The Spitfire Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  Over in the canteen, the sound of the Tannoy whistle startled Mary and made her spill tea into her saucer.

  ‘Steady on,’ Stan said with a reassuring smile. Not surprisingly, Mary had been jumpy all through breakfast. He too was on edge, worrying over Gordon and Harry’s failure to return to base.

  ‘Will all pilots report to the operations room for their chits!’

  Gillian’s crisp voice was the signal to scramble so Mary reached for her forage cap and joined the other pilots in a rush for the door. ‘Wish me luck,’ she said to Stan as she hurried away.

  ‘You won’t need it,’ he called after her. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  She paused and turned to look him in the eye. ‘Thanks,’ she whispered for the umpteenth time as others barged past. ‘I mean it, Stan. Thank you.’

  Then she was out of the canteen and hurrying towards the control tower to collect her chit; no time to think or get too nervous as she was jostled towards the head of the queue and the sign over the hatch saying ‘All Pilots Report Here’. She took the slip of paper that Gillian slid towards her.

  Spit Mark IX! Mary read the information. Brand new. A short hop to ease her in.

  ‘Happy?’ Gillian asked through the glass partition.

  Mary grinned and nodded.

  ‘Hang on to the chit. It has to be signed off at the other end,’ Douglas’s secretary reminded her. ‘You’re next off the runway so you’d better get a move on.’

  Mary slid the paper into her top pocket and ran downstairs to collect her helmet, map and goggles. Then she set off towards the hangar, clutching her parachute pack to her chest, arriving breathless as Stan towed her plane into position. He jumped down from the Amazon lorry to unhitch the Spit.

  ‘She’s a little beauty,’ he reported as he prepared to drive the lorry clear.

  Standing at the end of the runway, Mary’s heart beat so fast that she couldn’t speak. She gazed up at the Spit’s smooth, polished, perfect lines; beautiful and deadly.

  ‘Don’t be nervous.’ Stan had parked the Amazon and strode back towards her.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Fibber. Everyone is, no matter how many hours they’ve clocked up.’

  ‘All right, a bit,’ she admitted as she fastened her helmet and lowered her goggles. Then, with a boost from Stan she stepped on to the wing and into the cockpit where she strapped herself in and began the start-up checks. First, secure the hood; second, open up the throttle before checking the instrument panel. She heard the engine begin to turn and then sing. The glorious sound filled the cockpit. Mary looked left and right, above and behind. The coast was clear. At a thumbs-up from Stan, she watched him take away the chocks.

  As the oil temperature gauge rose to fifty degrees, Mary returned the thumbs-up. The propellers blurred in front of her, the Merlin engine roared. Her grip tightened on the stick and she taxied along the runway, gathering speed until she felt the small bump and jerk that signalled lift-off.

  ‘Very good,’ Stan said, standing next to the Amazon. After a textbook take-off Mary was airborne, with sun reflecting off the wings; no tricks, no loops, no rolls, just a steady rise into the blue sky. ‘Little beauty,’ he murmured again.

  So light, Mary thought; so easy to manoeuvre. Up she soared, with green fields below and the engine’s song in her heart.

  Angela caught up with Bobbie in the queue to receive their chits. They stood directly behind Jean, with Teddy some way ahead of them.

  ‘Why did you skip breakfast?’ Angela asked, concern written all over her face.

  ‘I wasn’t hungry.’ Bobbie dreaded catching Teddy’s attention so she kept her answer short.

  ‘But you’re fit to fly?’

  Bobbie drew a deep breath. She had a bad headache and a queasy stomach but she was determined to carry on as normal. ‘Fit as a fiddle, thanks.’

  The queue shuffled forward until Teddy received his orders for the day. ‘What’s this?’ he complained to Gillian as he read the chit. ‘A bloody Dauntless? You must be joking.’

  Gillian shrugged at him. ‘If that’s what First Officer Thornton has written down …’

  Teddy shook his head in disgust. ‘Where is he? Let me have a word.’

  ‘Sorry; no can do.’ Gillian knew that Douglas had left the office to talk with Fred Richards about a new met report forecasting rain later in the day. ‘Step aside, please.’

