Characters of "Cold Victory" : EMILY PRIESTMAN

 Although Emily is the wife of Wing Commander Priestman, she is much more than the woman at his side. She is also a veteran pilot, having been a ferry pilot with the ATA during the war, and the business partner of David Goldman, the owner-manager of the aviation company "Emergency Air Services." But it isn't Emily's positions that matter, but rather the fact that she has a gift for holding things together and helping people to get along. 

 

In this excerpt, Emily is at a low point, realizing that her husband's posting puts an end to her work with the air ambulance as well.

Emily had a quick wash and dressed in her Emergency Air Services (EAS) uniform of black trousers, double-breasted, black blazer and red silk ascot. Although she liked this attire and was proud of the golden cloth wings above the left breast pocket and the three golden stripes on her sleeve, she wondered how much longer she would wear it. She could not let Robin return to the UK alone, so his dismissal as station commander meant that her days flying the air ambulance were also coming to an end.

Despite her best efforts to appear calm and resigned about the situation, she was inwardly seething. She found it unfathomable that Robin’s dedication and effectiveness at Gatow had gone unnoticed. She also considered it unforgivable that he was being punished for doing the right thing: saving orphans, malnourished children and people with chronic diseases from unnecessary suffering. The fact that he had been requested to organize the evacuation by the senior British officer in Berlin made things even worse. None of it made sense!

Part of her wanted to protest publicly. She’d been briefly tempted to go to the press. What would the public think if they learned that the RAF leadership preferred blind obedience to responding to the needs of innocent children? There was a woman reporter with the Times who loved breaking stories of bureaucratic obtuseness and incompetence. Yet Emily held herself in check. Robin didn’t want any publicity. He identified too strongly with the RAF to want any criticism of it to be made public. 

Coming down the stairs to the ground floor, Emily told herself that rather than pursuing mental fantasies of revenge or protest, she ought to start packing up their personal things in preparation for returning to the UK. Robin’s replacement might come with a wife and several children. He would expect to move into the official residence immediately and, according to Robin, that might be as early as next Monday afternoon.

Emily crossed the icy dining room to join their house guests at the breakfast table. Kit Moran was another pilot with EAS, while his wife Georgina worked as a teacher at the British school.  “Good morning!” Emily greeted the others as she closed the glass doors behind her to keep as much warmth inside as possible.

Her guests responded with cheerful greetings and then Kit announced, “Georgina and I were just wondering whether the Station might host a Christmas party for some Berlin children. Although the sickest children are being flown out, hundreds of thousands remain, and what sort of Christmas are they going to have? There aren’t any Christmas trees or decorations, let alone presents and feasts.”

“What I was thinking,” Georgina took up the topic enthusiastically, “was to approach some of the nearby German schools. If we work with the teachers and focus on the younger children, we might be able to organise a party for three or four hundred children. We could ask the staff at Gatow to donate presents. I’m sure we’d collect plenty!”

Listening to her, Emily was reminded that Georgina was a vicar’s daughter. She was used to both organizing Christmas events —and asking for charity.

Kit, clearly in the spirit of things, pointed out, “I think that a hot meal with turkey, real potatoes and hot chocolate might be more appreciated than gifts. I was thinking, that while we can’t take the Halifax off the Airlift, you might be able to sneak in a flight to the UK and back with Moby Dick” (that was what they called the air ambulance). “The Wellington,” Kit reminded them, “had a bomb capacity of 4,500 lbs, which means that Moby Dick could carry more than enough turkeys, potatoes and Christmas pudding for several hundred kids.”

“We could even bring in oranges!” Georgina enthused.

Her husband, however, had detected Emily’s reticence and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“It sounds like a wonderful idea,” Emily admitted, “and weather permitting, I think David would be willing to authorise the use of Moby Dick to bring in food. However,” she drew a deep breath and then added, “I’m afraid, the station commander will have to approve the use of RAF facilities and access to the station for so many children, their teachers or parents.”

“But why wouldn’t Robin….” Georgina started confidently only for her words to fade away as her husband flashed her a warning with his eyes.

