by Amy Wolfe

Paranoia can be such a powerful hallucinogen if you’re not careful – but it’s great to kind of recognize it as that. – Cedric Bixler-Zavala

She was on the hunt. Diligence and concentration were her weapons, and she wouldn’t let anything get past her. Her eyes roamed the screen, her left hand twitching every few seconds towards her console. A target appeared, and her eyes immediately zeroed in on it. The light pulsed, and it came closer, and closer, and closer. Her hands were frozen. Why couldn’t she reach the console? Why couldn’t she save them? Panicking, she turned around to see that the entire station had been blown apart, ash falling like the first snow of a long, dreaded winter. She woke up, drenched in sweat and terror.

To her family and friends, Shirley worked in a war time factory. Everyone who worked with RADAR signed the Official Secrets Act. Radio Detection and Ranging technology helped the Allies track enemy warcraft, and even in her dreams, Shirley feared the many legal consequences should her occupation be discovered.

“Are you ready to win the war single-handedly?” her best friend, Irene, asked.

Shirley winked. “I won’t be alone, with you as my wing-woman.”

The two women had enlisted in the Canadian Women’s Auxiliary Air Force soon after the second world war began. They became fast friends when they met at the Royal Canadian Air Force Station in Clinton, where they secretly trained as operators in Radio Direction Finding. They had been overjoyed to be stationed together in Ontario.

Taking their places in the receiver room, they prepared their RF7 Receivers, ready to spot the location of any enemy aircraft, ship or submarine. The two women fell silent, as their eyes scanned, ready to catch the enemy in an instant.

At lunch, they took a break in a busy café down the street. “Stop scanning the lunch crowd, Irene! You’re making me nervous,” Shirley insisted. “There could be spies here.”

Irene rolled her eyes. “No one here cares a cat’s whisker about our gossip.” “You should be more cautious, Irene.”

“You’re acting a tad paranoid, darling.”

Maybe she was. It was that damn, recurring dream she had, so she ventured into Irene’s confidence. “Can I tell you about this dream, more like a nightmare, I keep having.?”

“Will it ruin my appetite?”

“Possibly, but it’s so real. I need to tell you.”

Irene looked at her watch. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

The dream poured out – all the horrific details. The bomb, the ash falling like winter.” Shirley took a deep breath as sweat glistened on her forehead. “What do you think, Irene?”

“I think you’re taking on the weight of the war, my friend.” She sympathized with how twisted reality had become for Shirley. “You’re way too careful to cost us the war.”

Shirley smiled gratefully and noticed a man sitting behind Irene, watching them. He tipped his hat to her. Shirley’s heart rate tripled; she tensed and grew pale, played it off as shyness. Smiling sweetly, she waved to the man. Without hardly moving her lips, she looked fiercely into Irene’s eyes. “Trouble! We have trouble.”

Turning around to see who Shirley was waving to, Irene followed Shirley’s flirtation. “Are you distracting my friend from my company?” she teased.

The man withdrew from his pipe. “Not at all, please carry on.”

Irene looked back at Shirley, who disapprovingly shook her head, though it was crucial to know if he had heard them.

“Is it your custom, sir, to engage women at the lunch counter, including my friend?”

Unsettled, his eyes drifted to Shirley. “I apologize for the confusion; it was meant as a pleasantry.” He stood up. “I must go.”

“Come and sit with us for a moment,” Shirley interjected. “My apologies, ladies.”

“Might we at least know your name before you go? I’m Shirley and this is Irene.”

Annoyed by their persistence, he said. “Kenneth Smith, Miss. Nice to meet you.”

Shirley assessed his voice and body language and was uncertain about his innocence. “It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Smith.”

“I hope you have a good night.” Mr. Smith modestly nodded, before nearly barrelling out the door.

Shirley stared after him. “He definitely heard everything.”

“I don’t think so, Shirl,” Irene consoled. “He really did seem overpowered and wanted desperately to escape.”

Shirley shook her head. “Why would he tell me to have a good night? It’s barely past noon. He must have heard us talking.”

Irene tried to call her back, but Shirley ran out of the door and followed him. She was compromised. If the man had heard her explain her fear of endangering the RADAR project, then this indiscreet incident might lose the Allies one of their greatest secret weapons.

Irene covered for her at work while she tailed Mr. Smith for the next two days. She followed him everywhere to the point of sleeping in her automobile across from his apartment, watching for any signs that he might be a spy.

Irene came after work, begging her to stop and report him, but she refused. What if he wasn’t a spy? Mr. Kenneth Smith could just be an unlucky man who overheard two ladies in a cafe. She’d heard the rumours of the underground interrogations, and he could be tortured for information that he didn’t even have.

But by the end of the second day, Shirley was exhausted and broke down when Irene checked in on her. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“We’ll talk to Lieutenant Russell; he’ll know what to do,” Irene said.

Officers were dispatched immediately after she recounted Mr. Smith’s comings and goings, always taking pictures in the oddest places. Shirley was given a suspension from duty during the brief investigation, but even amidst her suspicions, she truly worried about Mr. Smith’s fate.

“It isn’t your concern anymore,” the Lieutenant barked.

Still needing closure, Shirley staked out Mr. Smith’s work and saw him hauled out by officers. She just stood there, paralyzed with fear and guilt.

When the Official Secrets Act was lifted in 1991, and the world learned of the crucial work that tens of thousands of men and women contributed to help the Allies win World War 2 with RADAR, Shirley was in her seventies. Over the years she still wondered about the outcome of Mr. Smith’s arrest. The authorities never told her. The uncertainty plagued her through decades, and even when she was free from secrecy, she never told that story to another living soul again. She often caught herself looking for him on streets, in parks and café at lunch.