central communications office of HMS Omega was large and surprisingly light, with white-painted bulkheads and an excess of highly polished copper and brass. At the far end, eight wireless receivers stood in line abreast; doors marked Teleprinters, Coding and Signals opened off the main office space, while in its centre men sat at typewriters, index fingers jabbing furiously.
It was odd, Lucinda thought, that men should be doing a job more suited to women, but this was a real ship, wasn’t it, on which, if Molly was to be believed, women had yet to establish themselves.
‘All right, you two! Over here!’
They knew without being told that this was the chief telegraphist, whose word was law on starboard watch; knew it without seeing the three brass buttons on either sleeve cuff which pronounced his rank or the lightning-flashed wings on his right arm that told them he was the telegraphist they sought.
‘Er – Chief – er.’
‘Wetherby. And you’re adrift, the pair of you. Should’ve been here yesterday forenoon!’
‘Yes, Chief.’
‘Sorry, Chief.’
‘All right, all right. Cut out the chat! Which one of you is Kendal?’
Eyes wide, Jane stepped forward.
‘Right, Kendal. Over there.’ A finger indicated the door marked Coding. ‘Jock Menzies is your leading hand. He’ll put you right. And you, Bainbridge, over there!’ The finger jabbed again, pointing to the only unmanned receiver in the line. ‘That’s yours.’
For just a few seconds, Lucinda hesitated; for just long enough to take in the shock of white hair, the lined, weather-worn face and the tremendous size of him. Then, taking a shuddering breath, she walked in a daze to her position.
The set, she considered, was a new one or maybe one which was less used. Either way, though, there was a belligerency about it, with dials that gazed at her like eyes; mean, shifty eyes, warning her to beware.
‘All right, Bainbridge. Get your jacket off and get stuck in!’
Reluctantly Lucinda did as she was ordered, then with cold, clumsy fingers she began to roll up her sleeves.
It was all too awful. The morning she had slammed out of the house and walked through the blitzed London streets to Goddy’s office she had been out of her mind; shell-shocked, or something. An act of defiance it had been, and look where it had got her. Mama had been right. She should be married to Charlie now, and safely pregnant at Lady Mead with Nanny, and if Charlie were to phone her tonight and ask her to marry him tomorrow she would cry, ‘Darling! Yes!’ and slap in a request for marriage leave without more ado. Near-frantic with apprehension, she gazed up, eyes wide. ‘Chief?’
‘What is it, girl? You sick, or something? Got a bellyache?’
‘N-no, thanks. It – it’s just that I’m so nervous.’
‘Nervous? What of?’
‘Of getting it wrong, Chief. Or not getting it at all.’ Fear forced the words. He’d think she was an imbecile, anyway, so why not tell him and prove him right. ‘I’m scared I’ll miss a signal or not be able to read it. And I worry what will happen to those men at sea if I do. I’m afraid. Really afraid.’
‘Afraid, girl? That there’ll be one of the boats at sea and you’ll miss …’ He threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Afraid you’ll miss the transmission? Oh, dear.’
‘What did I say? What’s so funny?’
‘You are, Bainbridge. Oh, for Gawd’s sake, didn’t they teach you anything at wireless school? Didn’t they tell you that no ship at sea, no ship at all, would be daft enough to send out a signal – well, not in wartime, they wouldn’t! Gawd Almighty, Jerry’d have a fix on ’em before they could say “tot time”. Break radio silence? Only in the direst emergency. Never, almost. All they do when they’re at sea is take down the messages we send to them, so don’t worry about not picking up a signal, ‘cause nobody’ll be sending you any.’
‘Oh, Chief.’ Lucinda flashed him a smile of pure joy. ‘I’ve got a lot to learn, it seems.’
‘Seems you have, girl, but learn it you will. So get yourself settled. There’s one of the submarines – boats, we say – up in the Gareloch doing trials. Sparta, she’s called, pendant number P.268, and that’ll be her call sign. Now she’ll transmit in code every hour, on the hour, and you’ll read those signals and write them down then give a receipt. That’s all there is to it; nothing to be scared about in that, is there, Bainbridge?’
‘No, Chief,’ she frowned. ‘But didn’t you just say that a ship at sea doesn’t transmit?’
‘It doesn’t, girl. It doesn’t. But Sparta isn’t at sea. She’s all safe and snug in the Gareloch where Jerry can’t reach her. Safe as houses, she is.’
‘And she’ll transmit on the hour?’
‘Exactly on the hour, and if she’s only a couple of minutes late, you sing out, Bainbridge, because I shall want to know.’
‘Why, Chief?’
‘Because on the hour means just that and failure to transmit at the given time usually means one thing. Trouble.’
‘I see.’ She fixed him with anxious eyes. ‘But something like that isn’t likely to happen, is it?’ Not when I’m on watch? Oh, please, not when it’s on my wavelength.
‘No, Bainbridge, it isn’t. As a matter of fact, I’ve only known it happen once when a new submarine was doing trials. In ‘38, in Liverpool Bay. Boat called the Thetis. Bad job, that was. Terrible loss of life. But it isn’t going to happen this morning.’ He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket and, because sailors are the most superstitious of men, he crossed his fingers. Just to be sure. ‘So get yourself settled. Sparta’ll be coming up in five minutes exactly.’ He leaned over and adjusted the dials. ‘There now, that’s just about it. She’ll make regular transmissions till eleven hundred hours then she’ll be doing a deep dive, so you’ll hear no more from her till she surfaces at fifteen hundred hours. All right? Got it?’
‘Yes, but why will Sparta stop sending out signals during the dive? I mean, you’d think it would be the one time she would –’
‘A good question, girl, and one to which there is a very simple answer. A submarine can’t transmit when it’s underwater. It’s an absolute impossibility.’
‘As I said,’ Lucinda smiled ruefully, ‘I do have a lot to learn.’
‘And as I said,’ Chief Wetherby returned the smile, ‘learn it you will, girl. Learn it you will!’ He nodded in the direction of the brass-banded bulkhead clock. ‘Nearly time. And you know Omega’s call sign, don’t you? GXU3. That’s what you’ll be listening for,’ he said as he walked away.
Questions, questions, but not a bad kid, that Bainbridge. Not like some they sent him; six weeks in wireless school and they thought they knew it all. Bainbridge would make a good