Emily drew a deep breath and announced, “Robin is no longer station commander, and we have no idea who will replace him, much less if he might be inclined to approve a Christmas party for German children or not.”

“But when….why… I don’t understand,” Georgina admitted, looking from her husband to her hostess and back.

“The evacuations,” her husband drew the right conclusion. “I heard rumours that Group Captain Bagshot had not approved them and was furious.”

Emily nodded. “Robin won’t make a public announcement about his departure until he knows more details, but I should have said something privately. This is RAF housing, you understand, and when we turn it over to Robin’s successor, you will have to move out. I’m very sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” Kit assured her. “We can take rooms in the Malcolm Club with the others.” The other four members of Kit’s crew along with the second pilot and flight engineer of the air ambulance rented rooms at the Malcolm Club at RAF Gatow.

Before Emily could say any more, a voice rang out from behind them. “Hello? Anybody home?”

“That’s Kiwi!” Emily exclaimed in astonishment, leaping to her feet to open the glass doors. She called through the dining room towards the front entry, “Kiwi! We’re in the breakfast room!”

A moment later the tall, fair-haired New Zealander breezed in. He received welcoming kisses on both cheeks from Emily and handshakes from the Morans. Then he tossed aside his cap and laid his damp greatcoat over the back of an unused chair as he sat down at the table. The sound of his arrival brought one of the housemaids out of the kitchen. She asked politely if she should bring another place setting and more coffee, which Emily welcomed.

“Did you just fly in?” Emily asked eagerly.

“Hitch-hiked with Rafair.”

“Which means they’re flying?”

“Some flights are getting through — not as many as are needed. They’re prioritizing the larger aircraft. Albatross” (the nickname for Moran’s Halifax) “ought to be able to get cargoes, so I came to find out what’s going on. Are we in business or aren’t we?”

Silence answered him. Kit and Georgina looked at Emily.

Drawing a deep breath, she explained, “Robin’s been relieved of his command—”

“What a flaming cock-up! Excuse me, ladies. That bastard Bagshot!” Kiwi grasped the situation at once. “I should have known!”

“That doesn’t in itself close down EAS,” Emily hastened to point out. “I will, of course, resign and return to the UK with Robin, but you can take command of Moby Dick, Kiwi.”

“That’s not the issue,” Kiwi replied. “The point is that David’s so cracked up over Charlotte dumping him that he’s stopping running the company. It’s bad enough that Charlotte is no longer handling the customers, but for most of November, David handled them himself and we managed to limp along. Since last Saturday, he’s stopped doing even that. I’ve called the office a dozen times, and all I get is the frightened secretary who doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.  Does David intend to fold or what?”

“I can’t answer that, Kiwi,” Emily admitted. “I haven’t seen David this week either. Robin’s dismissal took me by surprise and the weather was an excuse not to probe. It didn’t help that Robin thinks the Airlift is on the brink of collapse. If the majority of the Berliners boycott the election or vote outright for the SED on Sunday, then HM government will probably withdraw the British garrison.”

Kiwi countered with, “Look, we call ourselves ‘Emergency Air Services’ and that means we fly precisely where and when things are risky and unstable. We’ve got two fully serviceable aircraft sitting in a hangar at Gatow, not to mention idle ground and aircrew. We ought to be flying until they shoot us out of the sky.”

“Agreed,” Kit seconded him. “Albi’s had a cargo stowed for eight hours. If Gatow’s open, I’ll make a run to Hanover with it.” He stood as he spoke, bending to give Georgina a quick kiss.

“Emily?” Kiwi asked.

“There’s no reason why the Halifax shouldn’t be flying whenever visibility allows. Regarding the ambulance, however, we can’t fly until we have a flight plan based on what patients need to go where. Either David or Charlotte is going to have to start working again.” She hesitated, but it had to be said. “And while I agree that we ought to keep flying, David writes the cheques. We have to find out what he wants.”

Her remark was met with silence. It wasn’t only the people in this room who depended on EAS for their livelihood. The company employed German office staff, eight other aircrew and seven ground crew, including a man paralyzed from the waist down. Closing EAS would be a disaster for all of them. Emily knew that, but David had founded the company, and he was its majority shareholder and chief executive officer.

