by Garry Ryan
Sharon looked out of the window. In the distance, scarlet-jacketed riders trotted along the street. “Does my uncle know about this?” There was the call of a hunting horn, and Sharon blinked at a flash of insight. The old guard senses the war is nearly over, and they’ve come to town to reassert themselves.
Walter shook his head. “Your grandmother made it very clear that she wanted me to tell you of this new development and that she would tell Marmaduke.”
Sharon turned and faced Walter. “Does he know?”
“I don’t think so,” Walter said.
“If I might interject here?” Rupert asked.
“Go ahead,” Sharon said.
“If I understand the situation, you are not afraid for your personal welfare?” Rupert asked.
Sharon glanced at her brother and said, “No.”
“Then this is a temporary situation,” Rupert said.
“I don’t understand,” Sharon said.
“By all accounts, it would seem that the war will be over soon — within the year, perhaps. Then you and your brother will be free to live elsewhere. In point of fact, your entire family could move back to Canada. Or. . .” Rupert hesitated.
“Or?” Sharon asked.
“You could even afford to move to Australia, or wherever else in the world you would like to live. So that is why this is just a temporary situation.” Rupert held his hands with palms up to emphasize his point.
“Oh.” Sharon looked at Sean. “What do you think about moving away after the war?”
“Sounds grand, actually. The only complication is how Michael, Linda, and Honeysuckle will react.” Sean raised his eyebrows and looked out of the window as another rider in a red coat clopped down the road.
“Where did that Jeep come from?” Sean parked the Austin on the gravel next to the stone two-storey Townsend house. They could see Linda, Honeysuckle, and a black-haired man wearing the blue of an RAF dress uniform. He was sitting and drinking what appeared to be coffee in the back garden where Honeysuckle’s flowers bloomed.
Sharon waited for Sean to shut off the engine and apply the emergency brake. She smiled at him. “What say we go and meet this guy?”
“Who is he?” Sean opened his door.
Sharon watched the stranger turn toward them. She turned to Sean. “He’s that pilot from yesterday — the one who’s interested in Linda. His name is Milton. I wonder how he tracked us down?” She climbed out of the passenger side of the Austin, closed the door behind her, and walked toward the garden.
Milton stood up.
Sharon noted that Linda was evaluating him with frank interest.
Honeysuckle said, “I’ve just met Milton. He managed to find his way here. You didn’t tell me that you told him where we lived.”
Sharon looked at Linda, who sipped her coffee while she continued to study Milton. Sharon said, “We told the Wing Commander where we were going, and Milton must have been eavesdropping.”
Milton smiled and turned to face Honeysuckle and Linda. “Guilty as charged.”
Sean sat down across from Milton. He lifted one of Honeysuckle’s thick ham sandwiches and began to eat.
Sharon sat down next to her brother, poured herself a cup of coffee, reached for a sandwich, and took a bite.
“You’re from Calgary?” Milton asked Sharon.
She nodded.
“I’m from north and east of Edmonton; a place called Smoky Lake.”
Sharon glanced at Linda and saw how she was staring at Milton.
“I come from the bush,” Milton said.
“What exactly is the bush?” Linda asked.
Our lives just got very complicated. Sharon found she was a little jealous and excited at the prospect of Linda having someone in her life.
CHAPTER 7
[THURSDAY, JUNE 29, 1944]
Sharon looked outside of the cockpit of her Spitfire and saw that the wingtips had disappeared in the grey-white fog.
Rain gathered and skittered back along the outside of the canopy. More determined moisture made its way inside, gathered on the top of the Perspex canopy and dripped onto her slacks. The fabric on her knees was soaked through. She checked her instruments to ensure that she was on course, at altitude, and right side up.
“Shit!” Sharon exclaimed as she peered through the rain and fog in search of Longues. My first trip into France in four years, and I can’t see a bloody thing!
