The Typing Pool

It was different, writing on a typewriter: the clatter and noise, the resistance of the keys forcing her to put effort into each letter. It made her job even more oppressive. Elizabeth had joined a typing pool transcribing notifications for service personnel who had been severely wounded, or killed in action, or those who had gone missing.

She had been a typist before the war and was hopeful to find work in journalism. But her plans, the world’s plans, had been turned on their head as the shadow of war spread across the globe. Her brother had signed up the year previously. The last they’d heard from him, he was being posted to France.

She wanted to help support her parents, who were living in an oddly numb state. Her father seemed to have a permanent look of concern etched on his face since her brother left. She felt that her mother could burst into tears at any moment, and likely cried herself to sleep most nights. Knowing she could help, in some way, with her typing skills, she had answered an ad in the newspaper and found herself being shown to a small desk with a typewriter and two paper trays either side. However, she didn’t fully appreciate the gravity of her new role.

Her introduction to her job was a curt 1 minute speech with the elderly woman in charge;

“This is you. Work through that list of names, blank notifications on the left, completed notifications on the right. Someone will walk around to pick them up. Always follow the script and don’t make any mistakes.”

That was it. She sat down a little dazed. Looking around at the other women, most seemed to be about her age, some were so young they looked as though they should still be in school.

She read through the script that was placed on top of the official headed pages.

“Dear [insert name here]:

It is with deepest regret that I am writing to inform you that your [relation, rank, name] has been reported to [have been killed] [be missing in] [severely wounded in] action [date listed] on that day in the European Area.”

She took the first telegram from the small stack on her desk. The information was just as curt and concise as her introduction. All it listed was a man’s name, his rank, and the date he was killed. A second sheet was stapled to it listing the man’s next of kin and their address. She looked back at the script working out what the completed notification would look like for Captain Bert Taylor. A wave of sadness washed over her, as she realized this poor man was dead and his family was soon to receive the heartbreaking news, which she was about to write.

With renewed understanding she looked back at the small pile of telegrams and quickly estimated there were likely 20. Looking around the hall again, it dawned on her that each table had a similar pile and there were probably 20 tables. She had no idea, until this moment, just how devastating this war was. Her brother, like many others, had volunteered with an excitement of being able to see the world and experience ‘life’. The irony of that statement suddenly hit her.

They had both grown up in a small rural town. It wasn’t that many years ago that the two of them were crabbing together in the river that flowed through their town. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face, the smell of the river, and the same peace that she felt sitting next to her brother. They never caught many crabs, most they put back as they were too small. But they’d always managed to catch enough for their mother to boil them up for supper. A small smile formed at the edges of her lips as she reminisced. Glancing up she noticed the woman in charge was glaring at her, dissatisfied with her lack of action. The woman mimed an exaggerated typing movement.

Returning to reality, she picked up a blank headed page, and began her first notification. She made two mistakes and had to start again. On her third attempt she completed it and placed it in the right corner of her desk. She quickly fell into a rhythm allowing the repetitive action of the keys and hypnotic clattering to take her away and remove her from the reality of her work.

After an undetermined length of time, a young lady picked up her stack of completed notifications. “You’re allowed breaks’” she said with a kind smile. She looked down and realized that she had gotten through nearly all of her notifications. Her fingers still felt the pressure of the keys pushing back against them. She thanked the lady and decided to stretch her legs by taking a quick trip to the toilet.

Upon her return she saw that someone had replenished her stack of telegrams. Gently sighing, she sat down and loaded her typewriter with a new paper. She reached for the top telegram scanning to the name. Her world froze. A deafening rushing noise filled her ears and a painful numbness overwhelmed her. She read her brother’s name. She jerked the next of kin sheet off the telegram and read her parent’s address. Her head swirled, as a hot flush overcame her. She screamed as she quickly stood up, her chair hitting the table behind her. She frantically re-read both pieces of paper, hoping that she was wrong. She was immune to the world around her. All the other women in the room had stopped typing and were staring in disbelief at her. The old woman who had shown her to the table was rushing to her with the look of disbelieving outrage, at such an interruption and impertinence. The manager had left his office on the second floor and was watching from the balcony walkway.