“I’d better go and talk to him,” Emily concluded, knowing that this was much more important than packing up her things.

“Thank you,” Kiwi replied, adding “And try to talk some sense into him, would you?”

“I’ll do my best.”

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Find out more about the Bridge to Tomorrow series, the awards it has won, and read reviews at: https://helenapschrader.net/bridge-to-tomorrow/

    

 

 

Secondary Characters of "Cold War" - Virginia Cox-Gordon

 The post-war period is rightly remembered as a nadir in women's rights. When "the boys came home," many women who had been doing 'mens' jobs' were dismissed and told it was time to become 'wives and mothers.' Most women were probably glad to see the last of an ordinance factory, but others were frustrated to be thrown out of responsible and challenging work. As always, there were also women who defied the trend and found ways to remain active professionally. Virginia Cox-Gordon is such a woman.

Virginia is one of those women who has found herself during the war. The daughter of a millionaire, she was the "catch of the season" when she made her debut just before the outbreak of the war. Beautiful, rich and spoiled, she enjoyed being 'daring' and dating not-so-suitable men such as the aerobatics pilot Robin Priestman. Yet fundamentally, she was bored to death with life -- until the war broke out. The war opened up opportunities that she had never dreamed of and also fed her insatiable curiosity with real news rather than gossip. She became a journalist for The Times. 

Yet while opportunities of women journalists opened up during the war, the profession remained male-dominated. Competition for the best stories and first report was cut-throat. Virginia had to play the game by the brutal rules -- or get left by the wayside. By the end of the war, she has established herself as a first-rate reporter, but the prejudice against her sex is worse than before. She uses the weapons she has -- beauty, sex-appeal and a powerful and wealthy father -- to hold her own. But her struggle has warped her and she has paid a heavy price in personal happiness for her success.

An excerpt with Virginia: 

“Mrs Hart, please try to understand.” Virginia Cox argued patiently with the WAAF officer. “Everyone is talking about these parachutes with sweets attached. There were scores and scores of witnesses, but no one has a photo of it. A picture is worth a thousand words.  All I’m asking is that you lend me your adorable little daughter for a few hours. With her bright blond hair, she looks German. We can braid it the way the Germans do and dress her in the oldest, most faded clothes she has. I’ve already made a parachute with one of my old scarves and have attached some Hersey’s chocolate that an American friend gave me to it.” Virginia held up her contraption. “We can throw the parachute out of an apartment building window and position Hope below, waiting with uplifted arms. It will be a sensational shot!”

“It would be fake,” Kathleen answered tartly and indignantly. She did not like this idea at all.

“No more ‘fake’ than most of the films and photos we made during the war,” Virginia countered. “You know as well as I do that all those laughing ‘Fighter Boys’ lounging around waiting for a scramble were posed for the photographers. And so were the images of Bomber Boys intently waiting to hear the ‘target for tonight.’ But they weren’t lies. They were staged, yes, but they replicated reality as accurately as possible. That is what I propose to do now. What is so wrong with that?”

Kathleen didn’t have an answer. She looked over at Hope, who at once started begging. “Please, Mummy! Please!” Kathleen hated being manipulated and all her instincts said this was wrong, but she lacked the arguments to plead her case.  

Yes, she could slam the door in the reporter’s face, but that would probably land her in more trouble. The reporter worked for the Times, and her father sat in Parliament. Perhaps more relevant, the WAAF OC was on very good terms with her and had brought her over, saying she was “sure” Assistant Section Leader Hart would have no objections. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let you just borrow Hope. If you want to take Hope anywhere, then I am coming with you. It is my day off.”

“Oh, splendid!” Virginia agreed with exaggerated enthusiasm.

An hour later, Kathleen and Virginia were sitting in the back of a confiscated “Kuebelwagon” with British occupation licence plates while Virginia’s photographer drove them along the edge of the Havel on their way to Tempelhof. Hope was sitting in the front seat beside the photographer. She was happy as a lark in the open vehicle with the wind blowing her hair. Where Virginia got the petrol rations for this outing, Kathleen could not fathom, but apparently the press had privileges and it was not her place to question them.

