Teds Shorts - A Series of Short Stories

The Tide Turns at Hamble 

Chapter 1 

The Solent lay shrouded that morning, the tide sliding in with the stealth of a thief. Mist gathered over the Hamble estuary, softening the outlines of the moored boats, the chimneys, the hangars. Out in the grey wash of dawn, a ferry horn gave one melancholy note that dissolved into silence. 

Vivienne March stood at the rail, collar turned up, gloved hands steady on the paint-flaked metal. To anyone watching, she was an American pilot newly seconded to the Air Transport Auxiliary’s (ATA) women’s ferry pool at Hamble, one of the “Yanks” they’d been promised, to help clear the backlog of aircraft deliveries. Her papers were impeccable; her accent, she hoped, less so. 

The ferry bumped against the jetty. A corporal waved them ashore with the weary efficiency of a man who’d done it a thousand times. The fog seemed to thicken as Vivienne stepped onto the creaking planks. A whiff of seaweed, petrol, and engine oil filled the air—the scent of the place. Hamble, she thought. A quiet English village turned airfield, its fields taken over by women in flying jackets and Wellington boots, its pubs filled with talk of sorties and missing friends. 

She had come here under orders from Whitehall, though even her handler’s name had been given only once, over the hiss of a coded telephone line. There was a leak in the ferry routes. Spitfires bound for Scotland or the South Coast were being intercepted, some never arrived, others ditched at sea. The Admiralty suspected German U-boats were being fed their delivery schedules. The clues pointed here: to Hamble, to the all-female pool commanded by Pauline Gower herself. 

Vivienne carried a single brown suitcase and a small leather satchel. Inside were a few spare uniforms, a notebook filled with false pilot’s notes, and, sewn into the lining, a microfilm strip containing her cipher key. The key, if exposed, would mean her death. 

The camp came into view through the mist: Nissen huts, corrugated hangars, and a spindly control tower from which the Union flag drooped wetly. A Bofors gun stood near the perimeter fence, its barrel glistening with dew, and beside it a sandbagged pillbox—one of the many that dotted Hamble Common. The thing looked ancient already, a relic of a war still being fought. 

Vivienne’s boots sank into the mud as she crossed the yard. Somewhere nearby an engine coughed into life, followed by the unmistakable purr of a Spitfire’s Merlin engine. The sound rippled through her like a living thing. She could see the shape now: silver fuselage, roundels gleaming faintly through the mist as a young woman taxied it across the strip, face obscured by goggles. 

“New arrival, are you?” 

Vivienne turned. A stocky woman with grease-streaked cheeks was standing by the hangar door, wiping her hands on a rag. She had sharp blue eyes and a grin that looked permanent. “You’re the Yank, then?” 

“Vivienne March,” she said, offering a hand. “Lieutenant, U.S. Air Transport Command—attached here for temporary duty.” 

“Ha! You lot do love a title.” The woman shook her hand firmly. “Nora Fielding. Mechanic, general dogsbody, finder of tea rations. If you want to survive in Hamble, love, find the tea first.” 

Vivienne smiled faintly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“Come on, I’ll take you to the mess. Fog like this, nothing’s flying till noon. You can meet the girls.” 

As they walked, Nora kept up a steady stream of chatter about the Ferry Pool—how they ferried everything from Ansons to Spitfires, sometimes in weather no sane man would fly in; how they’d lost two pilots last month to icing over the Channel; how the locals still stared at them like curiosities when they went into the village pubs. “But they’ll serve you now without comment,” Nora added. “Used to be, we’d get glares for taking the men’s work. Now they’re just grateful anyone’s flying at all.” 

Vivienne listened, nodding at the right moments, noting the details that mattered. Nora’s easy friendliness was disarming—but her eyes were too quick, her ears tuned to every conversation around them. An ideal observer, or an ideal informant. Vivienne would have to decide which. 

The mess hut was warm, loud, and full of cigarette smoke. Pilots in blue uniforms sat shoulder to shoulder, some mending gloves, others scribbling flight times into logbooks. The gramophone in the corner was playing Vera Lynn, though slightly off-speed, giving her voice a ghostly tremor. 

“Everyone,” Nora called out, “this is Lieutenant March, the Yank they warned us about.” 

A few good-natured jeers rose, “Hide the whiskey!” “Does she know which way up the kite goes?” and then a tall woman with a cigarette holder turned from the fire. Her uniform was immaculate, her dark hair coiled beneath her cap. 

“Pauline Gower,” she said, extending a hand. “Commanding officer, Hamble Ferry Pool. Welcome, Lieutenant. I hope they’ve given you quarters?” 

“Not yet, ma’am,” Vivienne replied crisply. 

“We’ll see to it. You’ll find us rather less formal than the RAF, but we keep our standards. You’ve flown the Spitfire before?” 

Vivienne hesitated for only half a breath. “Once or twice in training, ma’am.” 

“Good. You’ll have plenty of practice. We’ve a string of deliveries waiting as soon as this blasted fog lifts.” 

Vivienne nodded, feeling a pulse of dread. She had never flown a Spitfire, nor any other aircraft. But her mission did not require her to. Her cover story would hold if she was careful, ATA pilots often delivered aircraft solo, their logs checked but not questioned. All she needed was to stay close, observe, and listen. 

Later, as she unpacked in the narrow billet assigned to her, she took out the flight roster pinned inside her satchel. Names, routes, dates. She’d memorised them all. Somewhere among them was a traitor. 

A knock sounded at her door. Nora poked her head in. “Brought you a cuppa. Thought you might fancy company.” 

