The Gunner Girl (14 page)

Edie's fingertips had already turned white by the time they reached the firing range, numb from carrying the rifle all the way there. It was the size of a lacrosse stick, but heavier, the
wood slippery-smooth and cold. She didn't like the feel of it, or the idea of it. They'd had all their training on the anti-aircraft guns: spotting planes, adjusting angles, allowing
for wind speed and direction. But they'd never actually fired a weapon. Because they weren't allowed: actual firing – of aircraft or enemy – that was a man's job; that
was the law.

The grass was frosted on top, but Edie's boots still sank into the tacky mud underneath. The training sergeant hoisted the red range flag up the flagpole; it dipped and swayed listlessly
in the chill air. Three magpies fanned out from the bare tree-tops of the woods beyond the range, punctuating the pale grey sky.

‘You've proved you know how the big guns work. The Enfield should be a piece of cake,' said the training sergeant, showing them how to load a rifle and make it safe. But they
were formed up as a section, and Edie was in the back row. She couldn't see properly. She heard words:
magazine, bolt, safety catch, trigger, recoil.
She tried to focus, but stuck
behind the two tallest girls in their section, all she could really see was the edges of their greatcoats, and a slice showing portions of rifle, and the training sergeant's hands, flashing
in and out of view. Then he asked a volunteer to demonstrate, and she saw Bea move to the front. She heard more phrases:
Load the magazine – take aim – make safe
; but she still
couldn't see what was going on.

‘Proper job, Gunner,' the sergeant's voice had a West Country burr. ‘Fall back in. Any questions from the rest of you?'

‘Yes, sergeant,' said Edie. ‘Could you please tell us why we're doing rifle practice?' Her voice sounded high and wavering in the thin air. ‘No one said
we'd be handling small arms,' she continued, remembering the conversation her father had had in the CSM's office in Devon, about how there'd be no weapons training for the
women.

‘Any sensible questions?' said the corporal. Someone snorted. ‘Thought not. Right, let's get on with it, shall we?'

They had to lie down in threes, on the mud, using sodden sandbags to get the angle of the rifle right. Her helmet slipped down over her eyes. She was shivering – a combination of the cold
earth and nerves. Bea was on one side and Joan on the other. The weapon was unwieldy, awkward in her shaking grasp. Bea helped when the sergeant wasn't looking, clicking the magazine into
position, whispering hurriedly about the safety catch.

Edie could target. She knew about that, at least, lining up the centre of the distant circle with the protrusion on the end of the barrel and the ‘V in her sights. Her targeting was fine,
but she couldn't stop shaking, and there was no feeling left in her fingers. The chill from the frosted ground seeped through her uniform and into her bones. The training sergeant walked
along behind them, kicking their legs out into the correct angle.

‘Imagine it's his face in the centre of that ruddy target,' hissed Joan, on her left, just before he started to shout.

Ready – aim – fire!

Edie's finger curled round the icy trigger, and she felt the hurl of the recoil, like being thumped, hard, in the ball of the shoulder. She let out a gasp with the shock of it. A flock of
sparrows lifted like dust motes at the sound. Behind her, someone laughed. Too much saliva in her mouth, a strange smell, shouting – she swallowed, fumbled with the weapon, felt her boots
being kicked back into position on the muddy ground: time to go again.

They had six shots. Afterwards, the training sergeant checked the targets. Bea and Joan had both done well: six hits each. But Edie had missed every single one of them.

When they formed up to march back to the armoury with their weapons, she was called back. ‘A word, Gunner Lightwater,' said the training sergeant, and she was surprised that he knew
her name. Edie watched the others march back towards the armoury, boots clomping as they hit the tarmac road back into camp. It had started to drizzle. Her rifle slithered in her damp grasp.

‘I'm sorry, sergeant,' she said, before he'd even started. She knew she'd get a rollicking for her performance on the range today. Even Gunner Carter had managed
four hits. Edie felt she'd let the whole section down.

He didn't reply, watching the others disappear up the road, not even seeming to have heard her. ‘Give us a hand with this, will you, Gunner?' he said at last, motioning to the
range flag, hanging down the pole like a bloodied bandage. ‘Gets a bit stuck in the wet.'