The Spitfire flew into an open patch of sky. Sharon looked down and saw the Channel. She spotted cargo-laden landing craft making for the shoreline. The wake behind them told her she was headed in the right direction and — just a minute later! — she spotted the French coastline. She flew over four concrete domes, which she identified as Nazi gun positions apparently overtaken by Allied troops on the first day of the invasion. A few minutes after that, she was lined up to land at Longues. A green Very light flared up and disappeared into the grey belly of the overcast. Sharon landed and taxied over to what she hoped was the maintenance area.
Mechanics appeared at her wings and helped her guide the brand new Spitfire outside a hangar so that it would be ready for combat. She switched off, released her harness, and climbed out of the cockpit. “Any of you fellows know where the canteen is?”
“Over that way.” One of the mechanics pointed in the general direction of a gathering of tents.
Sharon hefted her parachute over the shoulder of her sheepskin jacket and followed her nose to the camouflaged green of the largest tent. She dropped her parachute on the end of a table and made her way around to the urn, where she grabbed a cup of tea and was handed a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.
She sat down at her table, sipped the scalding tea, opened the wax paper, took a bite of the sandwich, and frowned at the greasy taste of Spam. She set it down on the table and reached for her cup. On a day like today, even tea tastes good. The warmth began to reach her fingers and toes. She took off her flying helmet, lifted her ponytail so that it hung over her collar, and wrapped her fingers around the metal cup.
One of the other pilots noticed her ponytail and elbowed a second in the ribs. The second RAF officer turned to look at her.
Someone looked outside of the tent. “Christ! It’s Jerry!”
Sharon stood up, spilled her tea, and ran out of the tent. She saw a mechanic dive into a slit trench about fifty yards ahead. Two pilots from inside the tent passed her as they sprinted for cover. One of them slipped, slid, recovered, and jumped into the trench.
She looked over her right shoulder. A pair of long-nosed Focke-Wulf Ta 152s flew at treetop level. They were close enough for her to see the pilots hunched forward over their controls. She noted the fighters’ light grey bellies, the green stretching from the top of the nose to behind the cockpit, the yellow stripes circling the back fuselage, and the black crosses. They opened fire with their cannons just as she dove into the trench and landed face-first in the muddy water.
A hand grabbed the collar of her Irvine jacket to lift her out of the muck. Another hand offered a handkerchief.
“Bonjour, Madame,” one of the men said.
She saw that she was next to two pilots crouched in the trench and dressed in the dark blue of the Armée de l’Air.
One held out his hand. “Pierre.” Then he pointed at the other pilot. “And this is Jacques.”
Jacques said, “As usual, the Hun has spoiled the party. This is our first time on French soil in four years.”
Sharon peered over the edge of the trench. Her eyes were drawn to an explosion. The Spitfire she’d delivered collapsed in a column of flame. She began to stand up.
Pierre grabbed her by the sleeve. “Wait another moment.”
There was the incredible noise of anti-aircraft fire. Another pair of Focke-Wulfs appeared above the trees at the far end of the field. Their cannons winked. One of the fighters was hit by ground fire. It disintegrated in a flash of light and a cloud of debris. Sharon watched as the debris spilled onto the runway. Her mind f
illed with the image of one of the Nazi bombers she’d shot down. It was the recurring nightmare of a bomber hitting the ground and disappearing into a cloud of light, dust, and black smoke.
“Well, what was it like?” Ernie asked as Sharon tossed her parachute out the side door of the Anson. She stepped out on the wing root and sniffed at her mud-encrusted clothing. She looked down at her parachute and then at Ernie, who stood waiting for an answer.
Edgar stood next to Ernie. Both were on the concrete apron outside of the hangar door at White Waltham. The setting sun intensified the colours. The American was at least as interested as his Canadian companion in what Sharon had to tell them. “Well?”
“Minutes after I landed, the airfield was strafed and the Spit I delivered was burning. It was a complete waste of time.” She stepped down onto the concrete.
“Not really,” Ernie said.
“How’s that?” Sharon asked.
“You’re back safe,” Edgar said.
“But your clothes are a little worse for wear.” Ernie smiled.
