‘You mean the bombing?’
‘Yes, but do you know the extent of the bombing?’
‘No, I can’t really imagine.’
‘The docks were at first our main target. Any device that did not hit the quays hit the city. No pilot wanted to waste a bomb over the sea. Then a little later the city became the main target.’
‘I don’t care. I need to get to Hamburg,’ she pleaded.
‘I can see you’re quite determined.’ He continued to leaf through his diary, then he lifted his telephone.
‘Hello, Transport? Yes, Thornton here. Anyone going to Hamburg? Let me know when one is leaving. I have a live package.’ He replaced the telephone.
‘There. If they cannot get you there, no one will. I suggest you stock up on groceries before you go. It will be very rough over there. It is likely nothing will be functioning properly, there are no shops, and provisions of any kind will be scarce. You will have to work quickly and get back promptly. It’s not a place for the fainthearted – but you were never that.’
She should have been downcast by his account of her city’s fate, but she retained a hope of finding some semblance of life in and around Hamburg, and she needed to see for herself.
‘Perhaps you can leave notes and forwarding addresses,’ Thornton suggested. ‘And you never know – perhaps Otto will be heading there too. You could even bring him back with you.’
‘That would be ideal,’ she said, her hopes buoyed up by his optimism.
‘Come back at three this afternoon and see if we have made any progress.’
‘Thank you, Mr Thornton. Thank you very much indeed. You have been very kind.’
She set off in search of a supply of easily portable groceries, but they were not easy to find. Rationing had not affected BP directly, and though everyone had been issued with a supply of coupons when they left the complex, she was unfamiliar with the system. Eventually, she managed to purchase some packets of dried American soup, dried fruit and a loaf of bread. She found some slices of ham and cheese and tins of fruit, as well as some tins of spam, the latter apparently being of the few plentiful things in the shop. She asked the shopkeeper for six tins. He seemed surprised. ‘Not party food I suggest,’ he said.
‘I know. It’s not a party I am going to,’ she managed to convey without saying any more. Spam had become a staple meat in the meagre wartime diet. Moreover, she had eaten a fair amount of it at BP and was used to it.
She bought a canvas rucksack so that she could carry the food on her back. The fruit tins were heavy, but the packet of water biscuits, which filled it to the top, added very little extra weight. She returned to Thornton’s office five minutes early.
‘We’ve got you a flight to an airport just outside Hamburg,’ he announced.
‘Oh, thank you, that’s wonderful news. Thank you so much,’ she smiled.
‘Don’t thank me, thank the Yanks. They will be over here shortly to pick you up and take you to their base. You’ll be heading for Hamburg early tomorrow morning.’
She gave him a broad smile; her face had not stretched so far for many months. Just one issue remained, now that she was so heavily laden with provisions.
‘I wonder if you could keep my oboe with you until I return. I will not need it in Hamburg, and the case is quite heavy. Anyway, it really has no home to go to yet. I’m still not at all sure where I’ll settle down.’
Thornton smiled. ‘I’ll be delighted to help. Regard this office as your base. I fully understand. Mind you, I thought you two were inseparable,’ he said with a wink.
‘We are. But I know I can trust you not to sell it.’
He laughed as he walked over to a high-walled cupboard and climbed a small stepladder.
‘Here, this cupboard is locked every night. It will be perfectly safe here,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s if we both can remember where it is.’
Hilda did not have to wait long. There was a knock at the door. In came an American pilot in smartly creased, mushroom-coloured trousers and a flying jacket.
‘Sir, Colonel Zak Withers reporting for duty. A damsel in distress I’m seekin’. I’m sure lookin’ for one stunning dame,’ he said. His eyes turned towards Hilda.
‘You can’t possibly mean me, Colonel, but I hope you’ll fly me to Hamburg all the same. Do I detect a southern accent there?’ she asked in her friendliest tone.
The colonel looked at Hilda. ‘Louisiana man I am, ma’am. Got to the dance late, but saw some action in the Battle of the Bulge.’
‘Excellent flying skills required for that engagement, I imagine, officer,’ she said.
‘Thank you, ma’am. Sure was a tricky op. Hamburg, eh? You sure got guts.’
‘Guts? I’m not flying the machine,’ she joked.
‘Your boys hit Hamburg real bad. Not easy to get around.’
‘I know where I am going,’ she said, injecting more confidence into her tone than she was feeling.
‘Glad to take you on board, ma’am. However, we leave early tomorrow. I’m taking you back to base at Northolt, not too far from here, a bit north of the city. We leave early tomorrow. Y’all ready to go?’
‘I know Northolt. I sure am ready to return to Hamburg tomorrow.’ She did her best to copy his American accent, and he slapped her back paternally, even although he was young enough to be her son.
At the airbase, her bunk bed was located in a row of small rooms with a shower at the end. An opaque plastic shower curtain drooped down in the centre with a few hooks missing, hardly protecting anyone’s modesty. Any passer-by could see that someone was using the shower.
Hilda chose not to remark on the drawings of nude women in various poses, which decorated the hut common room. She understood their frustration.
‘Excuse the artwork. We’re all randy around here,’ laughed a young flying sergeant perched on the corner of a table, his left leg swinging above the floor. He held a Lucky Strike between his fingers and tapped the ash into an empty beer can. ‘Don’t really get women here,’ he added. ‘We chose the best room for you. The others are less tasteful.’
She did not doubt him.
‘Meal in the main hut across there,’ said the sergeant pointing out of the window. ‘Six p.m. sharp or you get the scraps. Breakfast from six a.m. till eight, but you’ll be away by then, I guess.’
Hilda risked a shower in the early evening and sang loudly to deter any visitors. The airmen respected her privacy, and she returned to her room to dress, excited that she’d be returning to her home and family in Hamburg, but more than a little apprehensive about what she would find. Something niggled at the back of her mind: was she being unrealistic to hope she would find her son? So many young men had died. She made up her mind to assume he was dead, and to deal with it if it proved to be the truth. If he were alive, she would be overjoyed. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, she told herself. Only time would tell.
It was time for her evening meal in the company of her American hosts, and she made her way to the mess hut, which the amiable flight sergeant had pointed out.
The meal was Cobb salad, something quite unfamiliar to her. She had not tasted bacon for weeks, and the avocado was quite new to her. It was accompanied by a plentiful supply of sourdough bread that one of her fellow diners told her was baked fresh every day. The American chef clearly had access to a wider range of ingredients than was generally available, but Hilda decided not to ask too many questions. There was even a glass of white Alsace wine to wash down the food; liberated by some troops they had airlifted home, a young pilot confided.
Hilda’s plateful was more than substantial, and she was full even before the banana split arrived. She had attracted a full table of service members. They were all young men and she guessed they were longing for home, for loved ones and their mothers’ home cooking. That night Hilda was their substitute mother.