Virginia had Kathleen trapped as she turned to ask, “Why is it, Mrs Hart, that I get the feeling you disapprove of me? We’re both career women, after all. We ought to be allies! We should join forces against a world that would like to shoo us both back behind the stove.” Although she tried to make the question sound light-hearted, Kathleen knew she was deadly serious.

“What I don’t like,” Kathleen answered, meeting the reporter’s eyes, “is that you are turning Hope’s head, making her feel special and glamorous. It’s quite misleading. She’s just an ordinary seven-year-old.”

“Is she?” Virginia asked with a raised eyebrow. “I think Hope is an adorable and photogenic child. She’s sure to grow into an attractive girl. Every beautiful woman should learn to use her charms to get what she wants as early as possible.”

That was not the way Kathleen had been raised. Then again, she hadn’t been happy in the world her parents had made for her. Would she have been happier following Miss Cox’s advice? She didn’t think so. It was too mercenary, too exploitative, and didn’t leave room for giving as well as taking. Out loud, she reminded Virginia, “Beauty is ephemeral. It can be shattered in a single accident or fade over time. Either way, it is better for a woman not to depend on it too heavily.”

“Beauty is the most powerful weapon women have and ought to be used mercilessly as long as one has it,” Virginia countered. “Which doesn’t mean one can’t develop other skills. I think it’s marvellous that you’re an air traffic controller. I was serious about wanting to interview you. I’m sorry you didn’t get in touch with me after our last meeting.”

“I am very busy.”

“I’m sure you are, but we have lots of time until we get to Tempelhof. Why don’t you start by telling me how you landed here? Weren’t you worried about bringing a child into what is practically a warzone?”

“When I volunteered for Gatow, it was a sleepy, forgotten backwater, and I wanted to be near my husband.”

“Your husband?” Virginia gasped, glanced at Kathleen’s hand. Only now did she notice her wedding ring. “Silly of me! I assumed you were single. What’s his role?”

“Navigator on a Lancaster. He’s in the Commonwealth War Cemetery.”

“Oh! You mean he’s dead! Well, that doesn’t count then, does it?”

“To me it does,” Kathleen retorted, thinking how the longer she was here, the more often he seemed to visit. Mostly he came in her dreams, but sometimes she sensed his presence when walked beside the perimeter fence to get fresh air, or when she sat alone in her flat after Hope had gone to bed.

Virginia had been talking and when Kathleen didn’t respond, she repeated her question, “Do you feel you are treated the same as to your male colleagues?”

“Most of the time,” Kathleen answered, appending her answer with, “it depends on the CO.” Soon, without realising what was happening, Virginia had drawn Kathleen into a conversation so successfully that Kathleen was surprised when they reached Tempelhof. American Skymasters were swooping down at them, and the roar of their engines was deafening. Their wheels and flaps were down as they passed directly overhead, and one could see the oil stains on the wings and the bolts holding the fuselage together.

“Oh, look!” Virginia exclaimed. “There’s a group of German children over there. They must be hoping for a sweet drop! Let’s go and talk to them.” Flinging the car door open, she made a beeline for German boys and girls, Hope and Kathleen forgotten. Kathleen took a disgruntled Hope by the hand and followed.

Virginia emerges as a more important character only in "Cold War."

Berlin is under siege. More than two million civilians must be supplied by air -- or surrender to Stalin's oppression.

USAF Captain J.B. Baronowsky and RAF Flight Lieutenant Kit Moran once risked their lives to drop high explosives on Berlin. They are about to deliver milk, flour and children’s shoes instead. Meanwhile, two women pilots are flying an air ambulance that carries malnourished and abandoned children to freedom in the West. Until General Winter deploys on the side of Russia. Buy now!

 Based on historical events, award-winning and best-selling novelist Helena P. Schrader delivers an insightful, exciting and moving tale about how former enemies became friends in the face of Russian aggression — and how close the Berlin Airlift came to failing.  

 

 Watch a Video Teaser Here!

 Winning a war with milk, coal and candy!