She looked down at the dried mud on her jacket and her slacks. “A couple of French pilots helped me up out of the mud.”
“How is the invasion going?” Ernie asked.
“Hard to tell. I could hardly see my wingtips for most of the way over there. After I landed, most of the time was spent in a slit trench. FW 190s kept strafing the airfield. All I can tell you is that the invasion is moving inland and the Nazis are counterattacking.” I need to get cleaned up. “Anything new?”
Ernie and Edgar looked at one another.
“Hurry up. Tell me. I need a change of clothes.” What’s happened now?
“A new pilot arrived,” Edgar said.
“Good, we’re short of pilots.” Sharon unzipped her Irvine jacke. I hope the mud washes off easily. She scraped at a clot of dried mud with her thumbnail.
Ernie was uncharacteristically quiet.
“She was looking for you,” Edgar said.
“What’s her name?” Sharon peeled off her jacket and checked the wool on the inside.
“Lady Ginette.” Edgar looked at Ernie.
Sharon faced Ernie. “You’re being very quiet. What’s going on?”
Ernie stuck out his chin and growled. “The last time I opened my mouth to say what I thought, I ended up here. I like it here.”
“There you are!” The voice was female, piercing and plummy.
Sharon turned and saw the approach of a round-faced woman. She was Sharon’s height, and wore bobbed black hair and a toothy smile. “I’ve heard so much about Sharon Lacey. I’m Lady Ginette Elam!”
Sharon caught a whiff of perfume. The woman smelled of lilac. Sharon was immediately reminded of her mother.
Ginette said, “Excuse us,” to Ernie and Edgar, then put her arm around Sharon’s shoulder and guided her toward the dispersal hut.
In a matter of ten minutes, all of the pilots inside were gathered around Ginette and Sharon. “You must know that Miss Lacey is an ace!”
Sharon blushed at being the centre of attention — especially at finding herself part of the conversation and not merely the surreptitious object of it.
CHAPTER 8
[SATURDAY, AUGUST 19, 1944]
“It was clear sailing. The airfield was dusty.” Sharon swiped at her slacks. There was a puff of dust. She looked up at the two men who were waiting for firsthand news of what was up on the continent.
Ernie and Edgar recognized her thousand-yard stare, looked at each other, then turned and frowned at her.
“You want the truth?” Sharon asked.
They nodded.
“I blundered over Falais.” You know that big Allied victory we’ve been hearing about? We’ve finally broken out of Normandy.
“And?” Ernie asked.
“I was flying at about eight hundred feet in a brand new Spitfire. Below me, the roadway was clogged with burned-out trucks, tanks, and bodies — miles of bodies. The stink of rotting corpses was so strong, it was almost like flying into a wall. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and land at the airfield. Even after I got there, the stink was still in the air. Someone told me they thought there were ten thousand German dead.”
“Serves the bastards right, after the way the SS executed Canadian prisoners at Ardenne Abbey,” Ernie said.
Sharon looked at him and shook her head. Somehow it doesn’t add up. You didn’t smell the rot. You didn’t see what I saw. “I need a shower.” She walked to the dispersal hut.
As was usual now, Lady Ginette was holding court with whichever pilots were stopping for a meal or a cuppa.
“After I was finished flight training, they called the school Lady Ginette’s Flying Circus in honour of me!”
There was the obligatory roar of laughter from the pilots sitting and standing around the lady’s table.
Sharon walked the other way to Mother’s booth, where he was talking on the phone. She unzipped, set her parachute down on a nearby chair, then dropped her helmet and goggles on top of it. I must look a mess.
Mother looked up and wrinkled his nose. “Where have you been?”
“Falais.” Sharon knew she need say no more to Mother.
“War’s a filthy business. There’s another priority delivery for you.” Mother handed her a chit. “See if her majesty there can get up off of her throne and do her job.”
Mother’s tone stopped Sharon short. “Has something happened?”
He looked up at her and thought for a moment. “How did you get your present job?”
Where is this coming from and where is it going? “d’Erlanger asked me to do it.”
