Stella placed a copy ofAeroplanemagazine on the table in front of Dash. It fell open to a spread with ragged edges.
“Read this and tell me they want us here.” She resumed her seat and lit another cigarette. “Go ahead, Dash. Read it aloud. Who’s it by?”
Dash picked up the magazine. “C. G. Grey. The editor.”
“That’s right. He ought to know a thing or two about airplanes and pilots, don’t you think?
“Just let her read, Stella.”
Stella waved her cigarette in Dash’s direction. “Go on.” Dash clearedher throat and started to read. “Skip ahead, dear. To the part that’s outlined at the bottom.”
Dash dropped her eyes to the indicated passage. “?‘There are millions of women in the country who could do useful jobs in war. But the trouble is that so many of them insist on wanting to do jobs which they are quite incapable of doing. The menace is the woman who thinks that she ought to be flying a high-speed bomber when she really has not the intelligence to scrub the floor of a hospital properly—’?” She looked up, aghast.
“Keep going.”
“?‘—she really has not the intelligence to scrub the floor of a hospital properly or who wants to nose round as an Air Raid Warden and yet can’t cook her husband’s dinner.’?”
Stella’s eyes danced with mirth. “See?”
“That’s an insult to everyone in here. How can he actually write this?” Dash tossed the magazine back on the table. “It’s awful.”
“He’s still the editor there, I believe,” Violet said quietly.
Dash was stunned. Here was a well-respected man spouting lies, and readers were eating them up, she assumed, since he still worked at the magazine. That meant that others believed the same as he did, just like back in the garage. Not one of those other mechanics had lifted a finger to help Dash out of her situation. Not one had told Jim to back off, though they’d heard her say no to him many times.
Stella was eyeing her, waiting for a reaction. Yes, Dash was angry. And yes, she was still living through those horrible moments when Jim’s arm had been jammed against her neck. She’d had those bruises for days.
“I can hardly wait to run into that ignorant little man one day,” Dash declared, flashing the big, irresistible smile that had once made her the talk of the town. “I’ll be sweet as apple pie, and I’ll invite him to fly with me. We could do a few barrel rolls, and maybe his seat belt’s a little loose…”
Both girls’ jaws dropped, seeing her transformation from a shy newcomer to one of them, then Stella let out a low chuckle. “Oh yes, Dash Wilson. You are going to fit in just fine.”
forty-threeDOT— Camp X —
Dot was up before the sun. Since the funeral, she had felt weak and broken, heavy with guilt, and running laps was the only way she could get her thoughts back on track. It helped her remember that she simply had no time for emotion. Her priority now had to be this job. For months, Dot had been involved in preparations for Operation Husky, a major landing the Allied forces were planning for the southern coast of Italy. This would be an important battle, and it fascinated Dot on many levels. Mostly, the fact that this piece of the puzzle fit so strategically well with others.
The first piece had been placed in May. After three long years of fighting, the Allies had claimed their first major victory by defeating the Germans and Italians in North Africa. By doing so, the Allies took control of the eastern Mediterranean.
Now the second piece of the puzzle: Operation Husky, also known as the Battle of Sicily, would—they hoped—result in a second major victory: the defeat of the Fascists in Sicily. That piece would clear more of the Mediterranean, increase Allied shipping, and open the door to an invasion of the rest of Europe.
This was the most important project Dot had ever participated in,and she was part of the communication strategy. Like her, Gus had a role to play. His job was to go behind enemy lines and sabotage enemy communication posts in the lead-up to the invasion.
Gus. Her stomach knotted with the hurt she’d caused them both. She had to stop thinking about him. She had work to do.
Last night, while she had been sleeping, the Battle of Sicily had begun. Today was going to be busy. After she finished her run, Dot cleaned up, got into her uniform, then went to Hydra. Early July was setting the bar for a hot summer, and the fields were as green as could be. Out by the firing range, trees had tripled in size and their leaves were in full glory, but there was no breeze to stir them. Dot wiped the perspiration from her brow, watching birds lit from branches to the wires outside Hydra’s building.
Inside, Bill Hardcastle drooped slightly at his post. He had been on duty all last night, and Dot was set to relieve him. She would be here for the next eight hours, until four p.m. Before she started, she picked up the logbook and read through the events of last night.
“Oh dear,” she murmured, taking in the bad news.
To prepare for the main seaborne invasion, which would begin today, the Allies had sent transport planes and 147 gliders with parachutists into Axis airspace over Sicily. The plan was to drop the parachutists, who would quietly take possession of a strategically important bridge before the Italians could destroy it. But a windstorm had blown in, tossing and destroying planes, and then the Italians’ searchlights and antiaircraft guns had added to the chaos. In the end, only a dozen of the gliders arrived on target. The planned attack had been almost a complete failure.
Bill rose with an impressive stretch toward the ceiling and bid her a good morning on his way out the door. “Happy hunting. I hope your day is better than my night.”
“Thank you, Bill. Have a good sleep.”
Despite the disastrous events of the night before, the seaborne invasion would begin soon, and that was Dot’s focus. Her job was to hunt for nearby enemy ships that might threaten the operation while ensuringthe transport of Allied troops went without a hitch. For this battle, the Canadians were part of the British Eighth Army and would attack from the Brits’ left flank. The Americans would come in from the other side. Over a hundred and fifty thousand troops—including twenty-six thousand Canadians—were involved in Operation Husky, along with three thousand ships and four thousand tanks.
Dot swore to herself that no enemy ships would get past her. Her fingers rested on the dial, slowly turning it as she listened for the frequency she wanted. The ships would be nearing the coastline by now, so Allied communication was being kept to a minimum to avoid interception. So far, Hydra’s sensitive antennae had picked up nothing. All Dot heard was background static.
