Spitfire Girls (28 page)

‘There's my Dad's garage!'

Marion jumped at Cal's sudden shout.

‘Do you want to stop, then?' Alec asked, pulling over to the pavement.

‘No, don't.'

‘He ran away from home, in case you'd forgotten,' Marion murmured under her breath. The car had stalled.

‘Noel Slater says you're to be flying things to France, sir,' piped Cal.

‘Nonsense,' Alec said, struggling with the ignition.

‘When did you hear this, Cal?' Marion asked.

‘Noel talks rubbish – we all know that,' scoffed Alec.

Still the car would not start.

‘Let the boy speak.'

‘He said you would be allocated Hurricanes to be flown to France, and that you would return in unserviceable aircraft to be sent for repairs back home.'

With a loud cough and bang, the engine came to life, and Alec stamped on the accelerator. They lurched into the line of traffic and a Post Office van honked its horn.

‘I'll drop you off at Shirley's,' Alec muttered.

‘Is what Cal says true?'

‘We're all in on this exercise. D'Erlanger can't pull pilots out of the air, and the brass need fighters. I have to do it.'

They had arrived on Shirley Bryce's doorstep. Marion could not move. She had thought ATA would mean Alec's constant presence. Apprehensive at the prospect of these missions, which she knew were perilous even for a seasoned RAF officer, let alone for rusty, boisterous part-timers like her husband. Already, on this trip up from Kent, she had begun imagining their next union, when they would be locked together in a passion she was sure no other creatures had ever experienced on God's earth. Even as they had trundled along in this aging automobile, with the boy in the back, she had envisaged Alec's return from his next ferry trip to Perth, when they might spend the following twelve hours making exquisite love and drifting in and out of sleep and feeling guilty the next day when Noel Slater or Gordon Selfridge might show quicker reflexes in a Magister fitted with racks to carry eight twenty-pound bombs …

‘Come on, then!' urged Cal, holding open her door.

‘Cal, you're going on with Alec,' she said wearily.

‘This is my neighbourhood, you know,' he persisted,
grinning at the bride. She looked up at the boy, and pulled herself out of the car. Alec sat in silence, his smart uniform so attractive to her at this moment that she dared not allow her eyes to linger.

‘I thought you were terrified of stopping around here,' she said, glaring at Cal.

‘Not really,' he said, bowing his head. ‘My Dad's at work, or maybe he's drunk down the pub. It's my mum I 'd really like to see.'

‘After we leave here, I'll take you to her, but just for a few minutes, mate,' Alec said, leaping from the car and walking over to Marion.

‘That's awfully generous of you, my baby,' she whispered.

‘It may be the last time the lad sees his family – he'll be RAF before Christmas, mark my words,' he said quietly, holding her and kissing the soft curls that fell across her forehead.

‘Congratulations!'

All three turned around: Mrs Bryce had come out on to her small patio and seemed to have grown even fatter since that day not long ago when war had been declared.

‘Come in,' she said, waddling towards the couple.

Cal leaned against the car, scowling at Shirley's mother.

‘It's nice to see you, Mrs B,' Alec intoned, hugging her with one arm and holding on to Marion with the other.

‘You two should be spending tonight together – it's almost sacrilegious not to in these times.'

‘Never mind, Mrs B – Alec will be back soon.'

Both women were close to tears and Alec knew this was his cue.

‘Make sure you lock her bedroom door tomorrow morning so she doesn't give her virtue away to the milkman,' he teased, letting his hand slip down to Mrs Bryce's bottom.

She squealed.

They had reached the door and Marion felt a sudden terror, her fear of tomorrow's ATA test amalgamated in her shaky psyche with the burden of Alec's true occupation, and the seed growing inside her still-smouldering womb. Could she be so base as to desire him right at this moment? Was it fear that brought her to these primitive states?

‘I've got to go,' Alec said sharply, for the first time his mirth gone and his twinkling grin evaporated into a worried, faraway frown.