Mother pointed his index finger at her nose. “You earned it. You proved yourself as a pilot and a leader. This place is running along and doing its job because you know what you’re doing and you’re not afraid to roll up your sleeves and get done what needs doing. Not everyone in this country earns her way like that.”
“Mother. I’m tired and need a shower. What are you trying to tell me?” She glanced at the chit and her eyebrows rose.
“There are some who kept their fingernails clean and lived away from London on their estates; some even had fascist leanings. Those ones waited until now, when the war is nearly won, to join up so they’d have stories to tell at dinner parties when the fighting’s over.” Again, he pointed his finger at Sharon. “Then there are the others who’ve done the dirty work. Now that the job is nearly done, people like you need to watch out because you haven’t been bred to live in the world of posh politics. Just because you don’t want the glory and have earned your way doesn’t mean that everyone else is like that.”
Just when I thought this was getting easier. Sharon felt weariness settle onto her shoulders. “Shit.”
“A very apt word to describe what’s been going on since her ladyship arrived. Now go get cleaned up and I’ll have her majesty ready her chariot.” Mother picked up the phone and waved Sharon away.
After a quick shower and change of clothes, she grabbed her parachute and walked out to the Anson. She eased inside the Anson’s side door.
Lady Ginette sat in the pilot’s seat. “Welcome aboard!” She started the first engine.
Sharon settled herself in. Mother has only said something about a pilot on three occasions. One was a drunk who was endangering lives. The second was an accident waiting to happen, and the third is sitting in the cockpit of the Anson.
Sharon watched as Ginette worked the controls and was impressed with the woman’s abilities as a pilot. Her hands were soft and confident, she kept her head out of the office, and she was always one step ahead. A pilot always needs to be one step ahead.
After landing, Sharon said, “Thanks for the ride!”
Ginette smiled and waved.
“How long have you been flying?” Sharon opened the door.
Ginette held up ten fingers and nodded in the direction of the aircraft parked on the apron. “Hope you don’t find out why they call it a meat box!”
Sharon stepped out into the prop wash. She took about ten steps, turned, and watched the Anson taxi away. I’ll have to do some checking on this one. That was a rather nasty thing to say to any pilot.
She turned around and spotted her delivery. The twin-engined fighter balanced on tricycle landing gear. Its canopy glinted in the sunlight.
“This’ll put those 616 boys at Manston in their place.” A mechanic stepped out of the hangar and onto the concrete apron where the Meteor sat in its camouflage grey and green. The mechanic was dressed in immaculate white coveralls; his black hair was slicked back with pomade.
Sharon looked at him. “Will you show me the taps, please?”
The mechanic nodded and became suddenly businesslike. “No offense. It’s just that those boys at 616 think they’re a pretty elite bunch because they’re the first squadron to be equipped with a jet.”
Sharon smiled, set her parachute on the wing root, and did her walk around. Don’t tell him he looks like a movie star playing a mechanic. He’ll get all puffed up. She pulled her hair back, tied it into a ponytail, and tucked it under her leather helmet. Then she strapped the parachute on.
The mechanic climbed onto the wing, then waited for her to follow and get settled in the cockpit. He watched as she tested the controls. “The ailerons get heavy at high speed just like the Spitfire and the Tempest,” he said. “The various controls are in the usual places. The only thing that takes a bit of adjusting to is the throttle.”
Sharon nodded, smiled, and slid the canopy closed. The mechanic got off the wing and waited by the start-up cart. Sharon started first one engine and then the other. She watched the mechanic slide the cart away. He gave her a wave.
Sharon enjoyed the forward view without an engine and a propeller in the way. She slid the throttle forward. The Meteor inched ahead and gathered itself.
After takeoff, she was surprised by the quiet, since all of the engine noise was behind her. She flew for the south of London at three hundred and eighty miles per hour during the half-hour flight. There’s nothing to do but concentrate on flying, familiarize yourself with the Meteor’s handling, and find the airfield. Her mind was cleared of all of the other duties awaiting her on the ground.