Life after the war. I think about it, often, but it never takes any solid shape. Timothy Squire is there, though. Isn’t he? Could it be Cecil? Oakley Park? You will have to land any second now. Then you will have to go back, deal with Cecil, deal with it all. But not yet.
The pure joy of an empty mind. It is hard to believe that I once found it oppressive, the huge, depthless blue. Now it is the perfect escape. But I am not alone up here, and as I prepare for my descent, I am aware of the increased traffic, all heading south, all heading towards the heart of Fighter Command.
There it is, on the high plateau. Biggin Hill.
My hands are shaking as I turn to land. Relax, you’ve done this plenty of times. Land this plane and put it to bed, Joy would say. Two miles before the end of the runway, I push the lever forward to lower the undercarriage.
The lever does not budge.
I push again, as hard as I can, but I can’t move it an inch. The thought enters my mind with the slowness of a nightmare. Without the landing wheels, I cannot land the plane.
The lever is jammed. I strike it with all my force, cursing. I smash the lever, bruising my palm, skinning my thumb, again and again, as waves of panic break over me.
The nightmare is real.
Nothing happens.
*
Congestion on the runway is mad, with fighters landing and taking off every few moments. With a whispered curse, I am forced to flyover.
How did this happen? I think of Joy, and her mad insistence that the RAF is trying to sabotage the female pilots. Or is it my fault? I spent all my time on Trainers, without landing gear to worry over. This is a sophisticated plane and I was only half present.
No, I tell myself firmly, I know how to fly this plane.
Then just what the hell is going on?
If only I could use the radio, I could explain to the control tower; they must be mighty concerned watching this display from below. Or at least ask for help. I was not focused – my mind is a mess! – and now look what’s happened.
I am panicking. Think. What do I do? Fly until I am low enough in petrol that my chances of crash-landing will be slim? What else can I do, try to turn back, circle White Waltham? Why? What can they do? Fly out and save me?
I swoop again, not coming in to land. I am stuck, trapped inside this tiny cockpit; I can’t move; there is no air. My thoughts race to the parachute.
Prising off my helmet, I take a deep gulp of air. Sweat plasters my hair across my forehead. I remember my time in the hangar with Westin. A Tempest has a landing speed of no more than 100 mph. My thoughts turn again to the parachute.
Never bail over a built-up area.
The area below could not be more built up, with hundreds of aircraft and countless pilots and crew. Far, far too dangerous to bail out. My eyes blink furiously, my ears ring like struck bells. A bolt of fear shoots through me, over and over. I must focus. I must land this plane.
Congestion is still heavy, more and more fighters landing – but I see an opening, if I speed towards it now. I have to take it. I press on the throttle, roar into the space between approaching aircraft. I am in the landing queue now, and I begin my descent.
The landing gear has to open. It has to. A new plane appears instantly behind me, approaching the landing strip.
Every word of the Notes is clear in my mind. I speak them – yell them – as I drop towards the runway.
‘Emergency. Select DOWN. Press both emergency pedals forward firmly. If unsuccessful, yaw aircraft violently at 130–250 mph. Wheels will extend automatically. Why don’t you bloody extend?’
I am yawing the bloody aircraft, my feet stomping the rudder – right, left, right, left – the Tempest’s nose swerving back and forth. My stomach heaves but I don’t care. Again I yaw the plane, thrashing madly as I plunge through the sky.
Yaw does nothing. I am too far into my descent to pull up now. I must land. I do it again, the nose turning sharply. A hissing sound; the landing gear, my engine, I don’t know.
‘Come on!’
Nothing.
Taking a long breath I pause with my feet over the rudder, and step smoothly down, left foot, then right, left, right, left—
A jarring rasp of metal. I feel it, tearing out the belly of the plane.
We have wheels. The increased drag catches me off guard, and the nose dips. A touch of throttle and trim, and I swiftly pull the flap level – full flaps down.
Lots of traffic now, planes everywhere, but the landing gear is sorted. I manoeuvre through the barrage balloon corridor, a little careless, like a bullet dropping to earth, but the flaps work like a charm.