Mrs Bryce went into the house and outside Alec held Marion to him so firmly she thought his hands might become embedded in her flesh, and when he had released her she prayed the sensation they had left behind might linger until his return. He wanted a long lovers' kiss but Marion could only brush his lips with a tearful smile. He went to the car and as she struggled for breath the motor coughed – if only it would stall! she thought – but then her majestic lover was gone and there was nothing left for her to do but to go inside.

The ‘phoney war' was over, but while everyone had been keyed up for massive bombing the only operational flying for the RAF had been the dropping of leaflets over Germany.

Valerie was burdened with the fact that the girls she had taken on would have to be satisfied in the interim with ferrying the Tiger Moths from Hatfield for storage at Kinloss and Lossiemouth and returning in those Godforsaken trainers. Her first task had been to flight-test these women at Whitchurch. Many of the pilots were close personal friends of long standing. The Director-General for Civil Aviation had been adamant that only eight British women pilots could be included for the initial pool at Hatfield, though Valerie had lists a yard long of females, including Amy Johnson, qualified far beyond the requirements of male ferry-pilot criteria. Now, however, events were taking place across the Channel that made quotas look absurd. Much anger had been aroused when news of American pilot recruitment had reached the frustrated ranks of immensely qualified home talent, but secretly Valerie hoped Edith's crop might bring an infusion of excitement into ATA.

Christmas had come and gone, the first festive season to have been overshadowed by the imminence of death since the days of Sopwith Camels and airborne chivalry. Valerie knew this conflict would be different, and from what Friedrich had told her – so many months ago as to seem an eternity – chivalry was the last thing on the minds of Hitler's warriors.

She was bitterly disappointed that the Ministry would not allow her to recruit the entire abundant crop of British women pilots, augmented by the foreign support. However, having been kicked so often she elected to take her orders with aplomb. Shortly before Christmas she had attracted yet more publicity by managing to gather together all in one place twelve girls who were at the top of her list. She had taken them all out to lunch before they were tested, and whether or not they had failed each had been presented with a signed copy of her first published volume of ‘aviation poetry', as she called the book. Later her father had said this was an unspeakably vulgar thing to do, and that obviously she had been spending too much time around Americans and Lord Beaverbrook.

D'Erlanger was now known as the Commodore. He had some forty good men, and in a short time the ferry-pilot pool at White Waltham had rapidly acquired the lively atmosphere of a flying club. In its first three weeks of operation over two dozen aircraft had been shifted and by spring 1940 its men were in great demand. Meetings at British Overseas Airways were held with great urgency, and soon White Waltham had been split, pilots and Ansons going to Whitchurch to service the West Country factories, and more pilots and Ansons to Hawarden near Chester to deal with the northern plants. In the space of a few months Air Transport Auxiliary had metamorphosed from a tiny collection of civilian ferry pilots to a major undertaking consisting of four ferry-pilot pools.

Within the all-women's unit at Hatfield the minute male presence remaining would consist of Sean Vine, Hamilton Slade, and Alec Harborne, along with an assortment of air
cadets soon to be moved to White Waltham. Hatfield's Commanding Officer was a woman, Valerie Cobb.

On this summer's day in 1940, the Germans were busy invading Holland and Belgium, Marion Wickham was marrying Alec, and Valerie was watching Nora Flint come in to land an Airspeed Courier at Hatfield in deteriorating weather conditions. She knew Nora's brief had been to collect from far off Perth two male ferry pilots who were destined for White Waltham. She was astonished to see Nora in this aircraft which was forbidden to women's ATA .

‘Are you mad?' Valerie demanded as Nora stepped from the cockpit.

‘Look inside,' she said grimly.

Valerie peered into the rear seats where two heavily bandaged men were bundled, half-conscious, with their kit bags.

‘What's happened to you, or are you corpses?'

One opened a swollen eye for a split second, then closed it tightly, letting out a brief groan.

‘They had a nasty mishap,' Nora explained. ‘Can you guess who very nearly made them our first fatalities?'

‘Noel Slater,' Valerie said, smiling.

‘I was coming in to Perth in a Moth, as you know, and I could see these two being chased by Slater, who was showing off. They had appalling landings, badly damaging two brand-new Lizzies. They were meant to report back immediately to White Waltham, with me as a passenger in this thing, but that rather wet CO at Perth gave me a special clearance to take them. I was the only reliable pilot available before the real weather set in.'

