Chapter 1
“One of your reports will help lead us to victory,” Rose whispered to Lucy, a young bespectacled typist sitting next to her.
Lucy, her shoulders slumped from fatigue, smiled and increased her words-per-minute pace.
The initial days of working in the war rooms were unnerving for Rose.
The close proximity of the prime minister and senior officers gave her a bout of the jitters, causing her to type mistakes and, on one occasion, spill a tepid cup of tea on a document she had drafted.
The burnt scent of Churchill’s cigar, which lingered in the stagnant basement air, had turned her stomach sour.
To compound matters, the Luftwaffe air raids, which occurred on an almost nightly basis, had forced many Londoners to spend nights in shelters.
And when she wasn’t sleeping between shifts in the sub-basement below the war rooms, often referred to as the “dock,” Rose had spent nights—as the city was bombarded—with her parents in the Bethnal Green tube station.
As days passed, Rose grew accustomed to the gruff demeanor of Churchill and his staff.
Their fortitude will help us survive, Rose told herself, typing a confidential report on potential locations where Hitler would commence a land invasion of Britain.
The thought of Nazis marching through London sent chills up her spine.
Rose, like most Londoners, forced herself to carry on, despite the horrid destruction and loss of life.
But the source of Rose’s resilience wasn’t entirely self-motivated.
It was fueled, Rose believed, by the death of her brother, Charlie.
Charlie, Rose’s only sibling, had been killed in August when his RAF Spitfire was shot down over the Channel.
His body was never recovered, and she prayed that he died fast and didn’t suffer.
Rose and her parents, Emilienne and Herbert, were heartbroken.
Family photographs were forbidden to be displayed on desks, so Rose kept a childhood picture of Charlie, a curly-haired boy with dimpled cheeks and an infectious smile, tucked inside the top drawer of her desk.
The photo was taken at their grandparents’ home in France, where Rose and Charlie spent summer holidays.
When Rose was doleful or exhausted, which occurred far more often than she liked to admit, she opened her drawer to see Charlie.
I miss you terribly, she would often say to herself.
After closing her drawer, she would return to typing, more determined than ever to do her duty to help Britain survive.
As Rose was placing a fresh sheet of stationery into her typewriter, the approaching sound of a woman’s shoes clicked in the hallway.
“Gwyneth has contracted tonsillitis,” a middle-aged woman announced, entering the room. “We need a typist to work a twenty-four-hour shift.”
Rose looked up. The secretarial supervisor, Gladys Goswick, wearing an olive wool skirt and matching jacket, stood near the doorway.
The women paused, resting their hands beside their typewriters. Some of the switchboard operators, their ears covered by headsets, were unaware of Goswick’s presence and continued to plug their cords into circuitry.
“Lucy?” Goswick locked her eyes on the typist.
Lucy nodded and then lowered her head.
The typists had little, if any, say in the schedules.
When overtime was needed, or when someone called out due to illness, they were randomly drafted to work double shifts.
Goswick was viewed as a fair supervisor, but she seldom conversed with the staff about personal matters, unlike Rose, who thought one should strive to know a little something about coworkers.
And Rose knew, from joining the women on breaks at the canteen in the Treasury building, that Lucy had plans to spend the evening with her boyfriend, Jonathan, a firefighter who was receiving his first night off in over two weeks.
As the supervisor turned to leave, Rose interrupted. “Miss Goswick.”
Goswick paused, placing her hands on her hips.
“Would it be all right if I worked this evening instead of Lucy?”
Lucy’s eyes widened.
“I have some reports I’d like to finish,” Rose said, pointing to a stack of papers. “I’m not tired, and I’m thinking that I could accomplish a fair amount of work,” she added, hoping her supervisor didn’t notice the dark circles under eyes.
Goswick nodded, and then left.
“Thank you, Rose,” Lucy said, leaning in. “I promise to make it up to you.”
“No need,” Rose said. “Enjoy your evening with Jonathan.”
Lucy and Jonathan, a man who risked his life to save Londoners from fires and collapsed buildings, had been dating for over a year.
Rose suspected that they would eventually be married.
She hoped that someday she’d meet someone that she fancied spending time with, but with the war, she’d placed her personal endeavors on hold.