We sink to the tarmac.
*
A crash wagon is waiting. They will have seen the chaos of my approach. My first thought is that I have let Gower down; that I have proved the RAF and the experts right. No; this was not my fault. Casting the second form aside, I tear off the snag sheet and hand it to the flight engineer as I exit the cockpit.
‘Undercarriage needs to be looked at,’ I say.
He recoils at the harshness in my voice. ‘What?’
‘I’m the pilot and I say the undercarriage is faulty. Do not let another pilot near this plane until it is fixed.’
He nods, dazed, as I go back to the cockpit, grab the chit and the forms. A man in a car collects me, takes me to a hut where I sign the form 700 – ‘flight distance 37 miles’ – and search for some tea. Hopefully with rum. My hair is slick with sweat.
The Mess hall is a ten-minute walk from the hut. The whole time questions rush into my mind, but I have no answer. Almost the entire length of the aerodrome, the field is more mud than grass. Pilots and ground crew swarm everywhere. But everyone is silent, focused. No one looks anywhere but straight ahead. My own footsteps thud loudly in the space between fitters warming up engines and distant hammering. What will I tell Gower?
A NAAFI van drives past, and I instantly think of Mrs Barrett and her canteen. No one was trying to kill me there.
A Spitfire is taxiing. I watch as it turns into the wind, and races down the runway. I will wait in the Mess for my new ship – a Barracuda – to be fuelled up and readied. Every safety measure on this plane will be thoroughly checked.
I will make it back to White Waltham and find out just what the hell is going on.
*
I take off without incident, the Barracuda a little heavy but clearly in working shape. My pulse still races.
The glint of metal in the distance. My first thought is lightning and for a moment my mind fills in the rumble of thunder. But no, it is not the weather. Again the glint, brighter, and I see that it is a plane approaching, coming fast.
Not to worry, it’s not close enough for me to adjust my flight path. An RAF pilot, or another ATA pilot, maybe, delivering to Biggin Hill.
Arrow-straight, too fast to make out, blazing silver under the sudden sun. My stomach throbs heavily. It rushes on, coming closer, finally seeming to slow, so at 500 feet I get my first clear view. As the plane runs along the cloud bank, I cry out, my heart clutching in my chest.
The yellow nose. The sign on the plane – the black cross on the fuselage. And on the tail, the twisted black symbol of the swastika. A Nazi fighter. A Messerschmitt.
He sees me.
Thoughts abandon me. There is nowhere to go; he has the high ground, and I could never pull up into the clouds. I’d be lost and as good as dead up there. More planes are likely behind him – huge bombers, being escorted.
I have no guns, no radio. No chance. Once they have sight, they’ll never lose it.
But the German pulls up, rushes past in an angry boom of wind. The moment stretches out, on and on, as the roaring engine dies away into the distance.
Nothing else comes.
What was a Messerschmitt 109 doing here? The last plane in an escort, returning home now that he’s low on fuel? Or has there been an air raid – London, maybe White Waltham? Why didn’t he fire? I definitely didn’t lose
him; I didn’t even try to move. I froze, and I am lucky to be alive – he ducked me.
Why didn’t he fire?
He saw an RAF plane and, low on fuel, decided not to risk it. He hoped I didn’t see him. But why am I certain there was something else, something more?
I go in to land, suddenly aware that if there has been an air raid, the gunners will be mighty touchy. How can I tell them? If they’d only let us use the radio... no, no use in that. What can I do? An old instruction surfaces in my mind. Joy or Gower, I don’t know, but it seems sensible. Lower your wheels nice and early so the anti-aircraft guns know not to fire on you.
Please, God, let the undercarriage work. It does, my wheels are down. I come in, land safely, and, once I’ve rolled to a stop, breathe again.
*
Clearly, there has been no air raid here. A scout, perhaps. I will warn Gower, but first things first.
Westin is hunkered over the engine of a Hurricane. ‘You killed Diana Gaines.’