  But Teddy didn’t budge. Instead, he listed the reasons why giving him the Dauntless was a waste of his time. ‘Any idiot can fly that old crate. Give it to someone with fewer hours. There’s Mary Holland, for a start. Let her cut her teeth on it.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Or Jean here. Jean doesn’t mind what she flies, do you, Jean?’

  ‘I fly what I’m told to fly,’ she answered in a steely tone while a flustered Gillian repeated her request for Teddy to step to one side.

  ‘Here, Angela; you’ll take the Dauntless off my hands, won’t you?’ Teddy thrust the chit at her with little hope of her agreeing. Then he noticed Bobbie next in line. ‘All right then; Bobbie, how about you?’ he wheedled.

  Anger flared up out of nowhere. Bobbie forced herself to raise her head and look directly at him. She shook as she spoke. ‘I don’t take orders from you and nor does anyone else.’

  Teddy breathed down his nose with a snorting sound. ‘Bloody hell. It’s coming to something when a bunch of women can order a bloke around.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Douglas came out of the met room into an atmosphere that he could have cut with a knife. Within seconds he’d assessed the situation and pinpointed Teddy as the cause. Angela quickly confirmed his suspicions.

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Simpson isn’t happy with the Dauntless,’ she reported with a knowing look as Jean received her chit from Gillian.

  ‘It’s an insult,’ Teddy muttered, waving his slip of paper in Douglas’s face. ‘I can handle any bloody plane the RAF asks me to – Lancasters, Stirlings, Liberators; you name it.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Douglas didn’t flinch under Teddy’s irate gaze. ‘If you have a complaint, you’d better come into the office and put it in writing.’

  ‘Oh, sod it!’ If the old crock wanted to make a sodding point, then let him. So Teddy shoved the chit into his trouser pocket and stormed off.

  By this time, Angela and Bobbie had received their orders for the day. ‘Bristol and Walsall; oh, joy!’ Angela declared as they went downstairs. Once at their lockers, she took out a small paper bag and handed it to Bobbie. ‘Fox’s Glacier Mints,’ she explained. ‘Suck a few on your way to Bristol. Keep up your energy.’

  Bobbie thanked her. ‘Did you post the letter?’ she remembered to ask.

  A single nod was the answer. ‘Who’s driving you home?’ Angela enquired as they walked together towards Runway 2.

  Bobbie checked the details on her form. ‘Olive.’

  ‘Same here. I expect she’ll drive you from Bristol to Walsall then pick me up there.’ Angela was pleased with the arrangement. ‘You’ll find me tucked away in a corner of the factory canteen, reading the latest Agatha Christie. Then we’ll enjoy the drive home together.’

  They parted with smiles: Angela to her damaged Spit, Bobbie to her Miles Magister. Meanwhile, Jean had lingered outside the ops room, waiting for a chance to speak with Douglas.

  ‘There’s no alternative,’ he said to Gillian as he emerged from his office. ‘Someone has to fly to Reading to pick Jean up to get her back in time to hop a Corsair over to Foxborough later today. No one else is available.’ He noticed Jean at the top of the concrete stairs. ‘You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.’

  Jean glanced sideways through the glass hatch. A worried Gillian spread her palms and mouthed the words, Say something.

  It nudged Jean towards the subject that she’d been fretting over. ‘Do I gather you’re planning to fly me back?’ she asked Douglas.

  ‘That’s right. Look out for the Anson around midday.’ A glance at Jean’s face tol
d him that something was amiss. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked more briskly than he’d intended.

  With a slight shake of her head she led the way downstairs and out on to the lawn. ‘Couldn’t you send a driver instead?’

  ‘I need you back quicker than that. Anyway, we don’t have anyone.’ He coughed to clear his throat. ‘Jean, have I offended you? Please tell me if I have.’

  ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘Believe me, you never would. It’s just that I thought you’d be too busy.’ At the last moment her courage failed her and she sidestepped the issue of Douglas’s poor hearing.

  ‘Never too busy for you,’ he told her as he walked with her towards the runway. ‘I hope you know that.’

  ‘Yes.’ This was obviously Douglas’s way of breaking down the awkward barrier that had been raised between them. ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘Until midday then.’ He parted from her with one of his characteristic slight bows; a mixture of chivalry and military correctness.

