. The fact that the other WAAFs still seemed to be deliberately ignoring her did not bother her in the least.
One of the section officers clapped her hands. ‘Very well, listen, please. As you can see, our transport is ready. The sergeants are to travel on the lorry.’ The announcement was greeted by a few good-humoured groans. ‘Sorry, girls. Officers – you’ll be travelling in the jeeps.’
Kay picked up her suitcase. The officers were arranging themselves into groups of three – two to sit in the back and one up front next to the driver. She didn’t want to travel with the wing commander and Flight Officer Sitwell, so she hung around the rear of the column and waited for someone to take pity on her. Finally two women detached themselves from the others and came over to her – one quite tall, blonde, plump and pretty, with a wide, open face; the other thinner, shorter, dark-haired.
The blonde stuck out her hand. ‘Hello, I’m Joan Thomas.’
‘Kay Caton-Walsh.’
‘And this is Louie Robinson.’
They shook hands.
‘Front or back?’ asked Joan.
‘Whichever you prefer.’
‘Why don’t we go in the back and you take the front?’
The two women climbed into the jeep with their suitcases. Kay got into the front. There wasn’t much space. She had to twist her knees to the side and clutch her suitcase to her chest. The driver nodded affably. ‘Ladies.’
Louie said, ‘We’re officers to you, Private.’
‘Sorry, ma’am.’
The jeep with the machine gun mounted at the back jolted past them and took up position at the head of the convoy. Kay said, ‘We have an armed escort?’
‘There are still a few Germans about,’ said the driver. He started the engine. ‘You’ll need to keep your eyes open.’
The column moved off. Kay could see the pale faces of a couple of the sergeants staring out of the gloom from the back of the covered lorry. She didn’t envy them. Not that the jeep was much more comfortable. It had a thin canvas roof and was open at the sides. She drew her coat together to protect her knees against the cold. They rattled off the airfield and onto a country lane, then turned left onto a main road.
The back seats were set higher than the front. Joan leaned forward and shouted in her ear, ‘So where have you come from, Kay?’
She tipped her head back to answer. ‘Medmenham. You’re all Stanmore, I take it?’
‘Yes, that’s right – Filter Room.’
‘I feel a bit of an outsider.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t say that! We’re a very friendly lot, aren’t we, Lou?’