Vivienne accepted the mug, grateful for the warmth. “You’re kind.” 

“Not kind, nosy,” Nora said cheerfully. “We don’t often get Yanks. Tell me, what’s America like now? Everyone says you’ve got oranges again.” 

Vivienne smiled faintly. “Some places. Not where I’m from.” 

“Where’s that, then?” 

“Kansas City.” It came easily; she’d practised. 

Nora looked doubtful. “Don’t sound much like a cowgirl.” 

Vivienne’s smile didn’t waver. “I left the hat at home.” 

Nora laughed, then leaned against the bunk. “They say we’ve a spy about. Funny, isn’t it? Even out here in the mud and fog, they think someone’s feeding Jerry our routes. You believe that?” 

Vivienne’s pulse quickened. “Do you?” 

Nora shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Planes vanish. One of ours, Evelyn Carter, she’s a marvel, that one, went missing for two hours last week. Said she got turned around near Portsmouth. Could be true, could be, well, anything.” She lowered her voice. “Sometimes, when I’m working on the wings at night, I swear I hear things. Whispers. Like the planes are talking.” 

Vivienne regarded her carefully. “What do they say?” 

“Nothing that makes sense. Just… rhythms. Morse, maybe. I used to be signals, before the ATA took me. I know the sound of code when I hear it.” 

Vivienne’s heart gave a tiny, cold flutter. “You think someone’s using the aircraft to send messages?” 

Nora laughed it off, but her eyes stayed serious. “Could be I’m mad. Or could be the ghosts of the ones we’ve lost are still trying to talk.” 

That night, unable to sleep, Vivienne walked to the edge of the airfield. The fog had thinned, the moon showing through in tatters. From here she could see the tide creeping up through the reeds, glinting under the weak starlight. A pillbox squatted on the rise beyond the wire, its concrete dark with moss. 

She lit a cigarette, shielding the flame with her hand. Somewhere across the water, a bell clanged faintly, a buoy, or perhaps a ship warning. She thought of the map in her satchel, of the coded intercepts they’d traced to this region. Every message had the same refrain: The tide turns at Hamble. 

A shape moved in the mist near the hangar. Vivienne froze, her breath clouding in the cold. A figure, female, by the outline carried something under one arm, moving with purpose toward the fence. She watched as the figure crouched by the gate, fiddled with the latch, then vanished into the darkness beyond. 

Vivienne ground out her cigarette. She’d seen the woman’s flight jacket, rank insignia, hair tucked beneath her cap. Evelyn Carter. 

The national heroine. The one whose flights always went missing. 

Chapter 2 

Morning broke with a thin, cold light. The fog had lifted, but the sky remained low, a grey lid pressing on the estuary. From the hangar came the metallic clatter of spanners, the hiss of compressed air, and the faint strains of someone singing Run, Rabbit, Run off-key. 

Vivienne stood near the perimeter, notebook tucked beneath her arm, watching the line of Spitfires that gleamed faintly with dew. They were graceful even at rest, like sleeping predators. Each one bore a name stencilled beneath the cockpit: Gloria, Mary Belle, Elsinore. The mechanics moved among them like priests at a ritual. 

She had slept little. The image of Evelyn Carter slipping into the mist replayed in her mind, Evelyn, the darling of the ATA, whose photograph had once graced the Illustrated London News. According to her file, she’d flown over two hundred delivery missions, never once written up for error. Yet her log times never quite matched her routes. 

Vivienne turned a page of her notebook. The night before, she’d begun transcribing the intervals of Nora’s “whispers”, rhythms she’d claimed to hear in the wings. The mechanic had a sharp ear; Vivienne suspected what she’d heard was the resonance of radio interference bouncing through the hangars. But what if it was something more deliberate? A pattern. A code. 

“Morning, Lieutenant!” Nora’s voice cut across the yard. She emerged from beneath a Spitfire, oil up to her elbows, cap tilted at an irreverent angle. “Fancy helping me with this rudder linkage? You look like you’ve got nimble fingers.” 

Vivienne smiled thinly. “I’ll do my best not to break anything vital.” 

“That’s the spirit. I’ll make a grease-monkey of you yet.” 

As they worked, Nora kept up her running commentary, about the shortage of spare parts, the nuisance of sand in the engines, the pilots’ superstitions. “They say the planes talk to you,” she said, tightening a bolt. “That’s what the girls reckon. Each kite’s got her own mood. Some you can coax into the air, some you have to fight every inch. Like men, really.” 

Vivienne allowed herself a small laugh. “And what does this one say?” 

“This one?” Nora tapped the fuselage affectionately. “She sings in Morse. I wasn’t imagining it. You listen, and you can almost catch it, dots and dashes, regular as breathing.” 

Vivienne leaned closer. The Merlin engine was silent now, but the metal still seemed to hum faintly, cooling in the morning air. She could almost believe Nora was right. 

A shout came from the control tower: “Pilots to briefing! Ferry runs to Kidlington, White Waltham, and Prestwick, report immediately!” 

Nora wiped her hands. “That’s your lot called. Off you go, Lieutenant. Try not to get lost over the Channel.” 

Vivienne’s stomach tightened. She would not be flying, of course. Her cover required her presence, not her participation. Still, she needed to maintain the illusion. 

In the operations room, a map of Britain covered one wall, pricked with coloured pins and string lines showing ferry routes. Pauline Gower stood before it, pipe smoke curling around her like incense. 