He doesn’t even look up. ‘Killed what?’
‘Diana Gaines. The pilot. Her engine failed.’
Now he glances up, casual as you like. ‘Fighters are difficult.’
I speak through my teeth. ‘And the undercarriage in my Tempest was locked.’
He smiles, a slow, cruel smile. He holds it a long moment before going back to his engine. ‘It’s a prototype. And you have to go easy on the big engines—’
‘Why? Because you failed to become a pilot? Because you failed and a bunch of women succeeded? Is that it?’
It was him all along, watching me, waiting for his chance. I was being watched by this petty, vindictive villain.
‘Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not a real pilot, Miss Cooper – none of you are. The second the war is over this little programme will be the first thing to go, mark my words. No one will remember it but as an embarrassment.’
A heart of gold, Cecil said.
‘Go to hell, you traitor.’
*
If I tell Gower about Westin, she’ll be less likely to believe me about the 109. That is far more important. Westin won’t budge – he’ll sit there, calling my bluff, until I can find a policeman to have him arrested. Gower can’t help with Westin. But only she can help stop the 109s.
‘A Messerschmitt. He was spying, Commander. I am sure of it.’
She won’t believe it. But she does seem, immediately, to believe it.
‘He fired on you?’
‘No. I think maybe he was too low on fuel to go chasing after a Barracuda. He was in a real hurry.’
She is looking at me. ‘Where did you see him?’
‘West. Headed home. I doubt they know about us here, Commander. But I have a feeling he found... something.’
She pauses, clearly thinking. Thinking about what? That I am mad? That she should revoke my wings?
She nods. ‘OK, thank you, Cooper.’
‘Also... Commander. My Tempest was damaged. Faulty landing gear.’
Gower stares at me, not at all pleased.
‘You are certain?’
‘Emergency measures barely worked – the yaw did nothing, the wheels wouldn’t extend. It was deliberate. And I’m certain I know who did this. Cam Westin, the engineer, he sabotaged my plane.’
She is silent, her face creased with worry.
‘I know it, Commander Gower. You have to believe me.’
Gower sighs. ‘I thought maybe... during one of your practice flights... I thought the engine sounded a little off. I took the controls and landed it. Mechanic ended up scrapping that engine. Couldn’t tell how it’d got so clogged up. I never thought – Westin wasn’t even working that day—’
‘He never was, when you were around. I may have told him about today, may have bragged about how I was going solo. I promise you that I am telling the truth about him.’
She sighs. Then raises her voice. ‘Robertson,’ she calls. ‘Come in here.’
A stern woman with a gun at her belt enters. ‘Yes, Commander?’
‘Find Cam Westin and bring him to my office.’
*
No one is in the hangar. Only a Moth, its hood open, abandoned mid-service. Despite my fear I almost laugh. Did he run? From me? Muffled footsteps behind me, and I whirl around to see Malcolm, looking pale and confused.
‘Where is Westin?’ Robertson demands. ‘The engineer.’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone where?’ I ask.
Malcolm seems to turn even paler. ‘No clue. But he took all his stuff with him.’
‘What?’ I say. Robertson hurries, her boots echoing in the silence.
An anger scaling towards rage courses through me. He’s run away. But another feeling overwhelms it all, a heavy sense of disappointment. It really was him. He was the one watching me, planning his attempt; I knew I wasn’t mad.
He had signed the safety certificate himself. It would have looked like it was all my fault. Just a dumb girl pretending to be a pilot.
Christ, why?
Malcolm stands before me, peering at me with wide eyes. ‘Anna? Are you OK? What happened?’
A tiredness beyond sleep, beyond tears and anger, overwhelms me. ‘He’s a traitor. He sabotaged my plane.’
‘Westin?’ Malcolm gazes into the distance, his eyes burning. ‘Anna, I will find him. I promise you. If it takes me ten years, I will find him and have him arrested. I promise.’
