Risking It All by Lucy Oliver

Chapter One
    15th June 1942—Shore-Lee airbase, England
    “...additional Supermarine Spitfires will be dispatched to Malta within weeks.”
    “Heck,” Barbara said. “I hope we don’t lose any of our boys.”
    Lynne Cecil pushed her plate away. The pilot opposite had frozen, fork halfway to his mouth. Why didn’t someone turn the BBC broadcast off? It wasn’t helping morale.
    “We’re losing enough men already,” she said. “Derek has asked us to see him before we start work and I just know it’s another dressing down.”
    Barbara exhaled. “It’s so frustrating. I can understand why they blame us, but it’s not our fault. We’re getting those planes up as soon as the alert comes in. We simply can’t do it any faster. What are the other airbases doing that we’re missing?”
    Lynne shook her head, her stomach clenching; it was terrible knowing that men were dying in the skies because the planes weren’t getting scrambled in time. As Head Radio Operator, it was her duty to get them up into the air.
    “Do you want tea?” she said, tucking a strand of reddish-blonde hair under her cap.
    “Please.” Barbara handed over a tin mug. “It’ll have to be quick though, I’m due back at the control tower in ten minutes.”
    Lynne crossed to the serving hatch, her RAF-issue black shoes squeaking on the cheap lino.
    “Refill?” the woman behind the counter said.
    “Please, Lily.” She peered through a small window—criss-crossed with peeling tape—at the distant airfield. A row of Spitfire planes huddled on the ground, khaki paint blending with the yellowed grass.
    Lynne looked at the sky, clear and bright blue. How long would it be until the next attack? She hated the wait between raids; it was what had driven her to enlist as a wireless operator, despite her mother’s pleas to stay home. But life wasn’t about balls and debutante dances any longer; it was about rationing, bombs and the threat of invasion. England was her home and she would do her bit to defend it.
    Outside, a man whistled, striding past the window, swinging a leather flying helmet in his hand. Thick, wavy hair rippled under the breeze and a trace of moustache shadowed his face. The pilots liked to look older, but she wasn’t fooled. Through her headphones, on the nights when the air glowed yellow and planes fell like hailstones, she heard the pilot’s whispers—for girlfriends, mothers, for God Himself, to save them from the hell of their daily lives.
    And they had reason to be afraid, because recently pilot losses had been high enough for the top brass to visit the airfield. Wanting answers, Lynne listened carefully to the lecture given by the Group Captain about camouflage and not switching their lights on, before he departed, leaving her still in despair about why they were suffering so many casualties.
    With a clank, Lily put two cups of hot tea on the counter.
    “Thanks.” Lynne picked them up and went back to her table.
    “Coming to the dance tonight?” Barbara said, taking her drink.
    Lynne glanced at the planes waiting in the summer haze. “All right, I fancy a bit of fun. It’s been a hard week, this one.”
    A bell rang and chairs pushed back. She checked her watch; it was time for her team to head to their desks, but she had a couple of minutes yet. Glancing around the mess hall, she gave a warning nod to a couple of her girls who were deep in conversation with the pilots. Often, they got distracted. She never got involved with the men herself—it was heart-breaking enough when the planes crashed. She wasn’t going to add to that by falling in love with one of the flyers.
    “Everyone’s going out tonight.” Barbara nudged her. “Even you might meet a chap.”
    Lynne smiled. “After the war, I’ll look then.”
    “But at this rate, there’ll be none left.”
    Lynne sighed, nausea rising from her stomach; she didn’t want to return to work, to add more planes to her list of the missing.
    The door to the mess