  It struck Jean like a lightning bolt as she stood at the edge of the runway that what was struggling to emerge between her and Douglas was love. All of a sudden, as she watched him walk away, taking in his broad shoulders and the curve of his head, she recognized what she felt. She thought of the green and red RAF dog tags that Douglas carried everywhere; his life story engraved on them. Then there was his low voice, his reticence, his bookish nature. Everything drew Jean to him and melted her heart.

  How had this happened without her knowing? She’d imagined herself immune to romance, certainly when she’d mixed with callow recruits during training. But her feelings for Douglas had crept up on her and until this moment she hadn’t seen them for what they were: a combination of respect and tenderness, a longing to know him better – all rolled together in what could only be described in the one word, ‘love’.

  With a fluttering heart Jean climbed with her parachute pack into her Spit. She’d settled into the cockpit and strapped herself in when Stan sprinted towards her.

  ‘News from Northgate!’ he yelled up at her before the Merlin engine had time to build up enough revs to move forward. ‘Gordon’s ended up with two broken ribs. Young Harry wasn’t so lucky. They dug the poor blighter out and rushed him off in an ambulance. He died before they got him to hospital.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mary’s maiden flight over the Pennines went without a hitch. The nerves that she’d experienced at take-off soon vanished and she opened her mind to the marvellous sights below: huge expanses of heather moorland broken by rocky outcrops, with mill towns nestling in green valleys, their tall chimneys visible even at 2,000 feet, their steep rows of terraced houses partly hidden beneath skeins of thick factory smoke. Careful to pick out the triple landmark hills of Pen-y-ghent, Ingleborough and Whernside, she flew on in clear skies over the Lancashire border past Pendle Hill and on towards her destination – an RAF base outside the ancient county town of Lancaster.

  This was the only way to live, Mary decided: in the moment and flying free as a bird, blissfully cut off from the rest of the world. The powerful little Spit was a demon of speed and manoeuvrability, the most thrilling aircraft in the world, and she enjoyed every second in the air, wanting it to last for ever. But all too soon the end was in sight – three rough airstrips running parallel on flat land close to the coast, surrounded by the usual array of camouflaged Nissen huts, single-storey military buildings and a prominent control tower. So Mary prepared for landing with a light touch on the joystick and an easing of the throttle as she pressed the overhead switch to bring down the undercarriage. The Spit’s wings shuddered at her final approach but Mary held a steady course and touched down with scarcely a jolt; no last-minute drama, no slewing to the side on the smooth runway, no unnecessary burning of tyres on tarmac.

  Two members of the RAF ground crew waited with the chocks as a smiling Mary cut off the engines, unstrapped her harness then raised the canopy. When she stepped out on to the wing and took off her helmet, the two men on the ground looked at her in amazement.

  ‘Where’s the pilot?’ the older one asked, as if expecting a second person to emerge from the tiny cockpit.

  Mary approached them, grinning broadly. ‘It’s me; I’m the pilot.’

  ‘Blimey!’ The sergeant mechanic still couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Did you just land that crate by yourself?’

  ‘Bloody brilliant.’ The younger one ran up to congratulate her. ‘You handled her just right.’

  ‘Not bad for a woman,’ the sergeant added grudgingly.

  ‘Take no notice of the sarge – he still lives in the Dark Ages. I’m Archie, by the way.’

  ‘Hello, Archie.’ With his arm hooked through hers, Mary let herself be guided towards the control tower by her new friend. Her confidence soared to fresh heights as she followed him into an office at the base of the tower. ‘Third Officer Holland bringing in the new Spit from Rixley,’ she reported to the clerk at the desk as she handed over her chit.

  ‘Sign here.’ The brisk, bespectacled operations officer shoved a form at Mary without looking up. ‘And here. And here.’ He jabbed with the blunt end of his pencil at the necessary boxes.

  ‘Now, it’s time for a cuppa.’ Archie held the door open for her and they left the office together. ‘I say, Mary; no offence, but what’s a nice girl like you …?’

  ‘Doing behind the controls of the latest Spitfire?’ Mary gave a good-natured laugh. She felt wonderful – the best she’d ever felt in her whole life – and for once, she decided not to let any man’s opinion bother her. ‘No offence taken. I just follow orders, that’s all.’