Edie put her rifle down on top of a sandbag and together they walked to the flagpole. She lifted her arms to untie the rope, wincing – the rifle's recoil must have bruised her
shoulder – and watching as the sergeant's deft fingers unravelled the soggy cords.

‘You're a piss-poor shot,' he said, as the flag finally descended. ‘I would have said you needed your eyes testing, except they told me you came top of the course in the
spotting. So if you can tell your Junkers from your Messerschmitts at half a mile away, Christ knows why you can't tell your arse from your elbow on the firing range. If it was down to me, I
wouldn't even have you as a gunner.'

‘I'm sorry,' she said again, but he interrupted.

‘Luckily for you, it's not down to me. And, like I said, you're one of the best spotters we've had coming through.'

‘Thank you—'she began, but he continued.

‘I'm not here to blow smoke up your arse, Gunner Lightwater,' he said, squeezing drips of moisture from the sodden flag. ‘I've been told to pass on a message from
the CO. As the best spotter on this intake, he'd like you to stay on, help train up the next lot.'

The other gunner girls were all out of sight now. Edie imagined them joking as they tossed their rifles back to the boss-eyed armourer, jostling into the cookhouse for a cuppa, laughing about
something or other. Joan would be pulling her fags out of her gasmask case; Bea would be asking the cook what was for dinner.

The sergeant was folding the flag into a neat rectangle. ‘As you know, you lot are posted to London. But you can stay on here as an instructor, if that's what you want?' He
paused, before continuing, ‘It would mean immediate promotion to Lance Bombardier. Keep your nose clean and you'd be looking to rise up quick – we need more female instructors,
what with conscription and all – you could be looking at Junior Commander in a year or so.'

Edie thought about Mary Churchill. She was a Junior Commander, wasn't she? She imagined taking tea in the officers' mess with Mary Churchill. She imagined what Mummy would tell Mrs
Carson.

The training sergeant was still talking. Edie watched his mouth as he spoke: his moustache was dark brown, smooth like a feather, and one front tooth was chipped. ‘Course, it's your
decision. But I wouldn't think too hard if I were you. Promotion, regular hours and leave, more pay – it's the life of Riley here. And I tell you what, it's a different
kettle of fish on the emplacements. I know where I'd rather be.' His eyes were quick and beady, flicking over her face, waiting for her response. She was still shivering from the cold,
her face was wet with drizzle, and the pain in her shoulder was getting worse. ‘Tell you what, I'll take your rifle back, and you can swing by the adjutant's office before scoff.
Let him know what you decide.'

‘Thank you, sergeant,' said Edie, thoughts like a spilled sandbag, spewed messily everywhere – the chance for promotion, but she'd have to say goodbye to the girls, and
if she did, would she ever see them again? – ‘I'll certainly give it some consideration.'

In the warmth of the cookhouse, she collected the usual rissole, boiled potatoes and carrots from the tubby kitchen orderly behind the counter. Steam rose from the vat of gravy
as she dolloped it on top. Joan waved from the table by the window – they'd saved her a seat, even though they were all already onto the spotted dick and custard. ‘Gunner Carter
says she saw you going into the adjutant's office,' said Joan, as Edie slipped into her seat. ‘Were you really in hot water?'

‘Not at all,' said Edie. ‘He just asked me to take a message to the CO, that's all.' She didn't want to talk about it, not now. ‘Could you pass the
salt, please?'

After lunch they went back to their hut. Edie sat on her bunk, watching, as all around her the rest of the section were folding carefully ironed uniforms and stashing them into kit bags.
I'll miss this, she thought, looking round. The transport was booked for midnight – troop movements always took place at night – and tomorrow it would all be different.

Bea was rolling up a mess of wool and needles into a portable pile. ‘What's the matter, girl?' she said, looking up. ‘You're not packing your kit – anyone
would think you're not coming with us.'

Edie stood up, plucked her Bible from the top of her locker and tossed it into the bottom of her kit back. She smiled. ‘Of course I'm coming with you. What else would I be
doing?'