Valerie knew it was folly for the Ministry to suppose her girls were incapable of flying things other than Moths and she burned inside at the thought of Slater being ATA and free to fly anything. Were he a woman, he would have been banned. What infuriated her even more was the inefficiency of Perth in not taking these men to a local infirmary, and keeping them up there to await the Accidents Committee inquiry.

‘Who are they?' she demanded, her aggressive tone startling Nora.

‘I'm told they are a pair of American brothers. Parsons, I believe someone said.'

‘Parsons! Well I never!' Valerie laughed, putting her arm around Nora. ‘Let's see if we can't save them.'

Oscar and Martin Toland, ordained Baptist preachers of Lynchburg, Virginia, were carried from the Courier by air cadets. Valerie chortled when the rescuers looked Nora up and down in disbelief, as if a physical miracle had been wrought in the ferrying of this forbidden craft, which had neared the end of its useful life and was unserviceable.

In the main building, the Americans were brought in and Angelique Florian, just returned from a hair-raising ferry trip to a near-snowbound Kinloss, rushed over to help. Nora busied herself with paperwork and, to her immense glee, so much commotion ensued over the arrival of the brothers that Nora's exceptional assignment was overlooked.

‘Who the devil mangled this lot?' demanded Angelique, tampering with the bandages.

‘Your favourite person,' frowned Nora, as the small population of Hatfield ferry pool gathered around her cargo.

Angelique had gone quiet, her sensitive hands revealing the appalling wounds of the two men.

‘They need hospitalization. What did you say caused the damage?'

‘Noel Slater,' Nora replied, still gripping her goggles and kit. ‘He harassed them on their approach to Perth and they nearly lost everything.'

An ambulance had arrived and as the men were loaded into the rickety vehicle Angelique turned to Valerie:

‘I think we're all finished for the day – may I go with them?'

‘Whatever for?' Valerie frowned.

‘Someone from ATA should be there when they are admitted to hospital.'

Nora and Valerie exchanged looks.

‘In the CO's opinion, who are we to stop you?' Valerie remarked, and as the ambulance men shut all doors Angelique made for the van, turning the metal handle and swinging her shapely form into the rear compartment where the two pilots lay. As the siren screamed its way through the torrential downpour, the skeleton staff that manned Hatfield packed bags for an early night. Weather fronts had stopped everything.

‘We are going to need a full-time weather spotter, Valerie,' Nora said as they walked through mud to the First Officer's car.

‘It will happen,' she said. ‘Nora, what would you say if I told you the Ministry might consider appointing a woman like you Commanding Officer of another small pool, working alongside the RAF?'

Nora climbed into the car and waited for Valerie to sit down at the wheel before she replied.

‘This sounds like a Beaverbrook stunt,' she said, grinning.

‘Sometimes stunts are worth performing, if they further our cause.' Valerie started the motor.

‘So it
is
Beaverbrook?'

‘No, it's Cobb. Copyright 1940.' Valerie's mouth was grimly set, her mind shooting fleetingly to the task she most dreaded.

‘It is tomorrow, is it not, Val?' Nora's voice was soft with caution.

‘Yes. I wish it could be you testing them.'

Shirley, Amy and newlywed Marion arrived for their day of judgment. Fleetingly Valerie wished they had taken up factory work. Amy was the least of her worries – she would attract the press, but her kind, calm warmth was a huge compensation for the aggravation. Marion would be mad to join Alec's pool. But Shirley? Their eight years of closeness and the ground engineer's obsessive devotion to her made the routine administration of a test some form of torture. She would cover her uncomfortable feelings with harshness, and if Shirley failed it might stifle her obsession once and for all. Since Friedrich, ironically foisted upon Valerie by her partner, she could no longer compassionately concern herself with another woman's imperfection.

With Nora, Valerie drove out of Hatfield.

A young girl pilot-hopeful saluted.

Valerie stopped, and rolled down her window.

‘I'm not RAF, you know,' she said, recognizing Jo Howes.