I was so absorbed during the day that I didn’t think about anything but my work. At night, I was tired enough to fall asleep before the homesickness really sunk its teeth into me.
9
I tore open the envelope and pulled out my orders. Closing my eyes, I said a silent prayer before unfolding the stiff white sheet and reading: “Report to the Central Interpretation Unit, RAF Medmenham, 1300 hours, April 1, 1942.”
My disappointment was so intense that I felt dizzy. I raised my hand and pressed my fingers under my collarbone. Now I understood what that final interview was about, when they asked all those questions concerning family and friends. They were going to park me in some stuffy intelligence office. I’d never even heard of a place called Medmenham.
I requested a meeting with my commanding officer.
“You know it’s bad form to question a posting,” he said with a stern expression. “You should consider yourself lucky indeed to be assigned to this position. For one thing, it will put you in line for promotion. Many British girls would jump at the opportunity.” There was a faint emphasis on the word “British.”
He looked at my face and seemed to relent. “Don’t take it so hard, Jolliffe. It’s quite an honour to be selected for intelligence work. We can’t all fight the Hun, you know.”
The journey to my new headquarters, located in the Thames River valley forty miles northwest of London, took place on a typically sodden spring day. The landscape shimmered under a sheet of rain like a watercolour painting.
As the train jogged along, I closed my eyes against the deluge that poured down the windowpanes of my compartment and visualized the farm at this time of the year: new calves frisking around the pasture on legs like spindles, flocks of geese honking their way north, Dad’s rubber boots sticking out from under the tractor.
With my eyes closed, I fingered the set of propellers on my shoulder. My new rank made me feel a little better. Every recruit began as an Aircraftwoman 2nd Class, called an Acey-Deucey, and after basic training was promoted to Aircraftwoman 1st Class. I had gone straight up to the third rank: Leading Aircraftwoman, or LAC. There were still nine ranks to go ending with wing officer, but I was glad to have made it this far.
As the train jerked to a halt, I opened my eyes. “Is your journey really necessary?” asked a threatening message on the wall. How I wished it weren’t. All signs had been removed to thwart the invading Germans, but I had counted the stops on my fingers and knew this was my destination, the town of Marlow.
I slung my gas mask container over one shoulder and struggled off the train with my kit bag. Why did they make us carry so darned much stuff? A canvas tube tied around the top with a rope, the kit bag contained my shoes, clothing, rain cape, and ground sheet. When my helmet fell out of the bag, I resisted the impulse to kick it across the platform.
“LAC Jolliffe?” A young transport driver with acne was walking toward me. I dropped the heavy bag on my foot and winced as I returned his salute.
“The lorry is around the corner, ma’am. Let me help you with that.” He picked up the bag and set off while I trotted along behind him, then hoisted myself into the cab of the transport truck while he loaded several boxes from the train.
We left the town and headed west along a winding road that followed the northern bank of the Thames River through a dense forest. The showers ended abruptly, as they often did in England, and the sun broke through the clouds, piercing the dark green leaves and dappling the road with golden coins of light.
As always, the sunshine lifted my spirits. Through an opening in the trees, I caught a glimpse of the Thames, the opalescent water gliding past the low riverbanks dotted with flocks of woolly sheep like huge fluffy dandelions gone to seed.
After a few miles, the driver turned off the main road and changed gears as the truck laboured up a steep, narrow incline. We broke through the trees at last and my new home came into view. The driver glanced at me with a smile. “Here we are, ma’am.”
Standing on the brow of a hill overlooking the river was an enormous white two-storey mansion, topped with red brick chimneys and a row of crenellated stone teeth. Square towers rose from both ends, and a wing ran straight back from each tower so the house formed a three-sided rectangle, open at the back. Across the full length of the ground floor, a series of arched openings gave it a Mediterranean appearance.
Emerald lawns surrounded the house, sloping down to the river’s edge. Magnificent beech and willow trees were scattered across the grass. Long flowerbeds bursting with Wordsworth’s yellow daffodils lined the pebbled driveway.
“We don’t really work here, do we?” I asked in amazement, looking around for the ubiquitous metal huts.
The driver chuckled as the truck pulled to a stop at the front door. “Yes, ma’am, there’s room for offices and living quarters as well. The darkroom technicians bunk in the north wing, under the clock tower.”
I sat motionless, still staring in disbelief. “Is it very old?”
“No, ma’am, it was only built around 1900.” The driver put the truck into neutral and leaned back in his seat, assuming a self-important expression. “Danesfield House was built by the heir to the Sunlight soap company. He hired an architect to design this place in the Italian Renaissance style. It went through two or three owners before the war broke out, then the RAF requisitioned the house and all sixty acres.”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s pretty,” he said scornfully, “but it isn’t great architecture or anything. There are follies all over England — that’s when somebody with plenty of dosh decides to build a monument to himself. Locals call this one The Wedding Cake.”
I tried to view the house critically, but I still saw a fantastic fairytale castle. “Why is the stone so white?”
“It’s chalkstone, a type of rock native to this area. The entire village of Medmenham down the road is made of chalkstone.”
He pointed toward the door. “Your section officer is waiting for you, ma’am.”
I clambered out of the truck, hoisted my kit bag over my shoulder, and mounted a set of broad white stone steps to the grand entrance where a woman stood, a pleasant-faced officer about forty-five years old with steel-grey hair and spectacles.
“Welcome to RAF Medmenham. I’m Section Officer Hamilton.” She returned my salute and led me into a front hall the size of our barn. I had another one of my Alice sensations as I felt myself shrinking to the size of a mouse under the twenty-foot arched ceiling.
Up the curved mahogany staircase we marched, and down a long hallway leading to the north wing. Upstairs most of the carved wood panelling was draped with sheets, and the furniture had been removed. The walls showed lighter rectangles where paintings and tapestries had once hung. There were no floor coverings, and our heels clattered on the large square flagstones.
Mrs. Hamilton turned and headed down another long hallway before opening the door to a palatial bedroom. Even the metal bunk beds along the walls didn’t diminish the elegance of the room, with its ornate mouldings and leaded glass windows.
“You’ll kip over there,” Mrs. Hamilton said, pointing to a lower bunk. “The others are on shift in the darkroom. I’ll brief you after you’ve put away your things. You’ve already been added to tomorrow’s duty roster.”
After dumping my meagre belongings into the military chest at the foot of my bunk, I was taken into Mrs. Hamilton’s office where I signed The Official Secrets Act. I was not to breathe a word about my work to anyone — not loved ones, friends, or acquaintances — neither in letters