Spitfire Girls

by Carol Gould

  That had been one hundred years ago, Nora told herself.

  She had risen to the top of ATA and become an idol to the boss she now called Sam and who in turn was required to call her Ma’am. He was sitting next to her, deprived of Noel. Nora could not recall any time in the past year when the two had been apart, and she surmised Slater had manufactured some excuse for his absence today. He hated gatherings because gatherings meant people, and like Hitler he hated religion because religion meant caring. She could feel her nostrils moistening again and bowed her head. Inside her skull an organ was playing the same hymn she had heard at the memorial service for Amy Johnson held in St Martin-in-the-Fields, when Valerie had given a moving sermon amid the darkest winter ATA had ever known.

  Then it had snowed and runways had frozen. All flying had stopped. And when it had begun again, death followed …

  Nora looked up and her eyes met those of Alec and Marion.

  D’Erlanger stood erect and his voice seemed to melt the frigid air circulating amongst the pilots:

  ‘We all remember our other American, little Jo Howes.’

  There was a cough in the corner of the assemblage; Bill Howes had not wanted to attend today but Hana Bukova had talked him into attending the anniversary meeting, if only to share in the group’s remembrance of his only child. Hana had been alone in England for over a year now, and she was glad to be Bill’s comfort after the calamity. Here amongst her new friends she watched him closely and placed her palm on the top of his hand as Gerard’s words resonated around the four walls:

  ‘In the months since her loss we have had more freak accidents, but in no way could they diminish the magnitude of her passing. Like Martin in the Beaufort, Jo’s sacrifice enabled us to correct the heinous carelessness that had allowed carbon monoxide fumes to envelop her tiny cabin. She never had a chance to complete her course at Upavon, but the others have gone on to enormous achievements. One can’t help thinking of our tiny, beautiful Yankee lass taken from us at the beginning of her life – smiling down at us now as we fly perfect aircraft she will never touch …’

  Valerie had allowed her mind to wander yet again. She was utterly exhausted; only yesterday, the sixteenth consecutive Saturday on which she had worked, she had ferried a Percival Q.6 from Broxbourne for delivery to the Royal Navy at Lee-on-Solent. With its slightly aging electrically-operated variable-pitch propellers, she had had a disturbing time on her approach to Worthy Down, where all pilots had to land to obtain clearance to enter the defended southern coastal area. Jiggling levers, she could not get the rpm right and when she managed to press on to Lee she was gratified to be relieved of the creature on arrival at the foreshortened runway. After the cold of the flight and the disturbing fear the faulty machinery had caused, she was enraged to discover that the Percival was not meant for Naval communications work at all but for a senior officer’s personal use: Duncan Worsley had been a motor racing champion and had it not been for his enormous personal charm Valerie felt she could have murdered the man on the spot.

  At that moment, Mosquitos were coming out of the factories in droves and her women were desperately needed for delivery of every kind of operational aircraft. Beaverbrook was becoming irritable with a debilitating asthma and some said he would soon resign his post as Minister of Aircraft Production. He had started it all, and she had not forgotten. Valerie was furiously proud of her girls, whose numbers had quadrupled in a year and whose nationalities now spanned five continents.

  Though pride had never been a Cobb family vice, she could think of no other emotion to match her regard for these talented women. Looking across the nave Valerie allowed a minuscule smile to crease her mouth at the sight of the gorgeous Kay Pelham and her equally ravishing friend Lili Villiers. Australians seemed to possess a permanent suntan – their skin retained a vitality that glowed even in the dullest London street corner. Valerie was glad Edith Allam had been able to fulfil poor Beaverbrook’s wishes, even if he was now too ill to appreciate the Antipodean beauties Edith had imported for ATA. None of the ferry pilots could believe the saga of the American’s intercontinental journey, nor could they comprehend the paradise she had described upon landing in England. Edith had never seen anything so breathtaking as the magical sunsoaked heaven Kay and Lili called home. She had arrived in Australia exhausted, short of funds and embarrassed to the point of deep shame. She had been astonished when upon her long-overdue arrival an assortment of enthusiastic Australians and New Zealanders had flocked to her side to do what Kay Pelham had called ‘ATA auditions’.