Edie knew they must be getting close when she could smell smoke in the air. They couldn't see much, through the space above the tailgate, but there was a kind of faint
orange glow. Just a small raid, they'd said, only the East End, again. It was all over by the time their truck rumbled in from the training camp in the limpid pre-dawn. The sirens had
stopped; the bombers all sped back across the channel. But there was still that sickly glow, and the faint smell of burning – not like the sweet woody smell of the autumn bonfires from home:
different, acrid.

She'd tried to sleep on the way, head leant against Joan's shoulder, army greatcoat pulled over her like a blanket. But the truck kicked and jerked through potholes, and they'd
stopped for an hour when they heard the sirens in the distance. Everyone got out to watch, leaning against the side of the lorry and looking out over rolling fields towards their capital city,
black in the distance. They heard the bombers roar in from the east, and saw odd spots of luminescence, like bright pebbles skimming on an inky lake. There were bursts of upward-shooting flame: the
anti-aircraft guns – their anti-aircraft guns – and the sky was diamond dust overhead. They stood, transfixed by the ugly beauty of it all – even Gunner Carter was silent, for a
change. Back in the truck Edie couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking about the people there, in the houses where those white-orange lights had exploded so prettily.

They fell into each other as the truck swerved and came to a halt. Nobody spoke. There were footfalls outside, and the tailgate fell open. Past the moving shadows of soldiers picking up their
kit and preparing to move, she could see the rectangle of space showing Hyde Park Barracks: a checkpoint and a handful of huts, and – a stark black silhouette against the now-lightening sky
– the huge Bofors gun, pointing upwards, ready.

Someone elbowed her in the ribs, and a shout came from outside. ‘Come on then, let's be 'aving you. Welcome home, Gunners!'

‘Tell wailing Willie to shut up – we're on our way,' said Edie, as the siren keened, and they tumbled out towards the guns. ‘It'll only be a
false alarm anyway.'

‘I don't know, it feels different tonight, don't you think?' said Bea, breaking into a run.

Joan fastened the last button on her greatcoat and trailed along. She didn't feel the urgency. It was like Edie said; it would be yet another night of ‘hurry-up-and-wait' in
the freezing cold. All that training, and the Blitz over and done with. Hitler was busy in North Africa these days; nothing happened in London. Her gas mask thumped awkwardly against her chest.

‘Get a move on, Tucker,' said Sheila Carter, shoving her so hard from behind that she nearly fell down the concrete steps into the emplacement.

‘Leave it out,' she said.

‘Well, bloody hurry up, then, will you?'

Joan tutted. She'd never got on with Gunner Carter. As she climbed up onto the cold metal seat on the predictor the siren stilled. The Home Guard men were heaving out the huge cylindrical
shells in readiness. Sergeant Farr screeched a command, her hot breath forming little puffy clouds in the chill air. Joan didn't know why she bothered to shout out orders; they all knew what
to do. They'd been doing it for weeks now – they could set up the equipment and take aim in their sleep if they had to. In any case, like Edie said, it would probably be another false
alarm, she thought, zero-ing out the Sperry and wiping the glass with her glove. She looked up. The moon was waxing, bulbous, bouncing along the rooftops of Buckingham Palace in a frosty shroud.
Sergeant Farr's torch glinted off the edges of things as she stalked about, checking and barking instructions. Barrage balloons swam like fat silver fish: bloated. The searchlights, miles
away, south of the river, played like sunbeams in a pool. The sky was silent, waiting.

‘Are you all right, dear?' said Edie, beside her on the predictor.

‘Fine,' Joan replied. She heard someone nearby give a loud snort. ‘And you can shut your trap, Sheila Carter,' she added.

‘Quiet,' squawked Sergeant Farr.

Edie patted Joan's knee, but Joan ignored her. The stars were out, far away beyond the roofs and the balloons and the moon.
Second star to the right and straight on until morning.
Where did she know that from?

A splash of memories in the dark pool: a floral-patterned pinny, the smell of chopped onions on warm hands against her cheek, a bowl of chrysanthemums on a windowsill. No. She pushed her head
against the predictor and thrust the memories away. As her head dropped forward there was a clunk – her helmet hit the equipment. She let the tin hat slide right back until she could feel the
icy metal against her brow and smell the hard smell. It was so cold it made her temples hurt, but the freezing ache kept her mind in the present.