All Clear

She gave up, reached for the map, and began plotting the coordinates of the V-1s which had fallen between two and five o’clock so she could plan a route back to Hendon which would avoid them. As soon as she’d finished, she mapped out a safe route back to Dulwich from Hendon. If Flight Officer Lang returned by four, and it didn’t take too long to get the stretchers in Edgware, she should be able to return the way she’d come, except that she’d have to go around Maida Vale and then cut through Kilburn.

He wasn’t back by four. Or half past. Or five. He’d clearly underestimated the time the meeting would take. She made a mental list of the V-1s that had fallen between five and six—no, best make it seven—and redid the route back to Hendon and then the one home, which was far longer and more complicated. She hoped she could follow it. If he wasn’t here soon, she’d be driving home in the dark. And the blackout.

He finally emerged from Whitehall at a quarter past six, looking furious. “Do you know what those fools said? ‘You in the RAF need to come up with more effective defensive tactics against the rocket bombs,’ ” he fumed, getting in and slamming the door. She started up the car and edged into traffic. “Exactly what do they suggest?” he said angrily. “It’s not as though there’s a pilot we can shoot, or a way to defuse the bomb en route. It’s already triggered when it’s launched.”

She nodded absently from time to time and concentrated on getting them out of London and onto the road to Hendon. At least he’d abandoned the “Haven’t I met you somewhere?” topic.

“And if we shoot them down,” he raved on, “we can’t control where they’ll land and we may end up killing more people than would have been killed if we’d let them continue on to their target. But could I make them understand that? No.”

She drove through the evening with her foot down hard on the accelerator pedal, wanting to reach Edgware Road while she could still make out landmarks, as he ranted on about how the generals knew nothing about rockets or aeroplanes.

“They demanded to know why the RAF couldn’t invent some method whereby the rockets would hit woods or a meadow instead of a populated area,” he told her, incensed. “But not a pasture, mind you. No, the explosion might disturb the cows!”

It was half past seven when they finally reached the turn to Hendon. By the time she dropped him off, went to Edgware, and talked the ambulance post out of the stretchers, it would almost certainly be dark.

“And you can imagine what wonderful sorts of suggestions they came up with,” Stephen said. “One of the generals suggested we use nets, and another—a hundred if he was a day; I shouldn’t be surprised to find he’d led the Charge of the Light Brigade—asked why we couldn’t toss a rope round the rocket’s nose, like roping a mare, and lead it back to France. A brilliant suggestion. Why on earth didn’t I think of that?

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to inflict my rantings on you, even though we are destined to spend the rest of our lives together. I don’t suppose you gave any thought to where we should be married while I was in with that lot of fools, did you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I decided we shouldn’t, that wartime attachments are a bad idea. Particularly if you’re going to be lassoing flying bombs.”

“Well, then, I’ll simply have to think of something better. And in the meantime, I’ll take you to tea and—” He seemed suddenly to take in their surroundings.

“We’re not out of London already, are we? I intended to take you to tea at the Savoy for being so patient. Where are we exactly?”

“Home.” She pulled up to the airfield gate.

“Wait,” he said as she brought the Daimler to a stop. “You can’t go yet.” He reached to take her hand.

She avoided letting him by reaching past him for the transport form at the same time. “Have you a pen?” she asked innocently. “Oh, never mind, I have one.”

He tried again. “You can’t go yet. We’ve only just met.”

“You forget, we met before,” she said, filling up the transport form. “You really do need to keep your pickup lines straight, Flight Officer Lang.”

“So I do,” he said ruefully. “But just because I’ve failed in the romance department doesn’t mean you should starve. You’ve already gone all day without food, thanks to me. Look, there’s a nice little pub only a few miles from here.”

She shook her head. “I must go to Edgware for those stretchers, remember?”

“I’ll go with you. I’ll help you load your stretchers, then we’ll have dinner and work out where it was we’ve met before.”

That was the last thing she needed. “No, I must get back. My commanding officer’s extremely strict.” She handed him the form to sign. “Sorry,” she said, and smiled at him. “It’s fate.”