  Kay and Lili were striking beyond all criteria of physical grace, and their talent as pilots was equally superb. They were playfully rude about her delayed arrival, and Edith could only marvel at the girls’ electrifying rapport.

  Lili’s industrialist father had produced piles of cash in exchange for a promise from Edith that she would endeavour to break the record for the number of Spitfires ferried around Britain, and that she would look after his little daughter. Lili had been nonplussed that her tragic dream of the hulking blond accomplice had come true. Unfortunately her dream of Amy had also become reality, news Edith had solemnly relayed on her arrival in Australia. Walking along the perfect beach and breathing in the pure air that seemed so charged with health, Edith had familiarized herself with box jellyfish and sea wasps in the baking January of the Great Barrier Reef, its unspoilt islands of mangrove swamps and rainforests staggering to behold. She had vowed to return some day, and if Kay and Lili were a microcosm of the stunning bodies running along the edges of Daydream Island, Edith knew she would have to pray hard for this war to come to a speedy end.

  Now a year had passed and this was cold Mayfair in the depths of global conflict. Her ears registering the pleasant, unwarlike music swelling from the organ loft, Valerie marvelled at the possibility of her having recruited the cream of the entire crop of the world’s women pilots for 1942 ATA. It had been a great pity, Valerie had thought privately, that lovely Hartmut had been snatched from Edith Allam’s embrace by the British authorities upon her arrival, and that he had been deposited in an internment camp – when the blond Adonis could have been of such great use to ATA.

  D’Erlanger had stormed at Valerie not to intervene on behalf of the dashing German after her Kranz débâcle, and Valerie had stormed back about the blond blue-eyed Adonis being a Jew …

  *

  Philadelphia’s most famous daughter, the girl who had flown around the world in defiance of her nation’s refusal to enter the European war, and who had triumphantly delivered the finest of the colonies’ pilots on England’s doorstep, now sat pale and rigid in a rear seat against the faded back wall. Edith’s eyes seemed to have lost their incandescence in the short time she had spent back in Britain, but watching her Valerie could see the almost crazed determination that would make the girl such a vital element of the ATA working structure. Now that the United States had entered the war in the wake of Pearl Harbour, Edith seemed fired with delight in the present worldwide conflagration.

  Music had come and gone inside Valerie’s head as she too recalled a flash of Amy’s memorial service, so hastily organized amid a winter of despair. Now, she noticed Edith’s expression changing as the American watched with interest the arrival of a civilian couple who were taking their places at the end of a draughty row. Gerard’s voice was entrancing but now he was stopping to make way for the newly returned Gordon Selfridge.

  ‘And so it came to pass’, Selfridge was relating, ‘that every Saturday afternoon all through that first year of ATA, a special bunch of young guys was brought to the airfield and handed cleaning cloths. These fellows shined every available surface to such excess that they were soon put on to Ansons to help our pilots in winding the undercarriage. I went away for half a year and when in February 1941 I came back to this land, your Air Defence Corps was taken over by the RAF and cadet training had begun.’

  Edith Allam half-listened to Selfridge, her attention drawn to the incongruous pa
ir who had moved into the row facing, and who seemed so uncomfortable in the company of flying people. It was only then that it dawned on her there were no ordinary civilians present. It might be, she theorized, that the sea of uniforms intimidated this shabby couple, whose grim hostility to their surroundings could be felt yards away. She had seen the man before, but a long time ago, before she circled the earth.

  ‘ATC recruits were given wonderful uniforms,’ Selfridge continued, ‘and in their capacity as pilots’ assistants they started flying in school Hudsons and Albemarles. Our most outstanding product was selected because of his exceptional energy and was meticulously trained for assisting in the first communications flights to the Continent. None of us will ever forget how he came back with Amy Johnson from France, full of the stories about Hurricane pilots recognizing her in the bar of the Hotel Lion d’Or and showering her with champagne. Her young escort went on to be so damned good we lost him to the RAF and then as we all remember so darkly, a few days after receiving his commission, on his very first flight, we lost Cal March to the great Commodore in the sky …

  Gordon’s voice trailed off and Shirley Bryce, exhausted and distracted by the fact that she had not seen her mother in over a year, remained dry-eyed while others around her wept quietly. She felt unmoved by the whole ceremony, which she saw as a huge production number.

