Cold War

The sun had set at 9:30 and daylight was draining from the sky. The airfield should have been ablaze with artificial light. The runway lights should have been turned up full, and floodlights should have made the dispersals and the hardstandings bright as day. The offices of the admin block would normally have been squares of bright white and the tower should have stood out like a fishbowl illuminated from the inside.

But only darkness greeted her. And silence. Without light to work by, most of the staff had abandoned their desks and returned to their gloomy quarters. There would be cold meals in the messes tonight.

The stairwell of the main building was dark and eerily creepy — as if it were inhabited by the ghosts of dead Luftwaffe personnel. As she reached the second floor, she almost tripped over an abandoned vacuum-cleaner and cursed under her breath. Unnerved, she walked down the long hall to Robin’s outer office trying to dismiss the irrational fear triggered by the sound of her high heels echoing off the walls like slow gunfire. Glad to reach the anteroom, she burst in with a cheerful, “Hello, everyone!” — only to find that she was talking to herself. Not a soul occupied the usually crowded outer office. Even more odd, Robin’s door stood open. Emily approached frowning and looked inside. His office, too, was empty. Where could he be?

She looked around for some clue. The office might have been an abandoned ship. Papers and dirty teacups lay about. The ashtray on the coffee table was filled with stubbed-out cigarettes — evidence of many visitors, since Robin didn’t smoke. Robin’s hat was hanging behind the door and his briefcase was standing beside his desk. He must be somewhere.

She returned through the anteroom to the hall and knocked on Fl/Lt Boyd’s door, but the Intelligence Officer did not answer. She tried the handle and found it unlocked, but the office was empty. The same proved true at the next three doors she tried. She had almost given up when her fourth knock provoked a surprised, “Yes?”

Emily was startled not only by the response but by the fact that the voice was female. Emily put her head in to say, “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m Emily Priestman and I’m looking for my husband, Wing Commander Priestman.”

“Oh,” the sour-looking WAAF officer responded, “I think he’s upstairs in the tower. They all rushed up there in a noisy gaggle about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” Emily withdrew her head, but the WAAF called after her in a sharp voice, “You can’t go up there! Only authorised personnel are allowed in the tower.”

“I know — and guests,” Emily added pointedly, thinking rude things about the WAAF officer. Just who did she think she was?

At the entrance to the tower, however, she hesitated before the large, official warning: “Authorised Personnel Only!” Then, annoyed for being so easily intimidated, she knocked loudly.

The door opened at once, and she was startled to find the tower packed with people.

“Ah, Emily!” Robin gestured her inside. “Just in time for the moment of truth.” Whatever did he mean by that? Emily walked through the crowd to stand beside him directly behind the Air Traffic Controller’s table. They were all looking out into the darkness.

“It’s 10 pm now, sir,” someone announced in a tone appropriate for the death of a king or a declaration of war.

Robin nodded grimly and turned to a stocky officer in the uniform of the Corps of Royal Engineers, “Proceed, Russel,” he ordered.

The army officer gave a thumbs up and spoke into the receiver of the phone. “Cut power.” He ordered.

What power? Emily wondered. The whole problem was that they didn’t have any! Yet these words palpably increased the tension around her. The occupants of the tower craned their necks or audibly exclaimed “ooh” or “ah.” Two of the controllers held binoculars to their eyes and scanned the distance. Emily followed their gaze but saw only darkness. If anything, it looked darker than ever before.

Everyone appeared to be on tenterhooks. With bated breath, no one moved or spoke, as if waiting for something to happen. After what seemed like a long time, Robin lifted his arm to read his watch in the growing darkness.

Then, without any warning except a loud click, light abruptly blazed across the entire airfield. The overhead lamps burned down on them. Huge floodlights bathed the hangars in blinding glare. The quarters, messes and runways lit up in varying shades of yellow. From the stairway came the droning of the abandoned vacuum cleaner, although the latter was barely audible above the cheering and clapping of those in the room. Robin swept his wife into his arm and gave her a short but firm kiss on the side of her face; he was beaming.

“What just happened?” she asked, lifting her voice to be heard above the babble of excited voices around them.

“I think we just re-started the Airlift,” her husband answered, sounding very pleased with himself.