Wren
Legacy Name: Moll

Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye
Cheerio, here I go, on my way
Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye
Not a tear, but a cheer, make it gay

“That’s our Moll,” my brother laughs. “The Jerries won’t know what’s hit them. We’ll have an unconditional surrender by next week.”

Everyone joins in his laughter, and Pop gives me a one-armed squeeze. “Can’t all spend the entire war peeling potatoes, Norm.” I tease, and he grins.

Face flushed with both pride and alcohol, he raises his drink. “To Molly – she’s a damn fine sister and she’ll make a damn fine Wren.”

Give me a smile I can keep all the while
In my heart while I'm away

I remember Norm's smile. I remember how he was so proud of me. How he told all his friends that his little sister was going to send Hitler wailing back to Germany.

I'm so frightened.

I remember the look on Ma's face when she presented me with Jenny – 'a little Jenny teddy for our little Jenny Wren'. I remember how proud Norm was.

I sit down at the radio, and struggle to find my voice over the cries of my comrades on the decks above. The boat judders, and I grab the desk to steady myself. Jenny slides off the top of the radio – I grab her, clutching her to my chest with shaking hands.

I'm going to do this. I'm going to show the Navy boys that the Wrens are every inch the soldiers they are. I'm going to fight for my country. I'm going to make Norm proud.

Till we meet once again, you and I
Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye

It's dark and I can't see anything. I don't feel any pain, but I remember horror stories of boys on the battlefield, adrenaline coursing through their veins, limbs blown off by mines or grenades. How they feel nothing until they look down to see nothing but a bloody stump where an arm or leg should be.

I feel nothing, and instead of reassurance, this absence of anything brings me only panic.

“I don't know if you can hear me. I don't even know if you can understand me... but I want to help you.”

A voice in the darkness – it gives me something to focus on, and I feel almost as though I'm willing myself to make sense of my surroundings using the voice as an anchor. It's so dark still, but, slowly, hazy vision returns.

Someone – a male figure – on the edge of my vision.

I gather my strength and try to turn towards them as I cry out, my voice seeming weak and strange to my ears. “Over here!”

I hear someone swear, a different voice this time, another Yank by the sounds of it. Did the Americans hear our distress call? Hope swells in my chest, a fleeting, feeble thing.

A young man stands in the doorway of the room, hands raised in a pacifying gesture. The one who spoke earlier, I think, with a softer accent. “Can you tell us your name?”

Panic flutters in my chest. What is my name? I don’t – I can’t –

I remember my brother’s laughter and his hearty clap on my shoulder. “Molly. Molly Farrow, Sir.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You don’t need to call me ‘Sir’, Molly. My name’s Jake Atherton. Just call me Jake. I want to help you. Can you tell me what year it is?”

The year? Did I half-drown or was I struck on the head? Have I been in a coma? Is that why I can’t move and why nothing feels as it should? My breath hitches and I stutter in my reply. “It – It’s 1942, Sir.”

“Nineteen-” The young man all but staggers, shock registering on his face. He composes himself, and motions over one of the other men. One of the other men with a gun. My heart pounds. “Agent Corke, may I ask you and the others to leave us alone for a little while?”

Agent Corke scowls in response. “Atherton, we’re meant to be dealing with this spook, not talking nice to it.”

Spook? Surely they don’t think I’m a spy…

“Corke, we both know that in normal circumstances, you’re in charge. But in these situations, you are meant to cede to my authority, yes? So, please. Take your men and wait outside.”

Agent Corke clearly isn’t happy about it, but his glare is just met with an even gaze, and, eventually, he swears under his breath and motions for the others to leave.

We stand alone in the dingy, empty room. Atherton steps further into the room, his gaze sweeping about as though he can’t tell where I am. As he moves into the light, I notice for the first time that his cheeks are wet with tears. A heavy looking insignia in the shape of a bird wing adorns the chest of his unfamiliar uniform. He opens his mouth, but hesitates, as though he isn’t sure how to begin, or what to say.

“Please,” I begin for him. “Please help me. I – I can’t move.” I choke back the words ‘I’m frightened’ but as though I’d spoken them aloud, his expression softens further. His eyes finally meet mine, and he walks slowly towards me, crouching down on one knee.

“Molly. Can you tell me a little about yourself? What do you remember?”

“I’m a Wren, Sir. Leading Wren Telegraphist Molly Farrow, of the Women’s Royal Navy.

“I'm sure they were brave souls who were an inspiration to their country and that you were a credit to them. I’m sorry I haven’t heard of them.” He pauses. “I’m so sorry, Molly. I’m sorry we don’t remember them. But the war… your war… was a very long time ago.”

“I – I don't understand. Where am I? What happened? Did you pick up my SOS?”

“No,” he says softly. “No one picked up the SOS.”

He reaches for an inside pocket, and for a moment I think he's going for a gun, but all that sits in his palm when he withdraws his hand is a simple shaving mirror. He keeps it tilted away from me, then slowly raises it to my face.

I stare into the mirror, and Jenny Wren’s blank eyes stare back. I raise my hand to brush the surface of the glass, and Jenny’s paw moves in response. I open my mouth to let out a cry, but Jenny’s stitched mouth stays shut.

Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye...
Goodbye everybody, I'll do my best for ye