  Why bother to celebrate two years of anything?

  Why wallow in death?

  Shirley’s emotions bordered on shame as she spent the major portion of Gordon’s homage to Cal March letting her mind wander to that magical moment thirteen months ago when she had reported to Hatfield just after dawn and been greeted by the sight of Valerie Cobb engrossed in paperwork. Magic had been extinguished when the two embarked upon their first conversation since the CO’s exile. Valerie wanted to talk only of Friedrich, and even requested Shirley’s companionship on her first visit to the internment camp, the location of which she was determined to extract from the authorities.

  Could one believe it?

  After registering Valerie’s request, Shirley had slunk into a dark corner. Was there no end to the woman’s idiocy? How could she continue to pursue destruction incarnate?

  ‘Friedrich is a walking disaster area,’ Shirley had hissed at a July dinner party, and Valerie just laughed. Held to defy the devastation that had been heaped upon Southampton, the party had been at Hamble, where Shirley observed the intriguing repartee on the lips of Valerie and d’Erlanger. Some of the girls boasted over a lemonade that they had survived the bombings despite having watched the son-et-lumière show from the roof of Hamble aerodrome, and Stella told them to shut up before Val and Gerry, as she called them, threw her out of ATA.

  After a more potent drink, d’Erlanger had said:

  ‘I suppose there isn’t really any reason why women shouldn’t fly Hurricanes,’ and Valerie jumped in with an opportunistic, ‘Fine – when do they start?’

  Every girl present at that soiree had been astonished by the steely magnetism that won Valerie every new deal for her ladies. In a few short days the Air Council, who would have been horrified at the idea in peacetime, approved the final arrangements and the women of ATA were cleared to fly every type of operational aircraft including all models of the famous fighter coming out of the Vickers Super -marine works.

  At that moment women’s ATA passed into an historic phase, and the Women With Wings had become Spitfire Girls.

  Shirley had been more concerned that in the absence of Friedrich Valerie was not devoting more time to renewing their closeness, than in the progress of operational assignments from Battles, Harvards and Kestrel Masters to Hurricanes, Mosquitos and the cherished Spits.

  Now, on this February day, Shirley had cancelled yet another trip to see her mother in order to be near the glamorous Commanding Officer. Once more she would go back to her Hertfordshire lodgings depressed and longing for one of Angelique Florian’s classic monologues full of extravagant mannerisms. Angelique was now only a memory and Shirley wondered if she was alone in missing the actress pilot. Kay Pelham boasted endlessly about joining the country’s most illustrious Shakespeare Company and it was at these times Shirley wished Angelique had been there to silence the abrasive Australian.

  ‘A few headlines in the paper and then they forget you. That was Amy’s favourite expression.’

  Hamilton Slade was speaking over the soft tones of the church’s modest organ. He was thin and pale, his tall physique now skeletal inside the ATA blue. When he lost Amy the pilots had been awkward but he had devoured sympathy when it was offered. Most men hated pity but Hamilton’s thinning body had no desire to reject the offerings.

  ‘We have a few headlines inside our brains that flash by daily as we whizz through the skies in between balloons and dogfights. ATA remembers Cal March and Jo Howes, Martin Toland and his missing brother Oscar. We say hello to Amy and remember that in this past year our pilots have jumped in and out of over 15,000 aircraft. And we know that, wherever she is, her face is green with envy.’

  Edith was staring at the civilian couple as the organ music swelled and abruptly she remembered Joe March the chauffeur and that odd day on the Isle of Man when Hartmut’s first love letter had been placed in her hand. Seeing him again after such a long gap reminded the American aviatrix of her bath at the Beaverbrook villa and of Errol Carnaby. Since then she had loved Hartmut Weiss. His sturdy torso had lain across what she had always thought was her unattractive body, but he had wanted her in a mild sort of way, making passionless love in the detached, mechanical manner she had somehow expected from her first white man. So little time had been spent with Errol that Edith had never memorized the contours of his chest, his belly, his fierce penis that scorched like an iron. She had never rested her face upon the smooth buttocks of which her tiny hands had been vaguely aware when he had gouged a molten dwelling place inside her, and from which she would have been powerless to extricate him in the crazed height of his ecstasy.

