“How I ended up with a daughter like you,” she murmured, and Ella mouthed the words as her mother said them, used to hearing that exact phrase on a daily basis. But it was always followed by a squeeze of her shoulder and a kiss on the cheek, which at least made her think that her mom secretly approved of her work. Or maybe she was just deluding herself.
When she was alone in her room again, Ella opened her drawer and took out a cigarette, knowing her mother hated her smoking in the house but seemingly unable to ever type without at least a few puffs before she started. It was one of her little rituals around her writing, the need to smoke at least half a Lucky Strike until the words started to flow, before forgetting about it and letting it burn down to nothing in the glass ashtray beside her.
She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, cigarette between her lips, and fed it through her typewriter, the habit calming her as she considered her current predicament. Maybe she’d write that article just for something cathartic to do.
“Darling! It’s time for breakfast!”
Ella shut her eyes for a moment, blocking out her mother’s voice and wishing she had the nerve to write straight back to the United Press and refuse to accept their treatment of her. But that little voice of self-doubt, the one that had almost stopped her from writing under a false name to begin with, was whispering at her that perhaps she just needed to accept her fate. That maybe she hadn’t been good enough in the first place.
“Ella! Come along before your eggs go cold!”
She sighed and stood, staring down at her typewriter, desperate to settle her hands over the cool black metal and start tapping out a story, even if it would never be published. But that could wait.
“Coming, Mama!” she yelled back.
Eight hours later, she was trudging off to meet the group of women her mother had talked about for months now. Her mom had been like a parrot, telling her everything about them and how brave they were, so if she was honest, there was something satisfying about meeting them. Not to mention the fact that she probably should have written an article about them all those months ago.
Ella smiled to herself as she patted the small notebook in her pocket, vowing to scribble notes about the women she met throughout the evening just in case she was able to put a story together.
“Come on, sweetheart, keep up,” her mother called out, striding out up ahead.
And then she saw them, and she had to stop her jaw from dropping. The women waiting wore practical, almost man-like coats over their dresses to protect them from the slightly cooler evening wind, but despite their clothing, they were the most beautiful bunch of ladies she’d ever seen, with not a hair out of place and their lipstick perfectly brushed on. And they were all holding guns in their gloved hands.
Ella absently touched her hair, a scarf tied around it, and wished she’d followed her mother’s advice and made more of an effort with her appearance. She was used to spending most of her days curled up with her typewriter, and the more she’d worked, the less she’d started to worry about how she looked.
“Everyone, this is my daughter, Ella.” Her mother beamed, her shining smile sending waves of guilt through Ella—it wouldn’t have killed her to come along before now, given how proud her mother was of her little group.
“Hello,” she said, raising her hand and smiling back at the women.
“You ever shot one of these before, Ella?” one of them asked, holding out a rifle.
“Um, well, no actually, I haven’t,” she admitted, pulling out her pen and paper to start taking notes. “I tend to fight my battles on the page, not with bullets!”
She expected them to laugh, but only her mother smiled at her joke. The others looked more confused than anything. Ella cleared her throat awkwardly, realizing that her mother obviously hadn’t mentioned that her daughter was a journalist. Or if she had, it clearly hadn’t impressed them.
“I was thinking I could interview you all, you know, as you train and patrol,” she said, glancing at each of the ten or twelve women blinking back at her, their expressions impossible to read. “I’m a, ah . . . a writer.” It almost felt fraudulent saying it now that she didn’t actually have a job. But the stories she’d been writing on the social issues that were arising as a result of the war had all been printed, so technically she was still a writer.
“Or you could just get on with things and learn how to shoot one of these,” the same robust-looking woman said, thrusting the gun more forcefully at her this time, clearly not impressed by her suggestion.
Ella stared at the weapon, nodding as she slowly reached out one hand and gripped the wooden barrel with her fingers. “Oh, yes, of course,” she said, shooting her mother a quick sideways glance as she took it. “Of course I can, we can always talk later, I suppose,” she muttered.
But her voice was lost to the chatter of the women around her, who seemed oblivious to anything other than the work they were doing. She sighed and fell into step beside them, notebook tucked back into her pocket, resigned to the fact there was going to be no more writing until morning. And then an idea struck her, and she almost burst out laughing.
This was what she could write about. The United Press might not want her, but surely another publication would be interested in having a woman write about what women were doing during wartime? She smiled to herself as she marched, thrilled with her idea.
This way she wouldn’t have to pretend she was a man just to get published, although the idea of everyone knowing it was her, with no pseudonym to hide behind? Ella gulped. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, but most of all it scared her so much she knew it would take all her nerves to follow through with it. In the past, she’d been so careful to make herself sound like a man through her writing, but if she did this? She wouldn’t have to change the way she wrote to sound so formal and robust; she wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.
“Ella, stop dreaming and hurry up!” her mother whispered, tugging her arm.
Ella grinned, trotting along to catch up as her head filled with possibilities.
CHAPTER TWO
SICILY, JULY 1943
DANNI
“Bloody hell, are you sure about this, Danni?”
Danni tried to disguise her smirk, thankful for the dark as her English companion gripped the side of the plane beside her.
“We’ve been through this, Andy,” she shouted back. “Just remember your training, and when they say jump—”
The near-deafening rumble of the plane muffled his protests further, and she slapped her hand over her mouth to disguise her laughter at Andy’s half-hearted yelp as one of the troops shoved him out the plane door. She should have been terrified; logically she knew that she had every chance of not making it home from her bold decision to parachute directly into conflict, but she was starting to become addicted to the excitement of it all. The men she worked with always claimed whiskey was their poison, but for her it was the adrenalin of her work that made her blood pump like liquid fire through her veins. Poor Andy didn’t seem to thrive on it as much as she did, although she was always telling him to stop being so damn British and enjoy living in the moment more.
“Go!” someone yelled at her as more men started to leap from the plane, and she released her hold, smiling to herself when no one dared to push her as they’d pushed her partner. Clearly they’d listened to her when she’d said she’d scream bloody murder, as the Brits liked to say, if anyone dared to lay a hand on her. The plane swayed sideways then lurched sharply, the wind whistling around them and sending spikes of nerves through her stomach.