Code Name Verity. Elizabeth E. Wein

off your score – that was just like being in school. Also all the slang, the ‘square-bashing’ drilling exercises, and the boring meals and the uniforms, though Maddie’s group didn’t get issued proper uniforms at first. They all wore matching blue cardigans, like Girl Guides (Guides don’t wear Air Force blue cardigans, but you see what I mean).

      Maddie was stationed at Oakway to begin with, very convenient to home. This was late 1939, early 1940. The Phoney War. Nothing much happening.

      Not in Britain anyway. We were biting our nails, practising.

      Waiting.

       Telephonist

      ‘You! Girl in the blue cardigan!’

      Five girls in headsets looked round from their switchboards, pointed to their chests and mouthed silently, Me?

      ‘Yes, you! Aircraftwoman Brodatt! What are you doing here? You’re a licensed radio operator!’

      Maddie pointed to her headset and the front cord she was about to connect.

      ‘Take the damned thing off and answer me.’

      Maddie turned back to her switchboard and coolly plugged in the front cord. She toggled the appropriate keys and spoke clearly into the headset. ‘The Group Captain is through to you now, sir. You may go ahead.’ She took off the headset and turned back to the troll who was waiting for a reply. It was the chief flight instructor for Oakway’s Royal Air Force squadron, the man who had given Maddie her flight test nearly a year ago.

      ‘Sorry, sir. This is where I’ve been posted, sir.’ (I did say it was like being at school.)

      ‘Posted! You’re not even any of you in uniform!’

      Five dutiful Aircraftwomen First Class straightened their Air Force blue cardigans.

      ‘We’ve not been issued full dress, sir.’

      ‘Posted!’ the officer repeated. ‘You’ll start in the radio room tomorrow, Aircraftwoman Brodatt. The operator’s assistant is down with influenza.’ And he lifted the headset from her console to perch it precariously over his own large head. ‘Put me through to the WAAF administration unit,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to your Section Officer.’

      Maddie flipped the keys and plugged in the cords and he gave her posting orders over her own telephone.

       Radio Operator

      ‘Tyro to ground, tyro to ground,’ came the call from the training aircraft. ‘Position uncertain, overhead triangular body of water to east of corridor.’

      ‘Ground to tyro,’ answered Maddie. ‘Is it a lake or a reservoir?’

      ‘Say again?’

      ‘Lake or reservoir? Your triangular body of water.’

      After a short silence, Maddie prompted: ‘A reservoir has got a dam at one end.’

      ‘Tyro to ground. Affirm reservoir.’

      ‘Is it Ladyswell? Manchester barrage balloons at ten o’clock and Macclesfield at eight o’clock?’

      ‘Tyro to ground, affirm. Position located. Overhead Ladyswell for return to Oakway.’

      Maddie sighed. ‘Ground to tyro, call on final approach.’

      ‘Wilco.’

      Maddie shook her head, swearing unprettily under her breath. ‘Oh my sainted aunt! Unlimited visibility! Unlimited visibility except for the dirty great city in the north-west! That would be the dirty great city surrounded at 3000 feet by a few hundred silver hydrogen balloons as big as buses! How in the name of mud is he going to find Berlin if he can’t find Manchester?’

      There was a bit of quiet in the radio room. Then the chief radio officer said gently, ‘Leading Aircraftwoman Brodatt, you’re still transmitting.’

      —

      ‘Brodatt, stop there.’

      Maddie and everyone else had been told to go home. Or back to their various barracks and lodgings anyway, for an afternoon’s rest. It was a day of such appallingly evil weather that the street lamps would have been lit if it weren’t for fear of enemy aircraft seeing them, not that enemy aircraft can fly in such murk either. Maddie and the other WAAFs in her barracks still hadn’t got proper uniforms, but as it was winter they had been issued RAF overcoats – men’s overcoats. Warm, and waterproof, but ridiculous. Like wearing a tent. Maddie clutched hers tight in at the sides when the officer spoke to her, standing straight and hoping she looked smarter than she felt. She stopped so he could catch up with her, waiting on the duckboards laid over the concrete apron because there was so much standing water about that if you stepped in a puddle it came over the tops of your shoes.

      ‘Was it you talked down my lads training in the Wellington bomber this morning?’ the officer asked.

      Maddie gulped. She had thrown radio protocol to the wind to guide those boys in, bullying them through a ten-minute gap in the low-lying cloud, praying they would follow her instructions without question and that she wasn’t directing them straight into the explosive-rigged steel cables that tethered the barrage balloons meant to deter enemy aircraft. Now she recognised the officer: it was one of the squadron leaders.

      ‘Yes, sir,’ she admitted hoarsely, her chin held high. The air was so full of moisture it made her hair stick to her forehead. She waited miserably, expecting him to summon her to be court-martialled.

      ‘Those boys jolly well owe you their lives,’ he said to Maddie. ‘Not one of them on instruments yet and flying without a map. We shouldn’t have let them take off this morning.’

      ‘Thank you, sir,’ Maddie gasped.

      ‘Singing your praises, those lads were. Made me wonder though; have you any idea what the runway looks like from the air?’

      Maddie smiled faintly. ‘I’ve a pilot’s “A” licence. Still valid. Of course I haven’t flown since August.’

      ‘Oh, I see!’

      The RAF squadron leader set off to walk Maddie to the canteen at the airfield’s perimeter. She had to trot a little to match his stride.

      ‘Took your licence here at Oakway, did you? Civil Air Guard?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Instructor’s rating?’

      ‘No, sir. But I’ve flown at night.’

      ‘Now that’s unusual! Used the fog line, have you?’

      He meant the fierce gas lamps that line the runway at intervals on either side so you can land in bad weather.

      ‘Two or three times. Not often, sir.’

      ‘So you have seen the runway from the air. And in the dark too! Well –’

      Maddie waited. She really didn’t have any idea what this man was going to say next.

      ‘If you’re going to talk people down you’d damn well better know what the forward view from the cockpit of a Wellington bomber looks like in the landing configuration. Fancy a flight in a Wellington?’

      ‘Oh, yes please, sir!’

      (You see – it was just like being in school.)

       Stooge

      That is not a WAAF trade. That is what they call it when you go along in an aircraft just for the ride and don’t meaningfully contribute to a successful flight. Perhaps Maddie was more of a backseat driver than a stooge.

      – ‘Don’t think you’ve reset the directional gyro.’

      – ‘He told you heading 270. You’ve turned east.’

      – ‘Look sharp, lads, northbound aircraft at three o’clock, one thousand