And since the death of her brother, she’d preferred to bury herself in her work.
At her break, Rose went to a public phone box, located outside of the Treasury building.
Typists were not permitted to use the telephones in the Cabinet War Rooms, which were limited to official government business, so she climbed the stairs, cleared security, and then walked to the end of the street.
Stepping inside a telephone box, she picked up the receiver, inserted a coin, and rang her parents.
“Teasdale Grocery,” her father said, rather abruptly.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Rose,” he said, his voice turning bright. “Everything all right?”
“I’m going to work an extra shift,” she said. “I’ll be home in the morning.”
“Chin up,” he said. “Churchill needs you, and I’m sure you’re doing a brilliant job, otherwise he wouldn’t require you to work so much.”
I volunteered. “Churchill has his own personal assistants,” Rose said. “I’m merely a staff typist.”
“You’re helping us win this bloody war.”
Rose’s chest swelled with confidence. You always have a way of making me feel rather plucky.
“Those oranges are for children!” Herbert blurted.
Rose pulled the receiver away from her ear.
She envisioned the sign that her mother had made to place beside a small basket of oranges, a rare shipment that came from America.
The consumption of oranges was restricted to children only.
Her parents loathed rationing, but strictly followed the government’s protocol for grocers.
“Sorry,” Herbert said. “Bloody customers keep overlooking the sign for the oranges.”
“It’s okay.”
“How about I make you and your mum eggs and fried bread for breakfast.”
“That’d be splendid,” Rose said.
“Would you like to talk to your mum?”
“If she’s nearby.”
“Emilienne!” Herbert called. “It’s Rose!”
As Rose waited for her mother to come to the phone, she thought of her parents.
During the Great War, Herbert had been in the British infantry, stationed on the western front.
Emilienne, a seamstress from Paris, had volunteered as a French nurse.
They’d met, fallen in love, and then moved to London after the war.
Despite how bad things were in London, she felt fortunate that her parents had chosen to reside in Britain, rather than France, otherwise they’d now be living under Nazi occupation.
“Bonjour, ma chérie,” Emilienne said, answering the phone.
“Bonjour, Mum.”
“Working late again?” Emilienne asked.
“Yes,” Rose said, feeling a bit disappointed that her mother did not continue the conversation in French.
“You work too much.”
You too, Rose thought. When Mum wasn’t working in the grocery, she was earning extra money by taking on seamstress work, which she completed at night in an air raid shelter. “How’s your back?”
“Stiff,” Emilienne said.
“The concrete floor in the tube station is bad for your spine,” Rose said. “Take some extra blankets to the shelter. And use the pillow from my bed. It’s soft. You can place it under your back.”
“All right,” Emilienne said, sounding grateful for her daughter’s concern.
Rose spoke with her mother for a few minutes, avoiding topics that would remind them of Charlie’s death. It’d been several months since the funeral, but there was a lingering sadness embedded in the timbre of her mother’s voice. And Rose wondered if their heartache would ever go away.
“Try to get some rest tonight,” Emilienne said.
“You too,” Rose said.
Rose left the phone box. The sun had disappeared behind a building, casting the street in an inky shadow.
The falling temperature caused her to stuff her hands into her coat pockets.
Shops were closing, and the sidewalks were beginning to fill with people on their way to shelters.
Will the Luftwaffe ever stop? As she descended the military-guarded stairs leading thirty feet below the Treasury building, she wondered if the war room bunker could sustain a direct bomb strike.
She shivered, and then shook the thought from her mind.
She returned to Room 60, where the majority of the women had gone home for the evening.
Tonight’s crew consisted of two typists, including Rose, and three switchboard operators.
Two hours into the shift, the lights on the switchboards flickered.
The operators jammed their plugs into jacks, connecting communications.
The Luftwaffe have been spotted over the Channel.
Rose typed faster. The air raid sirens sounded, producing a muffled, horrid howl—even deep below the building—causing goose bumps to crop up on her arms. Fifteen minutes later, the sirens stopped.
Under the patter of her key strokes, Rose heard the muted rumble of bombs erupting over the city.
She pulled the carriage return lever on her typewriter. God help us.