by Carol Gould
For many months Sam had been accumulating skills that would enable him to become a taxi pilot, and with dramatic intonations Noel had explained that on his shoulders would rest the outcome of war. On any given day, a taxi pilot would set out in the morning with a list of the aerodromes he had to visit, against which would be written the names of pilots to be collected or delivered. In hushed tones Noel explained to Sam that when an RAF squadron moved, Ferry Control would ring up, ordering ten new fighters to be delivered that day; priority telephone calls would stop everything and a pilot would find himself being taxied to a factory that manufactured one very special fighter.
Noel trained Sam well and soon he was flying Fairchilds, but as country after country fell to Schicklgruber he graduated to Ansons, the first low-wing monoplane to be taken into RAF service.
‘One of the most beautiful aeroplanes ever built,’ Sam wrote in the diary he had begun to keep ever since he had outlived his usefulness at the meat market.
‘When all this is finished I think I will buy myself an Anson and spend the peace flying around in it,’ he wrote another time, having marvelled all day at the magic machine’s ease of maintenance and supreme economy, its unbelievable reliability and the spectacular loads it could carry.
Dawn was arriving on this summer’s day, and Sam was waiting for Noel to join the group who ate breakfast every morning in the makeshift Mess that had once been a club dining room. For weeks everyone had been waiting for a massive invasion but the Germans had remained quiet. Nonetheless, in the darkness of the bedroom he shared with a quietly breathing woman who once had been his lover, Sam had experienced a giddiness as he had dressed for another new day at Maylands. Something extraordinary was about to happen.
‘Lot of money to be made from it,’ his wife would scold, in a voice suggesting his livelihood paled next to her special soothsaying talents. Now that he had given up meat for aeroplanes, she had stopped predicting the future and had developed a penchant for collecting: newspaper cuttings, magazine pictures and empty cigarette packets filled an old knitting bag to overflowing. She never allowed Sam to look inside, but he conjectured she had lost her mind when he left Smithfield and that newspapers took her mind off a future that could hold nothing now but death. All his life he had been surrounded by carcasses and she had never cared. Now he was transporting men who could be downed by one balloon while his wife cut, cut, cut like the workers who had once inhabited the gory corridors of the market.
Here in the canteen men gathered and joked, a corner of the room occupied by a tiny handful of women on a stopover. They had no lavatory or mess of their own, but these rare visitors, whose numbers occasionally included Amy Johnson, seemed cheerful amid the men’s tension. On this day every male available had been assembled, including Jim and Hamilton Slade, and the boy Cal. Gordon Selfridge had received a cable as he prepared to sail to the United States and they had heard he was on his way from Liverpool. His ship was to have left twenty-four hours before, and Gordon was lucky because it had been attacked as he had stood, bags in hand, reading the telegram. Everyone missed him when he was away, his Anglicized American charm as attractive as the voluptuous victuals he poached from the store on Oxford Street for the benefit of this privileged ferry mob. He would be here presently, with Sam and Noel and Alec and the Yank Bill, to be taxied to a place where their collective dreams would be realized and their boyhood passions renewed, because they were to spend this entire working day, from now until dusk, doing something they had never done before. They were to be moved to a permanent home at White Waltham. It was time to prepare for the Spitfires.
Rumours had been circulating that there were to be twenty-three different versions of Spitfires. Everyone knew that a full-scale battle for the survival of Britain was just months away, and though the women had to accept their exclusion from fighter deliveries, their instincts told them Spits would soon be within their grasp.
Now Delia Seifert and Angelique Florian were munching on toast and groaning at the sight of Sam and Noel, dressed in flying boots, fur-lined leather trousers and jackets, huge scarves, helmets and goggles, their ration bags hanging around their necks and jotting pads strapped to each knee. They were talking, Noel’s gravelly voice carrying as far as the girls’ table where they could detect words about drift angles. Here were two men whose odd coupling had alienated them from the rest of the pools and towards whom Hamilton had a particular animosity. Delia had told him she thought the men were friends, but Hamilton detested Noel and now loathed the older figure he called ‘the bedfellow’.