  But she had had time to memorize the contours of her German. He had been pink and white all over, the crest of his manhood dusted with a fluffy cloak of blonde hairs. Edith had teased him about being a collector’s item, but he had not understood her joke about the only circumcized towhead in the Luftwaffe. After great contortions of a cerebral nature, Hartmut would eventually achieve an erection, the inexperienced girl finding the effort boring and bemusing. He would enter and remain inside her for a while and sometimes she would experience small explosions of almost resentful pleasure. Now that he had been taken from her, however, she felt lonely, irritable, and glad when the memorial service meeting in the little Mayfair church had come to an end.

  There was a large part of this Sunday left to live, and Edith wanted to tear away from the gathering and from Cal March’s distraught parents, from the English pilots who had known Jo and Martin and Cal and Oscar, and who were now overcome with an almost unbearable collective grief. Edith wanted to leave this place and head for base, where aeroplanes waited for the weather to clear and where she could forget her uncomfortable longings. Valerie Cobb had been bitterly disappointed when Edith arrived in Britain without Errol in tow, and she had said something about war making women lose track of their men. Edith responded by saying she had lost track of her favourite woman, and Valerie walked away before Edith could finish saying:

  ‘Raine Fischtal.’

  Making her way down the front steps of the church, Edith knew she could never have attempted small talk. Hamilton and Gordon had the bug-eyed look of men trying to thwart the onset of tears, and Sam’s had already come. The women were languid on the pavement, anxious for a cigarette and dabbing at their faces with handkerchiefs. She noticed Nora’s smart monogram and wondered if any of these girls would invite her to their family homes. Her Australians were hovering away from the others and as Edith headed for Grosvenor Square, Gerard d’Erlanger gave what she thought was a small salute. Her pulse quickened for a moment and she contemplated the possibility that
Florence Avenue might never see her again.

  63

  It was bad enough, thought Mrs Bennell, that girls like Shirley Bryce chose to leave their mothers’ cosy homes to live in lodgings, but to put off visiting for a year was unnatural. Cleaning the latest room full of neatly accumulated ATA memorabilia, the landlady of The Stone House placed her hand on a large chunk of hardboard, which had been leaning against a wall and gathering dust. Angelique’s Ouija board had been appropriated by Shirley after the Florian girl’s departure – which some had called desertion. Shortly after she had left, Noel Slater stopped by to drink in The Stone House bar.

  ‘In the regular services she would have been court-martialled,’ he shouted. ‘Fancy walking out of ATA.’

  ‘Actually, she flew out of ATA,’ said Josef Ratusz, his bleary eyes the product of a relentless year during which he had had five days leave.

  ‘Don’t think it has escaped our attention’, Slater continued, ‘that Florian went off pregnant in a perfectly serviceable aircraft.’

  ‘None of us could do that, so it makes her special,’ Josef said.

  ‘Bollocks, Joe.’ Slater was becoming noisy and Mrs Bennell emerged to glare.

  ‘Why do you hate her so much?’ Josef asked, rubbing his furrowy forehead.

  ‘Yes. What has she ever done to hurt you, Noel?’ asked Mrs Bennell.

  Slater studied her before he spoke. ‘BOAC should never have let d’Erlanger bring in his girlfriends. Women haven’t the co-ordination to handle aircraft in a pressurized situation, and one of these days a whole factory-load of things will go down in flames because some stupid ATA girl has let her mind wander to her last amorous encounter.’

  Mrs Bennell’s hand hit Noel’s face hard, and her hard palm left an angry weal on the flight engineer’s pasty complexion. He had smiled afterwards and she felt a marked woman. As he left the bar with a sheepish Josef, she knew he would be back again, his contempt needing constant release.