A Secret Courage Page 3

  Emma smoothed her uniform jacket. “I’m willing to jump. Can you tell me anything more?” She kept her voice low.

  “There’s a special assignment, one ordered by Churchill himself. I’d like to pull you into our team. But of course, I can’t tell you the details.”

  Emma glanced at Georgette, who fiddled with her slide ruler, and she knew her friend was paying more attention to their conversation than the photograph in front of her.

  “Yes, I’ll do it.” She pushed back her chair and stood. She glanced at her desk. “Should I pack my things?”

  He chuckled. “No, not yet. We’re not shipping you out to the front lines, if that was what you were hoping for. I just need you to follow me down the hall. There are a few people I want you to meet.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  Emma’s black shoes clicked on the gleaming floor as she followed Edward to the small conference room. He stopped, reached ahead of her, and swung the door open to reveal a small group of men who sat around a long conference table. She recognized them from walking the halls, but she didn’t know their names.

  Emma paused in the doorway and saluted. The men—all in uniform—saluted her back.

  Edward pointed to the empty chair and made quick introductions. A lump grew in Emma’s throat as she understood clearer their rank and high positions. What am I doing here? Why me?

  “Remember the talk of rockets that we had a few months back, Miss Hanson?”

  She met Edward’s gaze and then scanned the faces in the room. “Yes. In December, sources from the ground got news to London that Hitler was in the midst of secret weapon trials.”

  “That’s right. Trying to find the location of those trials has become our top priority. I’m going to be working on this personally, and I’ve been told to choose a PI to join me.”

  She folded her hands on her lap, hoping to hide their shaking. “There are many photo investigators…” She considered her rank in comparison to those around the room. Every recruit began as an aircraftwoman second class. After basic training, she’d been promoted to aircraftwoman first class, and when she was sent to Medmenham she moved to the third rank, leading aircraftwoman, also known as LAC. She was nine ranks away from wing officer, but serving in the war effort—not moving up the ranks—was her priority. Still, she felt like a minnow in a large pond. Especially in the presence of these men.

  “That is true, but none as good as you at putting the pieces together. We’ve been watching you, reading your reports. You don’t let go when you’re on a trail. You’re willing to jump on ideas and formulate questions. You’re not afraid of hard problems.”

  Heat rose to her cheeks and she hoped it didn’t show. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, we’ve given you no time to prepare, but I know how your mind works, and we need your help. You’ve been watching airfields, new construction, factories. Everything that has already been flagged has been gone over by Third Phase, and we haven’t found what we’re looking for. Is there any place that you can think of that we’ve missed? Maybe someplace where there’s heavy construction work—”

  “Peenemünde.” The word slipped from Emma’s mouth before she had time to think it through. Like always, she decided to go with her gut. “There was some type of construction work off the coast of Germany. They were building platforms. Large stadiums almost. At the time it was concluded that the platforms were simply used for their drilling efforts off the coast. We filed those covers away, but I tucked the information in my mind, just for future reference.”

  Edward met the eyes of one of the generals. The man nodded and smiled. Emma pretended she didn’t notice. She smoothed her skirt with trembling fingers.

  “Was there anything else that stood out to you about Peenemünde?”

  Emma bit her lower lip and then quickly released it. These men were counting on her opinion, her memories. This was no time for nervousness. “I haven’t thought about it much. We’ve had our eyes on so many other places since then, sir, but I have a feeling this could be your spot.”

  “Why do you think that?” one of the generals asked.

  “There was heavy construction work there. Usually when Hitler puts that much time into a project it means something. I know the photos were shot last spring. I haven’t heard of anything more recent—”

  “Last spring!” Edward’s voice cut in. “Are you telling me that there was a site in question nearly a year ago?”

  “No one could figure out what it was. But if you’d like I can go back over the covers.” She scanned the faces around the table, noting the scowled foreheads and anxious gazes. Then she rested her gaze on Edward.

  “Yes, please do that. And while you’re working on that we’ll see if we can get some new photos.”

  “Can you tell me…just what I might need to look for?”

  One of the officers steepled his fingers and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “A rocket capable of reaching London from the French coast would have to be launched from a sharply inclined projector about a hundred yards long. I’ll see about those covers, and once you get them I want as many details as you can get me.”

  “Sir, should I start tonight, pulling the old photos? My friend Vera works in the archives. I guarantee she knows exactly where they are.”

  The general rose. “I like this girl. She doesn’t wait a minute.”

  “Yes, Emma, that would be wonderful. Consider this your assignment until further notice.” Edward’s eyes brightened as he smiled.

  Emma’s stomach tightened, remembering her plans for the following day. “Oh, but tomorrow is supposed to be my day off. I was planning on going to London with my friend. It’s Vera’s birthday. I can cancel—”

  “No, don’t do that. Go to town. Have a time of it. Once we get those new covers in, I’m not sure when you’ll be able to get another break. And if anything comes of it, I’d like to pull in a few more PIs. Your friend Georgette, she’s pretty sharp.”

  “Yes, sir, she is.”

