‘Stop pushing! Stop it!’
‘Bombs!’
Another huge push. There is nowhere to go. A man scrambling to get back to his feet is driven down by the weight of the others. The air turns slow, heavy.
‘Move down! Move!’
‘We can’t – stop pushing!’
‘Sod off, mate!’
It is becoming harder to breathe. Suddenly I am trying to push back, to escape the crush of people.
I am stuck. They keep coming, bodies building up, crushing. There is no air to breathe. A man falls, waving frantically – is gone. Arms and feet are thrashing. He is under us, under our feet, but the bodies heave to the left. Another falls – a child, his mother instantly reaches down – but can’t get there. Move! I can’t get anywhere.
‘Bombs!’
I push back now, hard, as hard as I can. There is no air. The man might be right under my boots, or the child, I don’t care, I have to get away. The dark thoughts, the bloody ravens, descend. This is it.
Something hits me, a blow across the cheek. Lights blaze in my vision. It is a man, a man has fallen on me. His weight slides off my shoulder and on to the ground. For a second, before it is covered by trampling feet, I see his face – a blue tongue sticking out of his mouth.
Crushed bodies block the stairwell. I thrust my elbows, throw wild punches, push ruthlessly back. I fumble, latch on to the guard rail. Grip it as hard as I can. I cannot move. I must get out. Dark thoughts, closing in.
‘Help!’
‘Bombs!’
‘Move!’
The closing of a black wing.
6
Thursday, 4 March 1943
‘Come in, Miss Cooper.’
A blonde woman, perhaps forty, waves me inside with a stern look. Instantly I notice the two thick bars of gold on her shoulder, the gold wings on her left breast.
The urge to salute comes from nowhere like a pang. I fight it off.
‘I am Pauline Gower, the Head Flying Instructor.’ She sits very casually on the edge of the table. Her voice is soft. ‘You know why we gave you a chance?’
I shake my head. My final meeting with Queen Bee threatens to replay in my mind. This is Pauline Gower, Commander of the Women’s ATA, holder of multiple international flying records, Britain’s first female commercial pilot, the third in the world. Not some nasty hag from the WAAF.
‘Desperation, Miss Cooper. It is clear that, aside from having absolutely no flying experience, you can’t be a day over sixteen. When the ATA was established, there was frankly no chance that someone like you would ever be here.’
I nod, look away. Why bring me here just to go off on me? What is wrong with these people? The uniforms must do something to their brains.
‘Times change,’ she says, her voice still soft. She sounds nothing like the barking officers at Warmwell. ‘We used to need ambassadors. Clean-cut, stable young women with vast gifts. Now, we need pilots. Every one we can get. I have sixteen planes that have to be in Scotland this afternoon.’
I blink in shock as I realize that I’ve seen Commander Gower before. She was in Leicester Square, at the film screening – standing next to Anna Neagle under the flash of cameras. That night brought me here, and Gower was there, too. Certainly an encouraging thought. I feel my breathing slow, relax.
‘In addition to Ground School you will also learn all that we can teach you about aeronautics. And you’ll have to get perfect results on every one of your exams. You come highly recommended, which is lucky for you. Word is you’re a natural. Find it easy keeping your head up there, Cooper?’
I nod slowly. ‘I think so, Commander.’ Such compliments from Queen Bee are impossible to believe. Highly recommended? A natural? I apologize to her in my mind for calling her a hag. Why would she be nice? Or did she merely want to be rid of me so badly?
‘Well, let’s take you up and see.’
My heart judders. ‘Commander Gower?’
‘No point in teaching you if you don’t have the stomach for it. I can’t just take another pilot’s word for it, however celebrated they are. We’ll send you up with Joy, see how you do.’
I blink. Queen Bee was a famous pilot? But I have more immediate concerns. ‘Now?’
‘You have somewhere else to be?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Good. Now let’s find you a helmet and a parachute.’
*
There hasn’t been enough time, not nearly enough time.