“Right,” she said briskly. “Weather’s fair to the north, patchy over Wales. No enemy activity reported on the coastal route, but the Navy says U-boat chatter’s increased. We’ll keep our wits about us.” She scanned the room. “Carter, you’ll take the Spitfire to Kidlington. March, you’re observer on the south dispersal run. Take notes for your records.” 

Vivienne nodded, keeping her expression neutral. Carter shot her a quick, unreadable glance, cool, assessing. 

After the briefing, Vivienne lingered near the map. The string routes formed a web of colour, but one stood out: several flights from Hamble to Kidlington had detoured inexplicably over the Channel, well off course. She traced one with her finger. 

“Curious thing, isn’t it?” said a voice behind her. It was Alec Dray, Wing Commander liaison from the RAF, a man of fifty with a clipped moustache and eyes like steel filings. “Those detours. We chalk it up to weather, but the weather doesn’t explain all of them.” 

“Mechanical issues?” she ventured. 

He shook his head. “Mechanical issues don’t happen in clear skies, and not to the same pilot every time.” He looked at her narrowly. “You were sent here from the States, weren’t you? To observe our methods?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then observe this. Something’s rotten here, Lieutenant. I just haven’t the authority to dig deep enough.” He crushed out his cigarette. “If you see anything odd—anything at all—you come to me. Quietly.” 

Vivienne met his gaze. “Of course.” 

When he’d gone, she turned back to the map. Evelyn Carter’s routes were marked in red. Three flights missing for hours. Each one coincided with intercepted German radio bursts on the same day. 

That evening, Vivienne followed Nora back to the hangars. The mechanic was humming to herself, unaware,or pretending not to notice, that Vivienne was behind her. Nora disappeared into the dim interior of Hangar 3, where the Spitfires were parked nose to tail, their polished skins catching the light of a single lantern. 

Vivienne slipped inside quietly. The air smelled of petrol and damp metal. Nora was bent over a wing panel, ear pressed to the metal, eyes half closed. She looked like a medium listening for spirits. 

“You really do hear it,” Vivienne said softly. 

Nora jumped. “Bloody hell, you scared me!” 

“Sorry. What are you listening for?” 

“Listen yourself.” Nora stepped back. 

Vivienne leaned close. At first, only silence. Then—a faint vibration, like a whispering breath. A pattern of rhythm and pause. Dot-dot-dash, dash-dot-dot. Her heart gave a leap. She knew Morse when she heard it. 

“What does it say?” she asked. 

Nora’s face had gone pale. “I caught part of it last night. ‘Lima-One-Nine…’ and then it fades. Over and over.” 

“That’s a convoy designation,” Vivienne said before she could stop herself. 

Nora blinked. “How the devil would you know that?” 

Vivienne recovered quickly. “I told you—I did signals work before ferry duty.” 

“Ah. Right.” Nora frowned. “Then you know what it means.” 

Vivienne hesitated. “Someone’s sending information to the enemy.” 

They stood in silence, listening. The wing seemed to hum with ghostly code, as if the machine itself were betraying them. 

Suddenly, the hangar door creaked. Light from a torch swept across the floor. Nora flicked off the lantern instinctively, and they crouched behind the nearest wheel strut. Footsteps approached—measured, confident. 

Through a gap, Vivienne saw Evelyn Carter enter. She moved to the far corner where a wireless set stood on a workbench, half-covered by a tarpaulin. She switched it on. A low hum filled the air. Then a series of clicks, Morse again, quick and precise. 

Vivienne strained to hear. The message was short. Delta… Twelve… Tide turns at Hamble. 

Carter switched off the set, covered it, and left without looking back. 

For a long moment neither Vivienne nor Nora moved. 

Finally, Nora whispered, “You saw that, didn’t you?” 

Vivienne nodded. “Keep your mouth shut. Not a word to anyone.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Find out who she’s talking to.” 

That night, Vivienne sat at her desk, decoding what fragments she remembered from the transmission. The message format was unmistakably military. Delta Twelve was a call-sign used by convoy escorts in the Channel. The information being passed could guide U-boats to the very ships carrying aircraft parts, fuel, and food to the front. 

She opened her cipher notebook. Using the microfilm key sewn into her satchel, she began to cross-reference the timing of the signals. Each coincided with a ferry flight, Evelyn’s flights. 

At half past two, she heard a soft knock on her door. She reached for her sidearm, standard issue but rarely carried by ATA personnel, then opened it a crack. Nora stood there, pale, eyes wide. 

“Someone’s out by the pillbox,” she whispered. “With a torch.” 

Vivienne grabbed her coat. 

They moved through the sleeping camp, the moon slicing silver across the field. The pillbox loomed ahead, half-buried in the marsh grass, its slit windows black as eyes. 

They crouched behind a clump of gorse. The figure ahead was again Evelyn Carter, kneeling by the concrete wall, pushing something into a narrow gap between the stones. She looked over her shoulder once, then straightened and walked briskly back toward the hangars. 

When she’d gone, Vivienne crept forward. Inside the gap, wrapped in oilcloth, was a small packet. She eased it out and unwrapped it: a flight log, written in Evelyn’s hand. The latest entry read simply, Tide turns. Mercury rising. 

She turned to Nora. “Mercury Marshes,” she murmured. “That’s where the smugglers run their boats.” 

Nora swallowed hard. “You think she’s working with them?” 

“I think she’s feeding them our routes, and they’re passing them on.” 

In the distance, the tide whispered through the reeds, washing against the concrete. The sound was almost like a voice, repeating the same phrase over and over: The tide turns at Hamble. 