  ‘Tea!’ Archie said again. He was curly-haired and bright-eyed; one of life’s breezy optimists. ‘When I say “nice”, I mean not stuck-up like some Atta girls I come across. You look a million dollars in that uniform, but I could tell the minute you opened your mouth that you were one of us.’

  ‘I am,’ Mary agreed as she followed Archie into the canteen. ‘An ex-mill girl and proud of it. I’ll have two big sugars in that tea, please.’

  After Cameron had finished his meeting in Lancaster with a set of high-ups in the RAF, he made his way to the base where Mary had landed her Spitfire. A thought crossed his mind that Douglas’s allocation of the latest model might have been a touch too ambitious for a first flight but he dismissed the doubt by recalling Mary’s excellent record at Thame. I’m damn sure she made it through without a hitch, he told himself as he drove up to the sentries at the gate and announced the reason for his visit. The sentry checked Cameron’s documents then signalled him through.

  It was a large base for RAF squadrons that carried out operations over the Irish Sea and the Atlantic, so there was all manner of aircraft lined up beside the runways – a dozen twin-engine medium bombers alongside the bigger Lancasters and Stirlings. The smaller Hurricanes, Corsairs and Spitfires were gathered beside a second runway. It was an altogether magnificent sight. Cameron felt his chest swell with patriotic pride as he pulled up beside the control tower. How long would it be before his stint of duty at Rixley ended? Not long, he hoped. Like all pilots in the RAF, he badly wanted to get back to active service and engage with the enemy, or at least be in charge of training new recruits rather than filling in endless forms and carrying out disciplinary procedures for the ATA.

  Stepping out of the car, Cameron straightened his jacket and adjusted his cap before knocking on an office door. As he entered he was pleasantly surprised to see an old acquaintance manning the desk. ‘Well, if it isn’t Laurence Craddock! How are you, Laurie, old chap?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Cameron Ainslie!’ As Laurence took off his glasses and stood up to shake Cameron’s hand, it was obvious that his left arm hung uselessly at his side. ‘Not too bad, except for this.’ He poked the arm with his forefinger.

  ‘What happened?’ Cameron and Laurence had been in the same squadron at the start of the war and Cameron had always looked up to ace-pilot Craddock, who had chalked up eight kills and innu
merable direct hits.

  ‘I came off worst in a spat off the Italian coast. The docs told me I was lucky to keep the arm. They awarded me a DFC then kicked me off operations for good, worse luck.’

  ‘I sympathize; I’m itching to get back in the air myself.’ Cameron spent a few minutes with his old flying pal, exchanging stories and recalling better days. Then he explained the reason for his visit. ‘I’m here to pick up one of our pilots.’

  ‘The girl who landed the Spit?’ Laurence had in fact paid more attention to Mary than he’d let on. He’d been impressed by her smooth landing and then rather taken aback by her broad Yorkshire accent when she’d handed over her chit. ‘I wouldn’t have thought she was your type, Cameron old son.’

  His visitor’s fair complexion turned bright red. ‘Strictly business,’ Cameron retorted. ‘I was at a disciplinary briefing at Lancaster HQ so it made sense for me to drop by and pick her up.’

  ‘Pull the other one,’ Laurence teased. ‘Not that I blame you. Third Officer Holland is easy on the eye, to say the least.’ He’d noted Mary’s large, wide-apart grey eyes, her trim figure set off by close-fitting trousers and bags of what he would call spirit.

  Cameron’s shrug was dismissive. ‘What about you, Laurie? Did you tie the knot with the Land Army girl you used to knock about with?’

  Laurence shook his head. ‘Marjorie decided I wasn’t such a good bet after all. She got herself hitched to an able-bodied bloke in the Merchant Navy instead.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t be. I reckon I had a narrow escape.’

  ‘Plenty more fish, eh?’ Despite the forced bonhomie, Cameron found his old friend’s situation disheartening. ‘Anyway, I’d best be off. Any idea where I’ll find my passenger?’

  ‘Try the canteen – second building on the left as you go out.’

  They shook hands again then Cameron followed Laurence’s directions. He found the canteen deserted except for a woman behind the counter and Mary sitting alone at a table by the door.