Surely it is not required for a cadet to go up in a plane on her first day? No, this is definitely a test. I will merely sit in the cockpit, look as at ease as I can, and then Gower will wave the whole thing off. Won’t she?
This is madness.
I close my locker with a bang. I don’t feel one ounce as glamorous as the others. Instead of the sleek ATA flying uniform, I am in my full padded Sidcot suit – a huge, bulky one-piece suit for cold-weather flying. And there is no colder flying, Joy says, than a Tiger Moth in winter. The parachute straps bite my shoulders; my legs and back are stiff and heavy as I march out to the airfield.
A stale smell of tobacco hits me as I pass the crew room. One of the pilots – the Cold Front? – is curled asleep on the sofa in her uniform. The hallway seems to grow longer as I walk along it.
Joy is standing on the grass airfield in her flying kit. She is standing – grinning! – beside a yellow bi-plane. A Tiger Moth. With a steadying breath, I approach. The ground crew swarms by, everyone focused on their own tasks. The grass airfield has turned to mud, a vast mud pit. Can the plane even take off out of that?
In my heavy leather helmet and wide split-lens goggles, I feel like a giant bug.
I don’t want to do this.
I worry for a moment I’ve left something in my locker. No, I have the scarf – tied around my neck. Should it be this cold? How cold will it be once we’re up there?
I climb up the wing, squeeze into the front seat. I am almost between the two sets of wings; the lower wings spreading out past my arms, the top set just a few feet over my head. It is nothing like being in a Lancaster. I am crammed tightly in here. I try to adjust my feet and, looking down, I see the floor is made of wood.
It’s just a box of plywood with wings.
Joy is at the controls in the Moth’s rear seat. I can see her in the mirror, a wide smile on her face. Can she actually fly? Oh, God, what have I done?
I can hear Joy’s voice clearly through the speaking tube attached to my helmet.
‘Ready?’
‘Yes,’ I say, pressing the rubber mouthpiece closer. ‘Yes.’
The speaking system is supposed to let me hear her instructions even over the engine at full throttle. And if I can’t?
Don’t worry. She’s the one flying the plane.
The fitter, a handsome man with a smirk instead of a smile, appears.
‘Contact!’ Joy yells out.
The man spins the propeller. A loud coughing noise and I realize where the engine is. The great hump in front of me. The propeller whirls dangerously just feet from my face. I can see next to nothing.
The whole plane vibrates. The instruments in front of me awake, dials rising and falling. On a trainer, all controls are duplicated and connected. But I will not be touching a thing.
‘Not your first stooge ride, Cooper, if I’ve heard correctly.’
I can hear her smile through the microphone. How does everyone know about that?
‘I’m ready,’ I repeat. I will not die. I will not be sick.
‘Then let’s go.’
The engine is loud as we taxi away, to the east end of the muddy runway, rattling as we drag the tail behind us. Feels like the longest road I have ever been on, but at the same time it is too short. We reach the flight lines, slow to a muddy halt.
Huge barrage balloons, tethered to the earth with steel cables, hover threateningly. Built to stop German fighters from diving, they will just as easily stop us from rising. I look away.
&nbs
p; The propellers are swinging. Louder, louder. I’ve bent a few in my time. Unclenching my hands, I try to follow what is happening.
With a cough, the wooden plane shudders to life. There is a short window in front of me, but it does nothing to screen the wind. We are moving across the bumpy field, turning on to the deeper mud, the world vibrating and clattering. The feeling is nothing like the smooth glide into the air in the Lancaster. It is happening too fast – we are gathering speed, still bumping, still rattling, heading straight for the fence. I want to cry out, to stop, to get out and go back to the Mess. To go home.
The bumping stops and wind presses full in my face.
I know it has happened but I am too terrified to look.
We must have barely cleared the fence, and now we are staggering into the air, the wind hammering us, pushing us back to the earth. All around us, I know without looking, hang those damned barrage balloons. But we rise, higher and higher, climbing, and, in one gut-turning instant, level off.
The force of the wind is like an angry sea. It is freezing. The machine putters through the air. I am floating, the sky flowing past me, flowing through me. The only sound is the wind swishing across the wings.
