‘Yes. Here it was, in with my letter from Mama. Aunt Mags had it delivered by courier. But oh, Sibbie, things are not good.’

Sibbie held her breath.

The past two years at the RAF station had flown by. Both Sibbie and Marjie had graduated with a first-class degree in languages and often practised, having a whole day when they spoke only in German or Polish, and at other times in French, so that Sibbie could keep up her excellent accent and Marjie could enjoy speaking her native tongue.

As soon as they could, after leaving school, they had joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force – WAAF for short – as by then Marjie was unable to return home and war was raging around the world. Marjie’s dual nationality had meant that she was readily accepted.

And now, after a short training period, they were working as plotters, attached to RAF Digby, a small station in Lincolnshire. Sibbie enjoyed the work. She threw her heart into deciphering the plots that came through to them, and knew the exhilaration of getting the expected raids spot-on, as early warning to the nearest airfields was invaluable. But even though she knew the importance of her work, she didn’t feel challenged.

They were on their break, and Marjie had taken a detour to the postroom before joining Sibbie on the flat roof above the stuffy Ops room – a favourite place of all the staff, no matter the weather, and on this late September day it was showery and the air held a chill.

The general idea, during the ten minutes they took as a break, was for staff to skip or do some rigorous exercise, to relieve the tension of bending over the large plotting table for hours on end, but most simply walked up and down, enjoying the views over the countryside – and a cigarette, if they were smokers. The roof was littered with discarded butt-ends.

Two Canadian squadrons of Hurricanes were stationed on the base, and Sibbie found it exciting to see them taking off and landing. Even the noise they made sent a zing of exhilaration through her. She wanted to be part of that action. Not flying, but actually doing something – taking an active role in fighting this bloody war. Not showing others where that action was likely to be.

‘Oh, Marjie, it’s not terrible news, is it?’

‘It – it’s Randie. He’s missing.’

‘Oh no! Oh, Marjie.’ The silence that fell held all their fears, because in that moment the reality of war hit them. Wanting to comfort Marjie, and needing comfort herself, Sibbie reached out. Marjie almost fell into her arms.

‘It’s unbearable to think about. It’s the not knowing. Is – is he dead? Captured? Oh, Sibbie . . .’