‘But he’s married!’ Angelique shouted at Hamilton, who was sharing his breakfast with the slender females.
‘I’m sorry to keep dwelling on the subject, but that March boy ought to be sent elsewhere,’ he hissed, as Delia removed a sliver of Selfridge’s smuggled bacon from his plate. ‘Lads are being moved to White Waltham and I think he should go.’
‘Sam has three sons,’ Angelique said, smiling at Delia. ‘He’s strong and normal. Not that one could say the same of Noel.’
‘Cal March needs to get away from rotters,’ Hamilton muttered, his fingers tapping restlessly against the empty coffee cup.
‘Alec Harborne looks after him,’ Delia asserted.
‘Which reminds me that I am supposed to be looking after the Toland brothers, who would not be in hospital were it not for Slater,’ Angelique blurted in hopes that her voice might carry.
Sam and Noel were to be separated for the first time and that was what made this day so crucial.
‘Why are you wearing that foolish suit?’ snapped Angelique, following Noel out to the main field.
‘Why not, actress?’ he said, walking on.
‘You aren’t allowed to fly, Slater.’
‘Someone I know has bent the rules, and I shall now be on Spits,’ he muttered, stopping and letting the others proceed. ‘Did you know that until recently actresses were regarded as synonymous with harlots?’
‘Flight engineers with deficiencies are synonymous with accidents. The women’s pool knows all concerning the Toland brothers.’
‘Are you proposing to report me to d’Erlanger?’
Angelique smirked, wanting to demolish this man and triumph on a Spitfire at the other end of the Anson’s journey.
‘Harold Balfour would love to learn more about your behaviour,’ she said calmly.
‘He couldn’t care a fig about a bloke like me. There are a thousand men, at this very moment, being trained to fly all kinds of things. He has them on his mind, not Noel Slater.’
‘You have Sam Hardwick on your mind all the time, and that can’t be very good for your record, big man.’
Slater took hold of his kit bag and, with a movement swift as any gazelle, pushed past Angelique. She walked to the edge of the field, the taxi Anson now filled with the best of her circle but joined by a man whose menace made her ache with dread. Determined to pursue a personal mission she had been formulating in her head during the night, she watched as the lovely aircraft left Maylands.
Noel’s unchivalrous behaviour had moved her mind to images of disturbed acts in European ruins. As the Anson soared into the early morning sky she thought of Zack and Paul with terror. They were in a place unknown, but she knew she could not stay here much longer …
42
Sitting in the back of the Anson, Noel talked softly to his older pupil:
‘Why don’t you leave that woman?’
‘In the middle of a war?’ Sam looked incredulous.
‘Who cares?’ Noel grinned.
They stopped talking as the Anson struggled through thick cloud, but even when the view had cleared the other men remained silent.
‘What a glum bunch,’ Noel chimed, eyeing the congregation of pilots seated in the taxi aircraft. Not one of the men responded, but Sam whispered in his ear:
‘They’re all still wary of us after the accident. I expect they think of themselves as perhaps the next Oscar and Martin Tolands in your
list of intended victims.’
Noel smiled.
‘Are you having a romance with that gal?’ Bill Howes broke in.
‘Which girl?’ Noel demanded sharply.
‘The gorgeous Florian dame,’ he replied.
‘Perhaps I am, perhaps I’m not.’
‘You either is, or you isn’t,’ Bill quipped.
‘What difference does it make, Howes?’ Noel peered out of the small window on his side of the aircraft.
‘You been pushing her around?’
Only the engine could be heard as breathing stopped.
‘Nonsense.’
Four pairs of eyes stared at Noel as if he were about to reveal a terrible secret.
‘In public.’ The American was relentless.
‘Howes, she’s a tart,’ hissed Noel.
‘Whom are we talking about?’ asked Hamilton, who had leaned back in his seat next to the pilot, wanting to defuse a dangerous situation that would be one hundred times worse airborne than on the ground.
‘He means Angelique Florian,’ Sam offered, smiling meekly.