I am flying.
This is nothing like when I went up with Cecil. When I was with him, it was as if we were sitting still – now, the sensation of movement forces me to grip the seat. Each drop, each shudder, sends waves through me.
How do these short little wings hold us up?
‘How are you feeling, Cooper?’
She throttles back so I can hear her more clearly.
‘Fine.’ Too terrified to look down, I am filled with an aimless panic.
Joy seems to sense this. The whole machine tips, nudges me. Look! But I can’t. My eyes are open, but all they see is gleaming blue and the black twirl of the propeller.
If you don’t look down, how can you mark the checkpoints? How can you fly? I can’t! I’ve picked the wrong job. This is all wrong.
When I flew with Cecil I was so calm I got up and wandered around in the Lancaster, picking the best view. This is completely different.
Joy knows what she’s doing. I can still see the airfield, just on the edge of vision to the east. A very comforting sight, the vast sprawling space with its ugly lump of hangars and wavering barrage balloons. Much preferable to this huge, impersonal, featureless sky.
Again the aircraft leans, the nose drops, the left wing now in the corner of my eye, a longer moment before she rights it.
Look! With a sudden jerk we are again banking left.
Look!
And I look. The world is below. And I can see all of it. Huge, massive, spreading out in every direction. A patchwork of colours, rippled with hills. My eyes latch on to every tree, every person I can see walking down a narrow alley. Much closer to the ground than with Cecil. I am not sure if the thought makes me more or less nervous.
Now that we have so much height, and Joy has stopped tipping the wings, the sensation of movement has almost completely gone. We are floating. It is magic. No, it is not magic – it is this machine. It is the pilot.
‘You ready up there?’
I freeze. ‘Ready?’
‘Follow me through on the stick and rudder.’
‘Wait! Joy—’
‘Just follow me.’
Which one is the stick? I calm my breathing. I am not in danger. Joy has control of the plane. And the stick is clearly here, and the rudder bar at my feet.
‘Gently now, hold the stick in your right hand. Put your feet on the pedals – keep looking straight ahead, the horizon is just there, above the engine. See it? Keep the nose there. The nose of the aeroplane. Good, check the wings, make sure they’re matched up. Now we’re straight and level.’
My stomach heaves. Moving the stick drops the wing, each right or left.
‘Bring the stick back – gently, even less than that – and the nose goes up. Feel how we’re slowing down? So push the stick forward, get in back on the horizon. The nose on the horizon. Just relax, Cooper. Keep everything smooth. Good.’
That seems easy enough. Going along the bottom of the clouds, keeping the nose steady, keeping my breath calm. Smooth.
‘Cooper, push the stick forward, more. Don’t worry. The nose goes down, feel the air speed building up? The moment your nose drops, you’re losing altitude. Now we’re in a dive. So bring it back to level, bring the wings level. Relax the grip, hold it gently. There. Much better.’
Again my heart is racing. I didn’t mean to put us in a dive! The stick is so sensitive. Smooth.
‘See, the plane flies itself, Cooper, all you need to do is adjust every now and then. Keep the nose on the horizon, keep the wings level. Light on the stick.’
She is watching me in that little mirror, I can feel it. Just relax. Breathe. Do not be sick.
‘All right, I’m taking the controls back. We’re headed home now. Great work.’
We land smoothly and I get out, my eyes still ringing from the roar of the engine. It is good – astonishingly good – to be down again. But I know, somehow, that feeling won’t last. Not enough to keep me here.
‘See? You’ve got the knack for it, Cooper.’
‘Joy – we shouldn’t have – I shouldn’t have—’
‘Listen, the sooner you get comfortable, the better. Circuits and landings. A few more trips, then you’re landing this thing.’
Saturday, 6 March 1943
When we finally got outside, as the policeman laid out the bodies on the pavement, we were told not to speak of what had happened. Not to mention it to anyone.
In that strange silence after the All Clear, many were carted off to Whitechapel Hospital, but too many were left on the pavement. In the dark they were just shapes, blue and twisted. But some shapes were small, too small. There must have been a hundred – more. More than a hundred.