It had to be a mistake, it couldn’t be her brother’s name. It must be someone else with the same name. But no. It was her parents’ address and her father’s name on the next of kin sheet. But it couldn’t be her brother. Why would her brother be included in one of these devastating items? He was so young, so happy to serve. Besides, it hadn’t been that long since his last correspondence. He was happy and making friends with others in his unit. It wasn’t him, it couldn't be him. She was still frantically comparing both sheets, with tears streaming down her face. Her whole body was shaking from shock, fear, and sadness.

The lady reached her table and snatched the telegram from her. Her expression immediately evaporated and turned into one of equal shock and pity, with a hint of embarrassment. She glanced up at the manager before gently placing her hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. Elizabeth barely acknowledged her presence as she looked into her eyes. Half expecting discipline for the disturbance, she was initially confused by the gentleness by which the woman told her to follow her.

“Come with me, my dear.”

Still shaking and walking as if in someone else’s body, she dutifully followed the woman, as she slowly led her to the front of the hall. The other woman began to chatter amongst themselves as to what could be happening. Elizabeth felt like she was floating from lead balloons. Detached from her body, but weighed down with a suffocating sense of disbelief and grief.

Elizabeth jumped as the woman calls out, “Everyone back to work!”

As they reach the stairs, Elizabeth realizes how much she has begun to shake. Before she steps on the first step, she watches with a detached interest, her hand quivering as she holds it above the banister. The woman slips her arm into Elizabeth’s right elbow, and gently guides her up the stairs.

When they reach the top, the manager is holding his office door open, with a quizzical look on his face. Elizabeth doesn’t see the resigned and forlorn glance shared between the woman and manager.

“Sit down, my dear,” the woman says as she slowly helps Elizabeth sit in one of the two chairs, in front of the manager’s large and imposing desk. He hands her a handkerchief from his top pocket. She begins to dab the tears away from her face. The woman stands behind the desk, with her back to Elizabeth. She quietly shows the Manager the telegram and the next of kin. Whispers are exchanged, the words lost on Elizabeth, who is now nervously playing with a corner of the handkerchief.

“How on Earth was this allowed to happen?” the manager quietly snaps at the woman.

“I have no idea sir, it’s a most unfortunate accident. It’s the poor child’s first morning with us!”

“Good heavens! The poor thing,” mumbles the manager, as he turns to look at Elizabeth, with a kind smile.

Elizabeth is still lost in her own thoughts; of the last time she saw her brother, of his empty bedroom, his empty place at the kitchen table. How will she ever break the news to her parents? What will her mother do? Will they blame her? Her first day and she comes home not with some happy gossip and the promise of a paycheck, but with the most devastating news any parent can endure.

“My dear?” the woman asks again, abruptly ending Elizabeth’s dark reverie. Looking up at the woman, she goes on, “Mr. Coates would like a word with you.”

“Am I in trouble?” Elizabeth asks, looking from the woman to the Manager.

“Oh, my heavens no!” responds the manager, “We just want to make sure you understand how truly sorry we are for such an unfortunate mix up. I can assure you, this has never happened before. Whoever gave you the wrong stack of telegrams will be severely admonished.” He glances at the woman, with a stern look.

“Absolutely,” responds the woman. “I’ll make sure the clumsy woman is fired within the hour.”

“Why?” asks Elizabeth.

“Why?” repeats the woman. “Because we don’t tolerate such stupid oversight here. We…”

Elizabeth cuts her off, “But how would that help? Will it bring my brother back? Will it save my parents unimaginable pain when I go home later? Will it bring an end to this horrible, pointless war?”

“Well, no.” replies the manager. “But we never want any next of kin to be informed in such an unfortunate and grievous way.”

“But I know now don’t I? I have to tell my poor mother and father when I get home tonight.”

“Ahh, actually, you don’t,” the manager gently says. “I will arrange for you to be taken home in a Staff Car, as soon as possible. You will be able to be with your parents when they are officially informed, in the appropriate manner. I know it won’t make the news any easier, but it isn’t your burden to bear.”