*
As Joy talks and talks over dinner, Mrs Wells nodding along, I tell them I am knackered. But I do not go to sleep. I slip out into the back garden as night thickens. I can’t tell Joy about Westin – she’d think her RAF conspiracy has been proven true. Westin is only one man, and a uniquely horrible one. This is his doing, not the RAF’s.
In all the madness I have forgotten about Cecil. About his proposal.
Could I change my mind, once the war is over? Like he’d ever take me, now.
My head has never hurt this much. On the cold grass I sit, folding and unfolding my hands. My head is going to explode – not even the darkness seems to help. Shoving aside the pain, I stare up at the night sky.
The Great Bear stares back down.
V
THE SHADOW OF HER WINGS
‘They are supposed to be coming. Why don’t they come?’
Joseph Goebbels, Nazi propaganda minister
12
Sunday, 1 August 1943
‘We have an emergency. Thanks to some reconnaissance from one of our own pilots’ – Gower tilts her head at me – ‘we have some forewarning. Not a lot, but it might be enough.’
Silence in the crew room. It is first thing in the morning. Gower marched in before Minx and Bella played the first hand of bridge. Cards and money lie forgotten on the table.
‘The Germans have found our Spitfires. Their scouting planes have located the Vickers factory at Castle Bromwich. We’ve had radio confirmation. The RAF is doing all they can, but can’t get enough pilots there in time.
‘Hundreds of brand-new planes lined up like ducks on the grass, with only a few balloons guarding them. We need to get there before the Luftwaffe and get those planes out of there. We need everyone on this.
‘Ansons are being fuelled now. Take a load of pilots, and get moving.’
The Germans have found the Spitfire factory. This is serious enough that they have even dropped the ban on women flying military aircraft.
I know how serious this is. Timothy Squire has been going on about it for months. The invasion. The only way it could ever work is if we throw everything at them – every plane, every tank, every soldier. And then we’re going to need some proper bloody luck.
If only I could have fired on him, then I could have stopped all this. No, the Nazis would have sent out dozens – hundreds – of reconnaissance planes. All I would have done is got myself shot down.
The pilots file to the door, leaving only me behind.
‘Commander,’ I call as Gower turns to follow the others out. My
voice sounds high and loud in the suddenly empty room.
‘Cooper?’ she says, her impatience clear.
‘I should go too, Commander. We need every pilot out there.’
‘No chance, Cooper. The pilots are coming back in Spits.’
‘So will I.’
‘You’ve only two months’ flying under your belt. The others are all supremely capable pilots.’
‘I can do it. Castle Bromwich is only a hundred miles away.’ I am shocked to hear my voice come out almost normal.
‘You’ve got a Class I card. And after that business with the landing gear... I appreciate your help in alerting us to this, Cooper. We’ll take it from here.’
And that’s when Joy appears in the doorway. ‘She can do it, Commander.’
Gower sighs, gestures her inside. For a long moment she just stares at the two of us.
‘Sending a pilot with such minimal training could be the death blow to the ATA. You run the risk of ruining it for everyone. Should a male pilot damage an aircraft, it would of course be a black mark. But if one of us were to damage a Spitfire, if a woman were to damage one, even with a locked undercarriage, well...
‘The Air Ministry keeps a very close eye on the pilots’ logbooks. If there is a scratch on that aeroplane, and Sir Francis sees that a pilot without her requisite five hundred plus hours of flying... Can you fly this aircraft, Anna Cooper?’
Joy steps forward. ‘She can, I—’
‘I am asking Aircraftwoman Cooper. If she can’t speak for herself, I’m certainly not going to let her near a Spitfire.’
I fold my hands behind my back to keep them from shaking. ‘Yes, Commander Gower. I can fly the Spitfire.’
‘Manoeuvre through a corridor of barrage balloons?’
‘I will follow Joy. Use her slipstream.’
Commander Gower is looking at me, a cat watching a robin. ‘And if she crashes, can you fly on and bring the Spit back here? It is vital that we recover each and every plane.’
I swallow, nodding. ‘I will fly on, Commander. I will bring the Spit back. You have my word.’
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