‘Angelique is to play Richard III at RADA next term, war or not,’ Hamilton said. ‘She is known as their best leading man. Not that she isn’t all female. Harold Balfour is pursuing her, and she is not a tart.’
Guffaws exploded spontaneously from the men on board, and Hamilton let out a long breath. Noel stared out of his window but the other men cackled and joked and that was the way Hamilton wanted it until God saw them back down to earth.
Noel turned again to Sam as the others made what to him was a ridiculous noise. ‘You’re special to me, Sam.’
‘Be quiet.’ Sam looked at his colleagues with fear but Noel was still talking:
‘We could have a business partnership. It was meant to be, mate.’
Sam moved closer to him, his paraphernalia getting in the way and his pockets jangling.
‘What have you got in there, old man?’ Alec shouted, winking.
‘Chronometer, stopwatch, protractor,’ Sam replied colourlessly, while the men resumed their laughter.
Noel was glad; the din drowned his words:
‘If we get together I can start on something I haven’t told you about. It will make you drool, Sam.’
The Anson had begun a sudden descent and soon with a tentative juddering it came to a halt.
Conversation ceased.
‘Ancient and Tattered Aviators,’ shouted Alec as the door opened and the cool air drifted into the fuggy cabin full of pilots.
They had expected to see gleaming new Spitfires peppering the landscape, one for each man, but at Hamble airfield all that greeted them now was a small collection of ragged machines, one battered Airspeed Courier resembling a museum piece rather than a wartime defence offering and a spattering of Moths that seemed perfect targets for German bombing raids. Jim strolled a full circle around the Courier and smiled.
‘It’s a good way of getting rid of trash,’ Bill volunteered, looking up at the bright sky and brushing his hand against an aged Fox Moth’s fuselage.
Sam and Noel walked away, heading for the main road leading to the Vickers factory.
‘Disgusting,’ Alec mumbled as he watched the pair vanish around a distant corner.
Never in his life had Sam Hardwick ever contemplated a close partnership with another man, and he knew the ferry group resented their relationship. Noel hated women and Sam was miserable, but neither wanted the other; both men knew there was, indeed, a smouldering volcano within.
‘Did you hear Harborne just now?’ Noel asked, as they walked briskly along the sandbagged road.
‘We ought to have women friends, Noel,’ he said. ‘They’re good for show.’
‘Punching bags are good for show, too,’ snapped Noel, striding on ahead of Sam.
‘How can you hate them so?’
‘You’ve asked me that a hundred times before.’
Sam had caught up with him, but his breath was coming in fits.
‘Hardwick, prepare yourself for a monumental surprise.’
Turning into the entrance drive to the Vickers plant they were stopped by a guard.
‘First of the ATA Spitfire pilots,’ Noel snarled, arrogantly waving his log book.
‘You have no authority to enter the premises as yet. Only the CO can.’
‘I am the new CO,’ declared Noel.
Sam was astounded. The flight engineer’s audacity was as boundless as were his flying ambitions.
‘If you do not leave the grounds you will be arrested,’ the guard said calmly, surveying Noel as if he were a giant leek.
‘This is my Adjutant, Hardwick, and I must insist you allow us entry to the works,’ Slater asserted, his voice grating on Sam’s ears.
‘Come this way,’ the guard instructed, pointing to the front entrance.
They walked, Sam wanting to run away and never be seen again. It was the first time Noel had got him involved in a situation as embarrassing as this, and in one split second he regretted every direction in which he had allowed his life to go this year.
‘Watch this,’ Noel whispered to him as they followed the guard.
In the main reception area, sitting beneath a new painting of King George, another guard perused the outlandishly-dressed aviators and smiled at them: Sam could not help thinking of a zoo-keeper cooing at the deadly lion who had escaped her cage.
‘First Officer Noel Slater reporting with taxi pilot Hardwick for Spitfire deliveries.’
‘Your CO would find this most amusing, gentlemen,’ said the guard, still seated under his sovereign.
‘I am the CO,’ said Noel, this time whipping out an impressive, leatherbound document book and waving it in front of the incredulous pair of guards.