  “Good. We can use the best minds on this. Pull those covers tonight and look at them with fresh eyes. After your holiday in London hopefully our pilots will have pulled through and we’ll have more for you two to sink your teeth into.”

  Emma stood and moved to the door, but before she exited she paused and looked over her shoulder. “And, sir?”

  Edward glanced up from the files open on the table.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “Like I’ve said before, you have the efficiency of the English and the bravery of the Americans—not many Brits would admit to that. But I’ve learned that the best way to get a job done is to choose the best players. Welcome on board, Miss Hanson. Welcome on board.”

  FIVE

  Emma had been studying the photos of Peenemünde for hours, and only at Georgette’s insistence did she take a break. The teapot on the hot plate whistled, and Georgette poured her a cup of strong brew. Emma accepted it, settling into her ornate cushioned chair. Georgette added her cream to the teacup first and then the tea. She’d told Emma that she had grown up doing it that way, making sure the scalding tea didn’t crack the bone china. Emma still smiled every time she watched Georgette because she was the only one who brought a china tea cup to work with her each day. While Emma was growing up, her family usually used tin mugs instead of china. And her mother would always add the cream after the tea, making sure they didn’t add too much, wasting it.

  “I want cream with my tea, not tea with my cream,” her mother would say with a grin.

  Tea always reminded Emma of her mother. During her growing up years she had thought everyone came home to hot tea and biscuits. No matter how busy the store was during the day, her mother would take a break when Emma came home from school, pouring tea for them both.

  Samuel never liked the tea, so he’d grab a biscuit or toast and shove it into his mouth as he ran out the front door to play. But Emma would watch as her mother
poured their tea and buttered her bread one bite at a time. She looked so English when she ate it that way. So proper.

  Emma paused and looked into her mug of tea, wondering what her mother was up to. Tomorrow was her mother’s birthday—the same as Vera’s—and probably the hardest one she’d ever celebrated, with Emma on the other side of the world and Samuel dead. Emma pushed the memory of his blond shock of hair and his ready smile out of her mind. Her mother would have no happy birthday this year.

  Instead, Emma tried to imagine the small coastal town of sailors and their families. Her mother ran the small store in town, so everyone knew her, loved her, knew of her loss. Emma hoped the townspeople would rally around her. Thinking of that eased Emma’s guilt of being the first to leave and perhaps the one who most influenced Samuel to do his part for good ol’ Uncle Sam.

  When Emma had heard about the evacuation of British and French soldiers at Dunkirk, by way of hundreds of civilians using their sailboats, dinghies, and yachts, she’d made a choice to do her part too. Three hundred and forty thousand troops had been saved because of the bravery of ordinary men and women. She couldn’t stay at home knowing that she could possibly make a difference.

  Born to an English mother and American father, she’d gone to Oxford upon graduation from high school, staying with an elderly aunt. Once there, she’d attended a year at Saint Hilda’s before signing up for the WAAF—the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force—where she’d been conscripted into a special unit without a clue what it entailed.

  Just like Grace Darling was quick to jump in the boat and row. Only she was no Grace Darling, but simply one cog in the Allied machinery that did its part to hold Hitler at bay. Of course, if Emma had to be a cog in the wheel, Danesfield House wasn’t a bad place to be. She was safe here. Unlike Samuel, she didn’t wake up in England wondering if today would be her last day. Except for the covers in front of her, the war didn’t seem to touch the estate or physically harm the men and women who worked so diligently within the walls of the sprawling white mansion and estate.

  A few others sat down to a quick game of checkers as they ate their midnight snack. Emma finished her tea and moved to her favorite large window overlooking the Thames.

  It was her favorite view, especially with moonlight reflecting on the water as it did tonight. She barely noticed the expansive grounds with gardens asleep for the winter. She ignored the Nissen huts that had been lined up in long rows to be used for offices and bunks. Instead, she watched the gentle dance of moonbeams over the river’s ripples.

  It was hard to believe she’d already been in England three years. When she finished her year at Saint Hilda’s in June of 1942, she’d attended the school of interpretation at Nuneham Courtenay in Oxfordshire until October of that year. Then, only four months ago, she’d been moved here, and the winter had been long and especially cold. She looked forward to the bright summer sun and the flowers that dared to bloom within the extensive gardens of Danesfield House. She’d heard these days no one tended them. After all, flowers did little to help with the war effort.

  In the months to come, she looked forward to seeing wash hanging on the lines in the small English village of Medmenham. Seeing children chasing each other between damp sheets and the deep green grass brought on by the never-ending English rain. She was tired of the cold—of frozen fingers inside her mittens and of the dull, gray sky that met the landscape’s dull, gray earth.

  She also looked forward to borrowing a boat and rowing on the Thames. It wouldn’t be the same as rowing on the sea, but she ached to get back to her favorite sport. The burning muscles in her arms and the water lapping against the hull made her feel alive like few other things did. It made her feel a bit like herself again. Emma from Maine, not Emma the photo interpreter.