Chapter 3 

The tide had crept out overnight, leaving the flats of the Mercury Marshes glistening under a weak dawn. Mudflats stretched in slow gradients towards the Solent, scarred with channels where eels writhed and curlews picked delicately for worms. A wind came off the water carrying the smell of salt, fuel, and decay. 

Vivienne crouched among the reeds, her greatcoat damp to the knees. In the distance, Hamble’s hangars looked small and brittle against the horizon. She had left the billet before first light, telling Nora she meant to fetch milk from the village. Instead she had followed the track the locals called the Smugglers’ Lane, a narrow, twisting path that led to the marshes and the river mouth. 

The packet from the pillbox lay in her satchel, its pages dry but stained with sea-salt. She had read and reread them: coded notations disguised as fuel entries, references to “Mercury” and “Tides.” Someone had been meeting boats out here, under cover of blackout, handing over information meant for U-boat captains. 

Now she meant to see it with her own eyes. 

The faint engine hum drifted from upriver. She peered through her field-glasses. A motor launch, naval grey, but without number, slid between the mudbanks, moving cautiously. A man stood at the bow holding a shaded lamp. Beside him, bundled in a long coat, was a woman. Even at this distance, Vivienne recognised the posture: Evelyn Carter. 

Vivienne’s pulse quickened. She scribbled a time and bearing in her notebook, then began to crawl along the embankment. The marsh sucked at her boots. Somewhere a heron flapped away with a startled cry, and Vivienne froze; the figures below paused too, scanning the darkness. After a long minute they moved again, the lamp flashing once—three short, one long, two short. Morse. 

O–K–E–R, she translated automatically, though the sequence made no sense. A pre-arranged signal, perhaps. 

The boat nosed against a low jetty built from rotting planks. Evelyn knelt, passing down a small parcel wrapped in waxed cloth. The man pocketed it, handed her something in return, a bottle, or a flask. Then the engine coughed to life again and the launch slipped away toward the open Solent. 

Vivienne waited until the noise had dwindled, then crept closer. Evelyn was still on the jetty, watching the departing wake. She raised the flask, drank, and stood for a moment motionless, framed by the grey light. When she turned, Vivienne barely had time to duck. 

Boots squelched in the mud. Evelyn was coming up the path straight towards her hiding place. 

Vivienne pressed herself into the reeds, breath shallow. Evelyn passed within yards, humming softly. The tune was familiar: A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square. When the footsteps faded, Vivienne let the air out of her lungs and rose carefully. 

On the jetty she found only footprints and the faint smell of paraffin. She crouched, tracing the tracks. Two sets: one belonging to Evelyn, the other broader, with naval soles. 

She took one last look at the estuary, then turned back towards the airfield. 

By the time she reached Hamble, the morning fog had begun to burn off. The camp stirred with routine, the clatter of breakfast tins, the drone of engines warming up. Nora was waiting by the mess hut, a mug in each hand. 

“Where the devil have you been? You look like you’ve been rolling in the harbour.” 

Vivienne accepted the tea. “Field work,” she said briefly. 

Nora arched an eyebrow. “Field work, my foot. You were down by the Marshes again, weren’t you?” 

Vivienne gave no answer. 

Nora sighed. “You’ve got that look about you, you know. Same one I saw on a WAAF wireless girl in ‘40. She started poking her nose where it wasn’t wanted, and the next week we were scraping what was left of her Spitfire off a cliff in Dorset.” 

“I appreciate your concern,” Vivienne said coolly, “but I know what I’m doing.” 

“Do you? Because you don’t look like someone who flies for a living.” 

Vivienne froze. “Meaning?” 

Nora met her gaze squarely. “Meaning your hands. No blisters, no oil under the nails. And when you sit in the cockpit, you look at the dials like they’re written in Greek.” 

Vivienne set the mug down. “You’ve been watching me closely.” 

“That’s my job,” Nora said simply. “Keeping the planes safe. And maybe the people in them. You could tell me what’s really going on, Viv.” 

For a moment Vivienne considered it—the relief of sharing the truth. But the words that came were measured, practiced. “It’s better you don’t know.” 

Nora gave a short laugh. “That’s what they all say before it goes wrong.” She turned away, wiping her hands. “Just don’t make me regret trusting you.” 

Later that day, Pauline Gower called a meeting in the control room. Evelyn Carter was absent. The Commander’s expression was tight. 

“Message from London,” she said. “The Admiralty reports two more merchant ships torpedoed off the Isle of Wight last night. Both part of Convoy Delta Twelve.” 

A murmur ran through the room. 

“The timing matches our own ferry departures,” Gower went on. “Until further notice, all flight plans are to be filed by hand only, and locked in my office. No radio transmissions outside scheduled contact.” 

Vivienne kept her face impassive. She knew too well what it meant: the leak was confirmed. 

That night she wrote her first full report to Whitehall. 

> To: Section F, War Office. 

From: Agent V. March (Cover: ATA Lt.) 

Evidence indicates internal compromise within Hamble Ferry Pool. Subject E. Carter (pilot) observed communicating with unidentified naval operative at Mercury Marshes 05 00 hrs. Believed transmission of convoy data via Morse interference and coded flight logs. Recommend observation and controlled exposure. 

She burned the carbon copy in a tin ashtray, watching the paper curl. 

Then, from outside, came voices. Male, urgent. She slipped to the window. Alec Dray and two RAF policemen were crossing the yard, torches bobbing. They entered Hangar 3. Minutes later a shout went up: “Found something, sir!” 

Vivienne pulled on her coat and followed. Inside, the air reeked of petrol. Dray was bending over the same workbench where she had seen Evelyn’s wireless set. It was gone. In its place lay only a coil of burnt wiring and a melted crystal tube. 