‘An air raid,’ I said blankly. ‘In the chaos, I lost them.’
Quartermaster found my excuse wanting. As I was alive and seemingly fine, why did I not return to the chemist’s and purchase the French letters required, at my own cost, seeing as I’d spent the division’s money with nothing to show for it?
‘Unless you’ve invented this whole disaster story as a way of covering up your larks?’ he suggested with a hollow laugh. ‘Though I doubt even you could make your way through two hundred condoms in a single night.’
I was too knackered to respond to this latest display of wit. I couldn’t even muster a reply when the inevitable came.
‘Well, Mr Squire. It seems finding a task for you here is quite impossible. Best of luck finding a job more suited to your... skills. Goodbye, Mr Squire.’
Monday, 8 March 1943
‘The Ancient and Tattered Airmen, some call us. To be here, they have to be rejected from the RAF. Our pilots have bad eyes, poor coordination, nervous issues. We have eccentric millionaires, wounded veterans, retired bankers – anyone who holds a private licence to fly. We are a unit called into being by the war.
‘Which is why we women are here today, too – some little more than girls. You come to us from all across the world, skilled and brave enough to help ferry each aircraft wherever it is needed. So if we’re going to end this war, the Ancient and Tattered Airmen will have to co-exist with the Always Terrified Airwomen. Do your part by doing your best job.’
Pauline Gower is a serious woman, and we listen to her every word. Well, almost every word.
‘Last year you would have all needed a private licence and at least fifty hours in your logbook. Now, we train you from the ground up. In three weeks you will all take a flight test, regardless of experience, and either make the grade or you will go home.’
There are fourteen ferry ‘pools’, or airfields, from Hamble in the south up to Lossiemouth in the far north of Scotland, and aircraft are shuffled between them as needed.
Before we can fly a plane, of course, there’s Ground School, which focuses mainly on reading highly
detailed RAF maps for use in cross-country flights, and rigorous testing on aircraft recognition.
We are each given a pocket-sized, ring-bound blue book, filled with four- by five-inch cards. The cover reads ‘Ferry Pilot’s Notes’. But everyone simply calls it the Blue Bible.
‘This,’ comes her voice, ‘is the most important thing in your life. These pages have the flying and landing settings for every RAF aeroplane. Keep this on you at all times.’
The stiff pages explain which knobs to pull. I flip through the alphabetical listings, memorizing engine types, jet-tube pressures, oil temperatures, safety speed of a Master, then a Tempest, then a Hurricane, then a Spitfire.
I am a fool. Isn’t living during the war dangerous enough without putting myself in a plane?
*
‘I’d get that hair cut, too.’ Pauline Gower smiles at me.
‘My hair?’
‘Do pilots wear helmets?’
So much for my new hairband. Trying not to think of the glamorous pilots in the crew room, flipping long blonde hair, I nod again. But Gower’s smile fades as she continues.
‘Every woman should learn to fly. The war has helped greatly in this regard, but once peace comes... my advice to all women will continue to be: learn to fly.
‘When my parents sent me off to Paris for finishing school, I ran away. Learned to fly in secret – my father cut my allowance at the words “flying lessons”. So I paid for the hours of training with violin lessons.
‘I rented a Gipsy Moth, in a field near Sevenoaks. Charged half a crown per flight, fifteen shillings for two loops and a spin. For a year I slept in a hut beside the aeroplane.
‘Adventure has its charms, as does danger. But this is more than that. This is an opportunity to earn your own money and make your own career. Aviation is a profession of the future. This is your future.
‘We will train you as best we can – but this is a time of action. We need pilots, Miss Cooper. As many as we can get, and as soon as they are ready.’
I nod and try a smile. She does not appear convinced.
Tuesday, 9 March 1943
‘From the west of the runway, look towards Shottesbrooke. If you can see the spire of St John’s beyond the trees, you’ve got at least two miles’ visibility. Get up there and use it.’
What the Raven Brings Page 11