  Since Emma was a child, she’d dreamed of being a lighthouse keeper. She’d read every book she could on the subject and visited the lighthouse close to home at Bass Harbor, near Acadia National Park and not far from Bar Harbor. But since she couldn’t protect lives seaside, she could do it here. As part of the Photographic Reconnaissance Unit, recently renamed the Allied Central Interpretation Unit, she watched what troops Hitler was amassing. And just as quickly as Hitler built, the Allies deconstructed.

  Allied bombs now molded Germany, creating craters, leveling buildings, and scattering debris where factories and airfields used to be. She didn’t allow herself to think about the roar of planes, the booming of the ack-ack guns, the cries of men, women, and children. She simply had to focus on doing her part. The sooner the war ended, the more lives saved. And the fewer hearts broken by ones who left and never returned.

  Every one of Hitler’s plans thwarted meant Allied lives saved—not only soldiers’ lives, but the men, women, and children who’d somehow survived the Blitz and Hitler’s thunderstorm of bombs two years prior.

  Emma was living in Oxford during the Blitz, but she’d read the papers. And while the intense bombings had stopped, the threat wasn’t over, especially with rumors of Hitler’s secret weapon. Secret to most, but not for long. Not if Emma had anything to do with it.

  She glanced up at Georgette, realizing she’d been lost in her thoughts. Georgette was sketching on a piece of paper. Emma looked closer and noticed it was the inner workings of a machine. Before the war, Georgette had worked in the design office of her father’s factory, and her attention to detail was one of the reasons she was chosen to be a photographic investigator.

  “Georgie, Vera and I are going to London tomorrow. Would you like to go?”

  Georgette glanced up, almost surprised. She was so lost in her thoughts—in her sketch—she seemed startled to be pulled back into the real world. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

  “Would you like to go to London with us tomorrow?”

  “No, I wish I could. I promised to have lunch with Mrs. Spencer in the village, although I’m sure she’s going to try to set me up with one of her hired hands. They’ve been caring for her land since the last war, and she’s determined to find brides for them yet.”

  “And you aren’t interested in falling in love and settling down in one of those little cottages in Medmenham?”

  “No, I told Mrs. Spencer I’d rather be an old maid than a widow, but she assured me all the men she knew were too old to be conscripted.” Georgie chuckled. “She didn’t understand that her assurance didn’t change my mind in the least.”

  Break over, Emma returned to her desk. She peered down into her stereoscope, studying the shapes and shadows of the German construction site and transport vehicles like organisms under a microscope. At times she felt like a bacteriologist, seeking out the virus devouring Europe whole.

  At the next desk over, Cecelia Newman cast her a sideways glance. Cecelia was from an upper-class family and didn’t mingle too much with the working class. Even though there was no distinction now within their unit, Cecelia still acted as if she should get first preference. She no doubt wanted to know why Emma had been pulled out and what she was working on. Of course, Cecelia knew better than to ask. PIs worked on specific jobs, and information was protected. Often friends had no idea what they were working on the next room over, and sometimes the next desk.

  As the hours clicked by, weariness tightened Emma’s shoulders, but she knew she had to focus. Men risked their lives for these shots, and her reports dictated military action. It’s what she feared more than anything—to make mistakes and cause the wrong areas to be bombed while the right ones were missed.

  The door opened again and Edward walked in. “Shift’s almost over. How’s it looking?”

  Emma straightened. “Just one more minute. I’ve looked everything over, and I’m just finishing up my report.”

  “Don’t take too long—it’s supposed to be your day off, remember? These passes are few and far between.”

  “Yes, I know. But would you take a look at these last ones? I can see they’re constructing something, but what?” She slipped from her seat and allowed Ed
ward to take her chair. He lowered his head and looked into her stereoscope.

  “I can’t really tell either, but the order has been put in for new covers. Hopefully in a few weeks.” Edward left then with a weariness to his step, and Emma wondered what else he knew that he couldn’t reveal to her. She guessed that this special weapons assignment was just one of many priorities.

  Emma looked at the original Peenemünde photos again, checking for anything she’d missed among all the new construction and trees being cleared. She narrowed her gaze. There was some type of column built in the top corner of the construction area—just barely within the shot. It was hard to make out the forms. From what she’d heard, this location hadn’t been on the pilot’s agenda for the day. But when he spotted new construction on the coast, he’d decided to use the rest of his film. She was so glad he did. And she was eager to see the new covers when they came in. It was shocking how things changed over the course of months, and it had been nearly a year since Peenemünde had been shot. Who knew what awaited. It would be interesting to see the changes brought by new construction. The truth was, she was tired of seeing cover after cover of destruction.

  Georgette rose and stretched beside her. “Our shift’s up, and it looks like you’re done there anyway. If we go to bed now, you’ll be able to get a two-hour nap before you get up to catch your train to London.”

  Emma lifted her hand in acknowledgment, but she didn’t lift her eyes from the print. “Yes, just a few more minutes. Go ahead and I’ll catch up.”

  Georgette leaned closer, placing a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “It won’t bring him back, you know.”

  Emma’s shoulders stiffened. She swallowed down the emotion building in her throat. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Samuel. Working yourself to death won’t bring your brother back.”