My name is
Lillian Delamere, and three days after my eighteenth birthday I
found myself assigned to a posting on the south coast of England.
The year was 1940, the war ten months old and my posting so secret
no one told me where I was going, what I would be doing, or how I
would be doing it. The war had changed my plans, as it had changed
the plans of everyone in the country, everyone in the world.
I had started at Cambridge the previous
September, the first female in my family to attend university. If
not for the intervention of Hitler I would have remained there. The
period we later called the phony war had ended, our troops thrashed
in Belgium and France and sent packing from Dunkirk, but even so as
I travelled in the back of an army truck through narrow lanes I had
every expectation by next year, at worst the year after, I would be
picking up my life again and re-starting my studies in
Mathematics.
I arrived at the start of May with trees
coming into full leaf. The weather had been fine for weeks and I
had high hopes of a good summer. With luck I might be near enough
to the coast to fit in some swimming, even a little sunbathing if
the beaches did not hold too many troops.
I grew used to the constant wolf whistles,
the shouts asking for a kiss—or worse. I had no delusions of my
being a great beauty. The soldiers were tired and afraid, most of
them barely out of school and they would have whistled at my
granny, and she had been dead five years.
I spent two weeks training in Cornwall
before being driven in a covered truck to a collection of wooden
huts, recently built on a flat plain with hills to the north and a
clear view south to the distant sea. No one told us the name of the
camp. We lined up in two rows on the parade ground. An NCO, too old
to fight but plenty tough enough to bully a group of young women,
told us to turn around and place our hand on the shoulder of the
person in front. That person would be our room-mate. So it was I
met Georgia.
Georgia filled her blue WAAF uniform far
better than the rest of us. Although matching me almost exactly in
height, the resemblance went no further. If Georgia and I walked
past a troop of soldiers I knew where all their eyes, and all their
whistles, would be directed.
We walked together across the wide parade
ground and dropped our sparse kit in the hut assigned to us, sat on
narrow beds facing each other, our knees almost touching.
I put my hand out. “I’m Lillian Delamere.
Pleased to meet you.”
“Georgia Payne.” She shook my hand. “I love
the accent.”
“What accent?” I asked innocently. I noticed
how soft her hand felt within mine, released her fingers with
reluctance.
“You Brits.” She laughed. “I guess we’d
better learn to get along together.”
I had never met anyone as exotic as Georgia,
and I think the moment she laughed, dark curls tumbling around her
face, was the moment I started falling in love.
“You’re American,” I said, stating the
obvious. “If it’s not too rude to ask, what are you doing here?
This isn’t your war. Not yet, anyway.”
Georgia stared long enough for me to become
uneasy, her eyes tracking over my face and briefly down across my
chest before she finally made a decision and I saw with relief we
were going to be friends.
“My Pop’s a Brit. He came back over when war
broke out and brought us all with him. I’m not going to sit on the
sidelines while that shit Hitler kicks sand in everyone’s face so I
joined up too.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Just my luck, huh? I was due to start at
CalTech this fall. I guess that’s on the back burner now.”
“What’s CalTech?” I asked.
“College. University.”
“Ah, of course. Me too. At Cambridge though,
not CalTech. And I started last year.”
“Yeah? What do you major in?”
“Sorry?” It dawned on me this was going to
be harder than I thought. Naively I assumed we spoke the same
language.
“Study. What do you guys say, what are you
gonna
Lillian Delamere, and three days after my eighteenth birthday I
found myself assigned to a posting on the south coast of England.
The year was 1940, the war ten months old and my posting so secret
no one told me where I was going, what I would be doing, or how I
would be doing it. The war had changed my plans, as it had changed
the plans of everyone in the country, everyone in the world.
I had started at Cambridge the previous
September, the first female in my family to attend university. If
not for the intervention of Hitler I would have remained there. The
period we later called the phony war had ended, our troops thrashed
in Belgium and France and sent packing from Dunkirk, but even so as
I travelled in the back of an army truck through narrow lanes I had
every expectation by next year, at worst the year after, I would be
picking up my life again and re-starting my studies in
Mathematics.
I arrived at the start of May with trees
coming into full leaf. The weather had been fine for weeks and I
had high hopes of a good summer. With luck I might be near enough
to the coast to fit in some swimming, even a little sunbathing if
the beaches did not hold too many troops.
I grew used to the constant wolf whistles,
the shouts asking for a kiss—or worse. I had no delusions of my
being a great beauty. The soldiers were tired and afraid, most of
them barely out of school and they would have whistled at my
granny, and she had been dead five years.
I spent two weeks training in Cornwall
before being driven in a covered truck to a collection of wooden
huts, recently built on a flat plain with hills to the north and a
clear view south to the distant sea. No one told us the name of the
camp. We lined up in two rows on the parade ground. An NCO, too old
to fight but plenty tough enough to bully a group of young women,
told us to turn around and place our hand on the shoulder of the
person in front. That person would be our room-mate. So it was I
met Georgia.
Georgia filled her blue WAAF uniform far
better than the rest of us. Although matching me almost exactly in
height, the resemblance went no further. If Georgia and I walked
past a troop of soldiers I knew where all their eyes, and all their
whistles, would be directed.
We walked together across the wide parade
ground and dropped our sparse kit in the hut assigned to us, sat on
narrow beds facing each other, our knees almost touching.
I put my hand out. “I’m Lillian Delamere.
Pleased to meet you.”
“Georgia Payne.” She shook my hand. “I love
the accent.”
“What accent?” I asked innocently. I noticed
how soft her hand felt within mine, released her fingers with
reluctance.
“You Brits.” She laughed. “I guess we’d
better learn to get along together.”
I had never met anyone as exotic as Georgia,
and I think the moment she laughed, dark curls tumbling around her
face, was the moment I started falling in love.
“You’re American,” I said, stating the
obvious. “If it’s not too rude to ask, what are you doing here?
This isn’t your war. Not yet, anyway.”
Georgia stared long enough for me to become
uneasy, her eyes tracking over my face and briefly down across my
chest before she finally made a decision and I saw with relief we
were going to be friends.
“My Pop’s a Brit. He came back over when war
broke out and brought us all with him. I’m not going to sit on the
sidelines while that shit Hitler kicks sand in everyone’s face so I
joined up too.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Just my luck, huh? I was due to start at
CalTech this fall. I guess that’s on the back burner now.”
“What’s CalTech?” I asked.
“College. University.”
“Ah, of course. Me too. At Cambridge though,
not CalTech. And I started last year.”
“Yeah? What do you major in?”
“Sorry?” It dawned on me this was going to
be harder than I thought. Naively I assumed we spoke the same
language.
“Study. What do you guys say, what are you
gonna
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