‘As you know, Mr Slater, the Ministry of Supply has laid down quite specific rules about the organization of ferry trips from this factory. In the first instance, we have test pilots who take Spits out on a test run and it could be one further day before we are ready to release them from Maintenance Units for this particular operation to take place.’
‘I thought the RAF was screaming for them!’ sneered Noel.
Sam nodded sheepishly – standing, as always, two steps behind Noel.
‘In any case, Slater, Miss Flint is to have overall charge of this procedure.’
‘Miss Flint?’ howled Noel.
Sam retreated another two steps.
‘Indeed, sir. The new Commanding Officer, Hamble. Nora Flint.’
‘This is an outrage,’ spluttered Noel with a look of helplessness.
‘She is an awfully nice girl,’ Sam croaked.
‘A woman CO – this is the ruination of the Services,’ Slater ranted, perspiring through his heavy flying gear. ‘This will get into the press just as we are about to receive Germans landing in parachutes in our own back yards – literally – and all the Ministry can do is appoint a girl CO.’
The reception guard was still seated, and he gazed with disdain at the flight engineer. ‘May I assume you wish to retract your original contention that you are in fact CO Hamble?’
‘How do you mean?’ Noel was incoherent, his hand pressing into a creased forehead, his receding hairline glistening under the bright lights of the famous manufacturing establishment.
‘I thought perhaps you would not wish to be mistaken for a woman, having previously made claims to being Hamble CO.’
Noel grabbed Sam by the arm and marched him out of the building, nearly knocking their first escort off his feet. Walking at a fierce pace he soon reached the main road – but with Sam lagging behind, his irritation grew.
‘Move, for God’s sake!’ he bellowed, and the older man sped to his side, panting.
‘What an achievement for little Nora,’ gasped Sam, stopping by the roadside.
Noel would not speak again that day or that evening, his mortification addling his thoughts and curdling the small breakfast in his stomach.
Gordon had arrived with glor
ious delicacies from his secret cache, and the men celebrated Nora’s promotion to Commanding Officer by crowding into the single ladies’ lavatory cubicle and toasting her with Selfridge’s own Lloyd George Vintage.
Noel experienced a vague awareness of the festivities, his mind clouded by visions of a beautiful, unobtainable woman who had given birth to him, bathed and dressed him and pushed him out into a world where he had hoped females would be extinct. His torment, however, could not cloud Sam’s delight in Nora’s achievement, and as the men gave generous obeisance to the prospect of her command, Noel’s mind drifted to the words the Vickers guard had spoken: test pilots must take new aircraft out on a trial run …
This was of great interest to him.
43
Angelique had forgotten religion since war and the ATA.
Having been one of the choice eight selected for Valerie Cobb’s first ferry pool, she had been in great demand, with rarely a day off between flights. She could still remember her very first assignment, which had taken all of twenty-five minutes: she had delivered a T1176 from the factory at Cowley to Wroughton. Anson-loads of ATA pilots were being dumped in Cowley for trips to Scotland. Stella Teague would drop the girls off and they would scramble, often getting only as far as Carlisle where a night-stop would be necessary. Back in their respective cockpits the next dawn, the girls would fly on and refuel at Ternhill, grabbing tea in the Mess.
‘You never eat!’ was the one complaint every ATA girl’s mother would shriek on the now-rare visits home, but on occasions like these time was of an absurd essence, the nation still ill-prepared for onslaught, and the barrage balloons a daily nightmare. Indeed, when Angelique, Nora and Delia managed to get through the barrage in their Moths they could barely see one another but pressed on past Liverpool and on a northerly course to Lancaster. Angelique recalled vividly one journey in which the cloud base had started to drop, and the girls were sandwiched between the hills and the cloud, with the light fading all the time. They caught sight of a lone railway line and followed it until, to their relief, they could see a major town materializing on the horizon. Having to spend the night at an ancient inn, the three pilots spotted Sam Hardwick and Bill Howes, who were ferrying Lysanders to Belfast, though both men were officially listed as taxi pilots …