“Sabotage,” one of the policemen muttered. 

Dray straightened. “No, cleanup. Whoever used this knew we’d come. They burned it an hour ago.” 

He turned to Vivienne. “You’re on evening duty, aren’t you, Lieutenant? Did you see anyone near this hangar?” 

“No, sir.” 

He studied her face for a moment, then nodded. “If you do, you’ll report directly to me.” 

When he was gone, Vivienne examined the floor. Among the ashes she found a single scrap of paper, half-charred. Only one line remained legible: 

Mercury tonight 2330. 

She returned to her billet and waited until the camp settled into silence. At 23 10 she slipped out again, revolver at her hip, torch pocketed. The moon was high, throwing silver over the fields. 

At the edge of the marsh she paused. The tide was rising, creeping over the mudflats. Lanterns glimmered in the distance - three of them, bobbing like ghost lights. 

Vivienne moved from shadow to shadow until she reached the broken jetty. Voices carried over the water, muffled but distinct. 

“…only a few more runs, then we’re clear. The war can’t last another year.” 

Evelyn’s voice. 

A man answered, his accent Germanic but softened. “After tonight, no more signals. London will act on the information. They think it comes from their own.” 

Vivienne strained to see. The man was tall, wearing a naval coat without insignia. Evelyn handed him another parcel—larger this time. 

Vivienne stepped forward, pistol raised. “Stand still.” 

Both froze. 

Evelyn turned slowly, eyes wide but not afraid. “You shouldn’t be here, March.” 

“Drop the parcel.” 

The man made a sudden move toward his coat. Vivienne fired once. The shot cracked across the water. The man fell, half in the tide, a dark bloom spreading. 

Evelyn didn’t scream. She just looked down at him, then back at Vivienne. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” 

“I stopped a traitor.” 

“You stopped peace.” 

Vivienne hesitated. “Peace?” 

Evelyn’s voice was low, fierce. “He wasn’t Abwehr. He was OSS—American intelligence. We were trading false routes, feeding Berlin rubbish to buy the Admiralty time. The real convoys are safe because of us.” 

Vivienne felt the ground tilt. “Prove it.” 

Evelyn gestured at the parcel. Vivienne stooped, unwrapped it. Inside were maps, heavily redacted, routes that led nowhere. 

“You think Whitehall tells you everything?” Evelyn said quietly. “Someone had to make the lies believable. That was my job.” 

The tide surged higher, swirling round the dead man’s boots. 

Vivienne lowered the pistol. “Then why hide it? Why use smugglers and secret codes?” 

“Because they’d never authorise it on paper,” Evelyn said. “Too much risk, too much pride. So we did it ourselves. For every ship they lost, three got through.” 

Vivienne stared at her. “Then who sent me?” 

Evelyn’s eyes softened with something like pity. “Someone who didn’t know the whole game, or didn’t care to.” 

A shout echoed from upriver, engines, torches. RAF patrols. Evelyn looked back toward the marsh. “They’ll shoot first and question later. Go, Vivienne. Please.” 

Vivienne hesitated, torn between duty and something deeper, a grim understanding of how wars devoured their own. 

But orders were orders. She raised the pistol again. “You’re coming with me.” 

Evelyn smiled sadly. “No, love. The tide’s turning.” 

Before Vivienne could move, Evelyn stepped backward off the jetty. The current caught her instantly, sweeping her into the dark. 

Vivienne lunged forward, torch beam slashing the water, but the surface was empty. Only the tide’s relentless whisper remained. 

She was still there when the patrol reached her, the bodies gone, the evidence washed away. Dray’s torch found her face, pale and set. 

“What happened here, Lieutenant?” 

She looked out over the black water. “The tide turned, sir,” she said quietly. “And it took everything with it.” 

By moning the marshes were bare again, the tide ggone and with it any sign of what had happened.  RAF launch crews had combed the estuary for two hours before dawn and found nothing, no body, no parcel, no witness but Vivienne March.  The official entry in the duty log read simply: Disturbance reported, 01 30 hrs. No further action. 

Vivienne sat on the edge of her bunk, boots still wet with salt, staring at her hands.  The smell of the marsh clung to her clothes—brine, mud, cordite.  Outside, the camp bustled as if nothing had changed: typewriters clacking, a Spitfire testing its engine, someone laughing too loudly at breakfast.  The world, she thought, had a brutal gift for carrying on. 

A knock at the door.  Nora stepped in, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep.  “They’ve got the whole yard talking.  Dray says he found you by the pier with a gun.” 

Vivienne said nothing. 

Nora shut the door behind her.  “What the hell happened out there?” 

Vivienne kept her gaze on the floor.  “An exchange.  Interrupted.” 

“Whose side?” 

“That’s the question, isn’t it.” 

Nora folded her arms.  “You shot someone, didn’t you?” 

Vivienne’s silence was answer enough. 

Nora sat opposite her.  “If you think you can keep that from the Commander, you’re daft.  Dray’s already sniffing.  They’ve grounded everyone till they sort it out.  Carter’s missing.” 

Vivienne’s head came up.  “Missing?” 

“Didn’t sign in last night.  They think she’s crashed at sea.” 

Vivienne felt a hollow open in her chest.  “There’ll be a board of inquiry,” she murmured. 

“There always is.”  Nora hesitated.  “Look—whatever game you’re playing, just be careful.  People disappear round here for less.” 

By midday she was summoned to Gower’s office.  The Commander stood behind her desk, cigarette smoke coiling in the cold light.  Alec Dray sat opposite, a file open on his knee. 

