Mrs. Hamilton briefed me on RAF Medmenham. When the war began, photo reconnaissance was rarely used. But after the continent fell, there was no way to find out what the enemy was doing except to spy on them from the air.
To minimize the usual wrangling among the army, navy, and air force, a single Photo Reconnaissance Unit was created to fly the planes and take the photos, and a Central Interpretation Unit to decipher the results. The flying unit was located on the nearby riverbank and this luxurious house was fitted out with all the necessary photographic equipment.
The head of the interpretation unit was RAF Group Captain Martin Shoreham, a First World War veteran with a sterling reputation. I met him when Mrs. Hamilton escorted me to the south wing, down more hallways as long as runways. “He has an artificial hand,” she warned, before opening his office door. “Please don’t stare at it.”
Although simply furnished, the commander’s office was an elegant chamber with an elaborate plaster frieze around the ceiling, and a pair of French doors that opened onto a stone balustrade overlooking the sweep of the Thames.
“Glad to have you on board, Jolliffe,” he said. A vigorous man with a chest like a rain barrel and a huge RAF moustache, he rose to his feet with his left hand behind his back, smiling at me like a friendly uncle.
“We’re completely swamped. We’ve doubled our staff in the past year — we have forty interpreters now, and we could probably use another hundred. It’s very difficult to find the right people. What part of Canada are you from?”
“Western Canada, sir. The prairies.”
“Excellent. I haven’t been farther west than Ottawa, myself. Perhaps after the war. Welcome to Medmenham. Mrs. Hamilton will take good care of you. Dismissed.”
We returned to the north wing, where a monstrous bathroom had been converted into a darkroom by removing the toilet and bathtub and adding several large sinks. On the floor was an intricate Grecian key pattern of dark blue and white mosaic tiles, repeated at waist level around all four walls.
I forced myself to concentrate as Mrs. Hamilton began my briefing. “As soon as a recce aircraft lands, the rolls of film are rushed here straight away, and we develop and print two sets of photographs.” At first I was confused, thinking she had called them “wrecky” aircraft. Then I realized this was air force slang, short for reconnaissance.
“One set of prints goes to the first phase interpreters for a quick once-over. Next they are passed to second phase interpretation for the next twenty-four hours. If something suspicious is found, the photos go to third phase. That requires the most intense scrutiny by subject specialists, who are divided into fifteen sections: aircraft, bomb damage, camouflage, and so forth.”
I listened intently, trying to remember everything.
“We also receive negatives and prints from every air base in the country. These are filed here in our central library, and reviewed frequently. For example, if a new factory is detected, the industrial section will request all the cover from that area be brought out for another examination.”
Mrs. Hamilton examined me over her spectacles. “I’m warning you, it can be very high-pressure. You’ll know what I mean when you have two or three officers hanging fire outside the darkroom door. In a crisis, they may want to see the negatives first. Or they may want a quick-and-dirty. That’s when we print the wet negatives under cellophane, without waiting for them to dry.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I felt charged with duty and responsibility.
“These rolls were brought in last night. I’ll walk you through the procedure.”
Touchwood
April 27, 1942
To my very own Sweetheart of the Forces,
We saw the first robin today — that’s ten days earlier than last year. The road is pure mud so we’ve been sticking close to home until it dries up. I cut a bouquet of pussy willows and your mother has them on the kitchen table.
I’m hoping to get an early start on the seeding since Jack isn’t around to help. I wanted to keep him here, but I couldn’t say no when all of his friends have gone. He’s hankering to fly a Spit, but I told him not to count his chickens. His last letter was from Trenton, Ontario. He’s not much for writing, but he dashes off the odd postcard.
George Stewart and I have worked out a plan to help each other this year. We’ll use both seeders on his place, then come over to ours. He said Charlie has been posted to a new station in the north of England. Charlie isn’t allowed to say where, but before he left they worked out a rough code. I can’t tell you what it is, or the censors will be cutting holes in this letter, too.
There are planes buzzing around all the time now that the new relief airfield went in next to the Stewart place. The base built a hangar and radio shack there, even a barracks building. I was worried about the cattle but they’ve gotten used to the racket now. Two airmen came over this morning looking for something to do, so I gave them a couple of .22s and told them to shoot gophers. I hope they don’t shoot each other.
Did the British newspapers report anything about our plebiscite on conscription? Everyone in English Canada was in favour but the Quebeckers voted no almost to a man. MacTavish tried to defend them in an editorial, but he made himself pretty unpopular down at the Legion hall, not that he cares.
I wish you could describe your work but we know it’s top secret. We’re glad you’ve been posted to a safe place away from London. That’s where the balloon will go up if things get worse.
Your loving Dad
Somewhere in England
May 1, 1942
Dear Mother and Dad,
Today I met a real lord! His name is Lord Alfred March. One of the public relations officers was showing him around, and he introduced me by saying: “Leading Aircraftwoman Rose Jolliffe is a real asset to the Commonwealth.” For the life of me, I didn’t know whether I should salute, shake hands, or curtsy! I gave a nervous nod and said how do you do.
He didn’t look very lordly. Tall and thin, with a bowler hat and a fusty black suit, satin waistcoat, and bow tie. Maybe he was trying to imitate Churchill. He had lots of room for a bow tie because his neck was so long and skinny.
After they left the room, one of the other girls told me that Lord March has contributed his entire fortune to the war effort and turned his estate in Devonshire into a home for war orphans. I felt awful then, judging him by his appearance!
I go for long walks whenever I’m not on duty. The countryside around here is so pretty. I amuse myself by trying to identify the unfamiliar flowers. The barrage balloons look like big silver jackfish floating in the sky. I sat on a stile last night to watch the sunset, and the bottoms of the balloons turned the loveliest shade of pink.
All my love, Rose
10
My pupils felt permanently dilated, like a cat’s eyes in the night. I now spent most of my daylight hours in the windowless darkroom, and emerged only after sunset into full blackout.
I remembered the old saying about a soldier’s life: 10 percent hell, the rest sit around and wait. When the weather was good and the recce pilots were flying, the lab people were working under intense pressure. Either we were making prints, extra prints, and then more prints because another section wanted copies, or the pilots were weathered out and we were killing time by cleaning equipment and checking chemicals.
Today I was in the print library, filing a batch of photographs with purple fingers. All the girls had them, because the developing fluid stained our skin a gentian colour. Since our work was secret, if anyone asked us about our hands, we were supposed to say