Elizabeth simply sniffs, unsure where the conversation could possibly go to make anything more bearable.

“It says that your brother is missing in action. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s lost his life. He may simply have been separated from his troop, or be hiding from the enemy, or…”

“He may have been captured. They could be torturing him at this very moment!” Elizabeth states. This last thought sets off another wave of uncontrollable sorrow. She buries her face in the handkerchief, embarrassed that her new employers are seeing in such a state.

“None of us can know that for certain, at this time,” the manager calmly says. He pushes an intercom button on his desk. “Maureen, fetch us three cups of tea and please request a Staff Car. It’s urgent.” The manager leans back in his chair, watching Elizabeth as she continues to sob. She reminds him so much of his own daughter. Unbeknownst to anyone, his own son is currently lighting in Europe. He shares all of Elizabeth’s fears and so badly wants to give the poor thing a hug. He knows, or course, such a thing wouldn’t be proper. But he feels a lot of empathy for her current situation. He’s angry that such a mistake was made and that this poor innocent girl has been shattered in such an horrendous way. Like everyone, he wills the war to be over, and to wake up the next day to hear that victory has been achieved.

He clears his throat, pushing his own thoughts and feelings away, as his secretary enters with a tray of tea. “Due to this such unfortunate occurrence, we quite understand if you would like to take a day or two off. To be with your parents whilst you process this news.”

“You’re sacking me?” Elizabeth asks in alarm, looking at both of them with a renewed look of concern.

“Oh my child no, you’re not sacked.”

“I need this job, I need to help provide for my parents.”

“We understand that. We just don’t want you to feel pressured to come in tomorrow. You can support your parents at home.”

“I’ll be in tomorrow, on time. I may not be able to fight, or fly, but I can do my bit. People deserve to know what fate has befallen their loved ones.”

“I certainly do admire your courage,” responds the manager, hoping neither of them detected the slight crack to his voice. He can feel himself getting quite emotional over the whole situation.

Suddenly, his intercom buzzes. Elizabeth jumps. “The Staff Car is here, sir” crackles Maureen’s voice.

“Goodness, that was fast!” the manager says. “Let us finish our tea, then I will personally escort you home with the officer who has brought the car.”

He turns to the woman and quietly asks that the notification be typed up and sealed in an envelope. She nods in agreement and hurries out of his office, leaving her tea untouched.

Knowing that she isn’t leaving yet, Elizabeth reaches for the tea, her hands still shaking. She forces herself to take some sips, more out of politeness than need. She’s still reeling from the shock and doesn’t quite know what to do. She can feel anger bubbling up from her stomach. She’s angry at the world. The war, the enemy, the probable loss of her brother, and the unbelievable loss of so many other brothers, sons and fathers. She was dreading going home. She wanted to go back downstairs and keep typing. Typing was something that she could control. She was good at it and diligent with her work. She knew that no matter how many notifications she completed, there would still be more. But she didn’t want to stop. It was her way of fighting back, her way of feeling involved and important in the country’s efforts in the war.

A gentle tap on the office door frame brought her attention back. The manager looked up from his own cup. An officer was standing in the doorway, holding an envelope.

“Ah good, right,” the manager said. Immediately regretting such a driveled remark, he continued as he stood, “Let’s go my dear.” Elizabeth put her cup down, as he walked around his desk. He attempted to help her up, but she stood under her own efforts, keen to show him that she wasn’t some meek thing that needed special treatment. The officer politely stood aside the door as they left the office, almost as if he were on guard duty. Why couldn’t her brother have been tasked with domestic duties like this officer, Elizabeth thought.

As they walked down the stairs, Elizabeth leading with the manager behind, and the officer a respectful 2 steps behind him, the hall once again fell silent. Elizabeth burned as she felt all the eyes on her. The new girl causing such a fuss, then being escorted away with a military escort. Whatever must they all be thinking. The gossip mill will already be full of it.

“Back to work ladies!” the woman once again admonished, as the three of them went through the double doors of the hall. I will be, Elizabeth thought. If my brother has been captured and is now a prisoner of war, the least I can do is type.