“Lieutenant March,” Gower began, voice clipped, “we’ve a discrepancy in last night’s records.  You were logged as off-duty.  Yet the patrol found you near Mercury Marshes with a service revolver.” 

Vivienne clasped her hands behind her back.  “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Explain.” 

“I had reason to suspect enemy signalling from the shoreline.  I investigated.” 

Dray’s eyes were flint.  “Alone?  Without authorisation?” 

“I deemed delay more dangerous than action.” 

Gower exhaled through her cigarette.  “And what did you find?” 

“Nothing, ma’am.  Whoever was there escaped before I arrived.” 

Dray shut the file.  “A convenient answer.” 

She met his gaze steadily.  “The truth nonetheless.” 

He leaned forward.  “We’ve reason to believe Evelyn Carter was involved.  She’s unaccounted for, her Spitfire never returned from Kidlington.  If you know anything—anything, you’d best tell us now.” 

Vivienne kept her face composed.  “I know only that she was a fine pilot.” 

For a moment no one spoke.  Then Gower stubbed out her cigarette.  “That will be all, Lieutenant.  You’re confined to base pending further orders.” 

Outside, the wind off the river bit through her uniform.  She walked toward the hangars, feeling the invisible eyes that followed. 

That evening Nora found her in Hangar 3, sitting beneath the wing of Gloria, the Spitfire that had once sung Morse.  The lantern cast a small, trembling circle of light. 

“They’re talking about you,” Nora said quietly.  “Say you’re not what you claim.” 

Vivienne gave a dry laugh.  “They’re not wrong.” 

Nora crouched beside her.  “Then tell me.  For once, no riddles.” 

Vivienne hesitated.  Then, perhaps because she had no one else left, she spoke.  “I was sent from London.  Intelligence.  There’s been a leak of ferry schedules to the enemy.  I thought Carter was the source.” 

“And now?” 

“Now I’m not sure of anything.” 

Nora’s brow furrowed.  “I found something today.”  She reached into her pocket and produced a torn page.  “Was clearing Carter’s locker.  Hidden behind the lining.” 

Vivienne unfolded it.  A flight-log leaf, dated two days prior.  Route 47 – Hamble to Kidlington.  The margins were filled with figures: fuel loads, altitudes, wind speeds—and between them, tiny dots and dashes written in pencil. 

Vivienne’s pulse quickened.  “Morse again.” 

She deciphered quickly: Mercury safe harbour false north channel real. 

“It’s a key,” she said softly.  “A map to distinguish fake from genuine convoy routes.” 

Nora stared.  “Then she was one of us?” 

“She believed she was.  But someone higher up wanted her silenced.” 

“Whitehall?” 

“Or Washington.” 

Nora sat back hard against the wheel.  “Bloody hell.  And you pulled the trigger.” 

The words hit like shrapnel.  Vivienne rose abruptly, stuffing the page into her pocket.  “No one can know about this.  If Dray finds it, it’ll vanish into some classified drawer and the truth with it.” 

Nora caught her arm.  “Viv—what are you going to do?” 

“Finish what she started.” 

That night the fog returned, thicker than before.  Vivienne waited until the guard rotation changed, then slipped from her quarters.  She carried the torn log page, a torch, and a pilot’s satchel. 

In the control room, the map still hung with its web of strings.  She moved quietly, removing the red pins marking Evelyn’s false routes and replacing them with blue according to the cipher.  The pattern that emerged made her stomach tighten: one untouched route leading north-east toward the Channel convoys, the real one, unprotected. 

Someone had to warn them.  But the radio in Gower’s office was under lock and key.  Only the tower transmitter could reach the Admiralty. 

She climbed the narrow stairs to the tower.  The wind moaned through the seams.  Down below, the airfield was a pale ghost under the fog lamps. 

She tuned the set, heart hammering.  “Hamble Tower calling Navy Ops, priority red,” she said softly into the mic.  “Convoy Delta Fourteen reroute north immediate.  Enemy aware of—” 

The door burst open.  Alec Dray stood there, revolver drawn. 

“Step away from that set, Lieutenant.” 

Vivienne froze.  “You don’t understand—” 

“Oh, I understand perfectly.”  He crossed the room, shutting off the transmitter.  “You’re the leak.  You and Carter both.  Feeding the enemy, playing hero.” 

“That’s not true.” 

He smiled thinly.  “You think London didn’t tell me who you were?  I was the one who requested you.” 

Her stomach lurched.  “You?” 

“Section D.  Counter-intelligence.”  He holstered the revolver with deliberate calm.  “Your job was never to find a mole.  It was to flush Carter out so we could tidy loose ends.  But you went off-script, didn’t you?  Started asking the wrong questions.” 

Vivienne felt the blood drain from her face.  “She wasn’t a traitor.” 

Dray’s expression hardened.  “She was,  ....a liability.  Feeding decoy routes works until the enemy realises which are false.  Then you need a new source to blame.  Preferably one who won’t live to object.” 

Realisation struck like ice water.  “You arranged last night.” 

He shrugged.  “Orders from the top.  But you complicated things.  Now I have to decide whether to write you up as a hero or an accident.” 

Vivienne’s hand moved slowly to the edge of the desk, fingers finding the heavy microphone base.  “If you kill me, they’ll know.” 

“Will they?”  He lifted the pistol again.  “Fog’s thick tonight.  Planes crash all the time.” 

She swung the mic base hard.  It caught him across the temple with a dull crack.  He staggered; she fired the transmitter again, shouting into it: “This is Hamble Tower—abort convoy Delta Fourteen! Leak confirmed—repeat, leak confirmed!” 

