Noor, eldest daughter of musician and Sufi teacher Inayat Khan, but an officer in His Majesty’s Directorate of Air Intelligence, calling herself Leading Aircraftwoman Nora, taking her mother’s maiden name, Baker, and stating her religion as Church of England instead of Islam.
Nora Baker, trained in the fine art of wireless operations and the craft of time-delay incendiaries.
Nora Baker, who shared with Yolande a dread of wasting time. At night in the dormitory, trading news and rumours about the war, both agreed life could end today, tomorrow—by random blast or fire from a German bomb. Something positive must be accomplished before that.
Through the Blitz, Noor was ashamed to feel she was safer than Armand, beloved Armand, lost somewhere in the recesses of conquered Europe. She couldn’t be like Zaib, for whom Londonwas one long party interspersed with air raids, lectures and lab work. Noor’s pleasures were stunted by guilt.
If there hadn’t been a war, she might have said she was Muslim just so the English might understand that Indian Muslim women were not as they imagined: weak, meek, stupid or spineless. But she adjusted like everyone else. An English accent wasn’t required for wireless telegraphy at Edinburgh and Abingdon, but she acquired one to be understood, adding it to her French, Indian-English and American-English accents.
Amazing how much adjustment people could make, how cheerful people were.
Because
there was a war?
She was cheerful around the time she enlisted as Aircraftwoman 424598, back in 1940, when Armand’s first letter said he and his mother were in Cannes. Cannes on the Riviera, at the time unoccupied by the Germans. He was free, he was safe. Noor’s high spirits lasted almost a month. And she was cheerful for another week, almost a year later, when there was a letter from nearby Nice. But by the time Major Boddington’s letter arrived, worry and fear for Armand were a ten-pound pole she carried across her shoulders, and no sooner did she read “an assignment that involves travel overseas” than she made up her mind. But there hadn’t been any travel overseas. Not a single assignment, yet.
All through her toughening-up and training, she had been suspended in a semi-life, preparing, anticipating and waiting, waiting, waiting for her chance—insh’allah—to return to France. Twenty-nine years old and feeling her life had yet to begin.
More FANY s were emerging from the woods, their talk and laughter carrying across the clearing.
Be cheerful
.
“Time for tea—race you!” she cried to Yolande, and ran across the clearing towards the triple roofs of Wanborough Manor.
Noor held the heavy oak door for Yolande and walked down the wainscotted corridor of the eighteenth-century manor by her side. The Special Operations Executive had requisitioned so manycountry homes like this one all over England that some wag said the letters SOE of the top secret agency, charged with Setting Europe Ablaze and all that, really stood for Stately ‘Omes of England. Setting Europe Ablaze, Churchill’s term for fomenting unrest, sabotage and uncertainty for the Germans in France, training and arming the French resistance for the day he’d give the command and they’d rise up against the Germans, had by now become more than a slogan for Noor. Here she learned to throw hand grenades, instantly identify German military uniforms, fire pistols, Sten guns and explosives, and evade anyone following.
“Miss Atkins?” said Noor to the compact figure standing in the gloom.
“Nora,” came a flinty voice. “Colonel Buckmaster would like a word with you.”
“I’ll run along for tea, then,” said Yolande, giving Noor a smile of encouragement.
Miss Atkins opened a door. At the far end of a large drawing room, two men in khaki standing at a desk looked up as Noor was ushered in. Both held plotter rakes as if they were billiard sticks. They’d been poring over a Michelin map dotted with
Nora Baker, trained in the fine art of wireless operations and the craft of time-delay incendiaries.
Nora Baker, who shared with Yolande a dread of wasting time. At night in the dormitory, trading news and rumours about the war, both agreed life could end today, tomorrow—by random blast or fire from a German bomb. Something positive must be accomplished before that.
Through the Blitz, Noor was ashamed to feel she was safer than Armand, beloved Armand, lost somewhere in the recesses of conquered Europe. She couldn’t be like Zaib, for whom Londonwas one long party interspersed with air raids, lectures and lab work. Noor’s pleasures were stunted by guilt.
If there hadn’t been a war, she might have said she was Muslim just so the English might understand that Indian Muslim women were not as they imagined: weak, meek, stupid or spineless. But she adjusted like everyone else. An English accent wasn’t required for wireless telegraphy at Edinburgh and Abingdon, but she acquired one to be understood, adding it to her French, Indian-English and American-English accents.
Amazing how much adjustment people could make, how cheerful people were.
Because
there was a war?
She was cheerful around the time she enlisted as Aircraftwoman 424598, back in 1940, when Armand’s first letter said he and his mother were in Cannes. Cannes on the Riviera, at the time unoccupied by the Germans. He was free, he was safe. Noor’s high spirits lasted almost a month. And she was cheerful for another week, almost a year later, when there was a letter from nearby Nice. But by the time Major Boddington’s letter arrived, worry and fear for Armand were a ten-pound pole she carried across her shoulders, and no sooner did she read “an assignment that involves travel overseas” than she made up her mind. But there hadn’t been any travel overseas. Not a single assignment, yet.
All through her toughening-up and training, she had been suspended in a semi-life, preparing, anticipating and waiting, waiting, waiting for her chance—insh’allah—to return to France. Twenty-nine years old and feeling her life had yet to begin.
More FANY s were emerging from the woods, their talk and laughter carrying across the clearing.
Be cheerful
.
“Time for tea—race you!” she cried to Yolande, and ran across the clearing towards the triple roofs of Wanborough Manor.
Noor held the heavy oak door for Yolande and walked down the wainscotted corridor of the eighteenth-century manor by her side. The Special Operations Executive had requisitioned so manycountry homes like this one all over England that some wag said the letters SOE of the top secret agency, charged with Setting Europe Ablaze and all that, really stood for Stately ‘Omes of England. Setting Europe Ablaze, Churchill’s term for fomenting unrest, sabotage and uncertainty for the Germans in France, training and arming the French resistance for the day he’d give the command and they’d rise up against the Germans, had by now become more than a slogan for Noor. Here she learned to throw hand grenades, instantly identify German military uniforms, fire pistols, Sten guns and explosives, and evade anyone following.
“Miss Atkins?” said Noor to the compact figure standing in the gloom.
“Nora,” came a flinty voice. “Colonel Buckmaster would like a word with you.”
“I’ll run along for tea, then,” said Yolande, giving Noor a smile of encouragement.
Miss Atkins opened a door. At the far end of a large drawing room, two men in khaki standing at a desk looked up as Noor was ushered in. Both held plotter rakes as if they were billiard sticks. They’d been poring over a Michelin map dotted with
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