The pistol went off.  Pain flared white along her shoulder.  She dropped, grabbing the sidearm from his belt as he fell against the console.  Two more shots echoed; the glass of the tower windows shattered, wind howling through. 

When it was over, Dray lay motionless.  The transmitter sparked, a faint smell of ozone filling the room.  Vivienne pressed one trembling hand to the wound in her shoulder and watched the indicator light flicker from red to green.  Message sent. 

She stayed that way for a long moment, listening to the static.  Somewhere far out at sea, ships would be altering course, unseen.  Perhaps they would survive.  Perhaps not. 

Down below, footsteps pounded on the stairs, Nora’s voice calling her name. 

Vivienne turned from the console, the blood soaking her sleeve.  “Get out, Nora,” she said hoarsely.  “Tell them it’s done.” 

Nora stared at the body on the floor.  “Christ, Viv—what have you—” 

“No time.  Go.” 

“Not without you.” 

Vivienne managed a faint, bitter smile.  “Orders, Sergeant.” 

Nora hesitated, then obeyed, running down the stairs.  Vivienne looked once more out over the fog-drowned field.  The pillbox by the river was half-submerged, the tide creeping round it.  She thought of Evelyn’s voice: The tide’s turning. 

She holstered the pistol, straightened her tunic, and walked out into the daw 

Chapter 4 

The gale rolled in from the Channel at dusk, turning the estuary to pewter.  Wind flattened the reeds and drove salt spray half a mile inland.  The siren at Hamble howled once and fell silent, a warning more to steady nerves than to announce an air raid.  The front had shifted to France, but the weather itself was enemy enough. 

Vivienne March limped across the field, greatcoat snapping around her legs.  Her wounded shoulder throbbed where Dray’s bullet had grazed her.  The medics had patched her in silence, unsure whether she was heroine or murderer.  She had given no statement, signed nothing, only asked for leave to “clear her head.”  Now, as darkness crept in, she made for the Common and the pillbox crouched beside the tide line. 

The concrete hut looked smaller than she remembered, its slit windows like blind eyes.  Sandbags sagged, seaweed clinging to the lower stones.  She ducked inside.  The air smelled of rust and damp earth.  On the wall, her torch picked out initials scratched years ago—E.C., N.F., V.M.  The last she didn’t recall carving. 

On the floor lay the oilcloth parcel she’d hidden after the fight: Evelyn’s last logbook.  She knelt, unwrapping it carefully.  Inside were pages of codes, route corrections, and at the back a single letter addressed in Evelyn’s hand: For whoever finds this when the tide turns. 

Vivienne unfolded it. 

> Vivienne, 

If you’re reading this, I’ve failed, or you’ve succeeded - it amounts to the same. 

What we tried was never meant for medals.  There will be men who claim victory, others who claim betrayal.  Both will sleep soundly. 

Tell Nora the planes were never haunted.  The voices were ours, caught in the metal, echoing back what we refused to hear. 

When the war ends, burn the logbooks.  Let the sea have the rest. 

— E.C. 

Vivienne sat back, the paper trembling in her hands.  Outside, the tide hissed against the stones, rising fast.  The gale made the pillbox tremble.  She thought of Dray’s corpse in the tower, of Gower’s inevitable report to Whitehall.  There would be inquiries, sanitised, efficient.  Lieutenant March killed in action during enemy sabotage attempt.  The file would close. 

A shape moved in the doorway.  Nora Fielding stepped in, hair plastered with rain. 

“You couldn’t keep away from this place, could you?” she said. 

Vivienne rose slowly.  “They’ll be coming for me soon.” 

“I know.”  Nora held up a small bundle, bread, flask, spare bandage.  “Figured you might need a head start.” 

Vivienne stared.  “You should have turned me in.” 

Nora gave a crooked smile.  “After all the tea I owe you?  Not likely.”  Her voice dropped.  “They’ve found Dray.  Gower says London wants a statement, but I heard her tell the adjutant she doubts you’ll be alive to give one.” 

Vivienne looked toward the water.  “Maybe she’s right.” 

“Don’t talk rot.”  Nora stepped closer.  “You saved that convoy, didn’t you?  The signal went through.” 

“I think so.”  Vivienne let out a brittle laugh.  “No telegram of thanks yet.” 

Nora studied her.  “You can still disappear.  I know the smugglers on the river.  They’ll run you to Portsmouth for a price.” 

“And then what?  Another name, another war?”  Vivienne shook her head.  “It ends here.” 

For a moment neither spoke.  The wind keened through the embrasures like a lament. 

Nora’s eyes glistened.  “You’ll make me believe those planes really did talk, you know.  I keep hearing them at night—your voices, hers.  Maybe that’s how the ghosts stay.” 

Vivienne managed a faint smile.  “Then promise me one thing.  When the war’s over, tell them about the women who kept flying when no one else would.  Don’t let them forget.” 

“I’ll tell them,” Nora whispered.  “But you tell them yourself, you daft Yank.” 

Vivienne turned toward the doorway.  The wind had shifted; through the mist she saw headlights bouncing along the track, jeeps, soldiers.  She slipped the letter back into the logbook and pressed it into Nora’s hands.  “Keep it safe.  The tide will tell the rest.” 

“Viv—” 

But she was already gone, striding into the storm. 

Rain stung her face as she crossed the Common.  The jeeps halted by the airfield fence; voices shouted her name.  She didn’t look back.  The shoreline blurred in sheets of water.  Somewhere beyond the darkness, the Solent roared. 

She reached the old jetty where she had last seen Evelyn vanish.  The planks creaked, half under water.  In the distance a searchlight cut a white path across the waves.  Vivienne stepped onto the boards.  The sea surged round her boots, cold and absolute. 

She could have run inland, taken Nora’s offer, but every step she’d taken since Kansas City had led here, to the moment when truth and duty met and cancelled each other out.  The wind howled, the tide climbed.  She raised her face to the spray and, for a heartbeat, thought she heard engines overhead, Spitfires, a whole squadron singing their Morse into the clouds.  Or perhaps it was only the wind through the rigging. 

A voice shouted her name again, faint, desperate.  Nora’s, maybe.  She turned once, smiled, and stepped forward into the black water. 

The tide swallowed her in silence. 

Chapter 5 

Hamble, Autumn 1952 

The airfield was now a civilian training school, no longer in military use.  

. 

Nora Fielding parked her bicycle by the fence and took a moment before crossing the field.  Her hair was grey now, cut short beneath her hat, and her gait favoured the leg that had been broken in ’44 when a Tiger Moth she was ferrying lost power.  The Ministry had retired her after that.  Now she worked at a garage in Southampton, fixing the same engines she had once risked her life to deliver. 

In her satchel was a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth.  She had kept it through rationing, demob, and the grey years after—a relic of something she couldn’t quite name.  Sometimes she told herself she was waiting for the right moment to destroy it.  Other times she suspected she simply couldn’t let go. 

The marsh smelled the same as it had that last night: salt, mud, distant smoke from the village chimneys.  The tide was halfway in, whispering against the reeds.  She found the pillbox door rusted but still ajar.  Inside, it was dim and cool, a trickle of water running through the floor. 

She sat on a crate and unwrapped the parcel.  The logbook was intact, the pages yellowed but dry.  On the first leaf, in Vivienne’s careful hand, someone—perhaps Nora herself—had written: For the record, when the record no longer matters. 

Nora opened to the final page.  Evelyn’s letter was still there, the ink faded to sepia.  She read it once more, slowly, her lips moving silently over the words she’d memorised long ago. 

When she finished, she took a cigarette from her coat, lit it, and watched the smoke curl toward the firing slit.  “Well, girls,” she murmured, “you can rest easy now.” 

Her voice wavered.  “But I do.” 

A shadow fell across the doorway.  “You always did talk to yourself, Nora.” 

She started.  A young woman stood there—brown hair tucked under a scarf, notebook in hand.  “Sorry,” she said quickly.  “Didn’t mean to startle you.  I’m from the Southern Echo. Doing a piece on the old ATA base.  They said you were the one to talk to.” 

Nora eyed her warily, then nodded.  “Aye, I was here.” 

The reporter stepped in, blinking at the gloom.  “Must’ve been something, this place.  All those women flying fighters while the men were at the front.” 

“It was something, all right.”  Nora stubbed out the cigarette.  “Mostly mud and fear and tea so strong it could stand a spoon.” 

The girl smiled.  “Did you know Lieutenant March?  I came across her name in an archive—American pilot, went missing in ’43.  No record of her after that.” 

Nora’s throat tightened.  “Vivienne March.”  She said the name as if testing it for fractures.  “Yes.  I knew her.” 

“What was she like?” 

Nora looked past the girl, out to where the tide gleamed between the reeds.  “The kind that never quite belonged anywhere, but made everyone else believe they did.  You meet someone like that once, if you’re lucky.” 

The reporter scribbled.  “They say she died in an accident.  Plane went down?” 

Nora gave a small, tired smile.  “That’s what the papers said.” 

“Do you think it’s true?” 

Nora didn’t answer.  Instead, she reached into her satchel and held out the logbook.  “You want your story, it’s in here.  But mind you, t’s not for headlines.  Read it, then decide whether it’s worth printing.” 

The girl took it reverently.  “Thank you.  I’ll bring it back.” 

Nora shook her head.  “No need.  Let it travel a bit.  That’s what it was made for.” 

The girl tucked the bundle under her arm and went out into the sunlight.  Nora waited until her footsteps faded before stepping to the doorway.  The tide had reached the threshold now, water lapping at the concrete.  She thought of Vivienne’s voice, calm even in the storm: When the war’s over, burn the logbooks.  Let the sea have the rest. 

Nora knelt, touched the wet stone, and whispered, “It’s over, love.  You can stop flying now.” 

Then she turned and walked away. 

Hamble, 2003 

A pair of children were poking about the marsh edge with sticks, hunting for crabs.  The younger one, a boy, called out suddenly.  “Mum!  There’s something here!” 

Their mother came over, wiping her hands on her jeans.  Half-buried in the silt was a rusted metal box, its lid eaten through by salt.  She prised it open carefully.  Inside, wrapped in oilcloth blackened with age, was a scrap of paper. 

Most of the writing had dissolved, but a few lines remained legible: 

> The tide turns at Hamble.  Tell them we flew because we must, not because we could. 

She turned it over, smiling faintly at the initials scrawled in the corner—V.M. 

“Old war junk,” she said softly, though her voice held something like awe.  “Come on, you two.  Tide’s coming in.” 

As they walked back toward the village, the water crept higher, curling round the pillbox until only its roof showed above the silvered surface.  For a moment the waves caught the light in such a way that it seemed the marsh itself was breathing—inhale, exhale, as if remembering. 

Somewhere far off, faint as the echo of a dream, came the murmur of engines—Spitfires, perhaps, or the wind over the reeds.  Then the sound faded, leaving only the sea and the turning tide.