Winter began to turn very slowly into spring. The long, hard training absorbed Winnie completely. She scarcely noticed the changing weather, the bad food, the awful conditions, the ill-tempered hut corporal who was always shouting ‘Move!’ Her absorption in her work led her to fall down on other things. When it was her turn to polish the brown linoleum in the hut, which showed every mark, the corporal was never satisfied. And at Kit Inspection she was frequently reprimanded by the WAAF officer. A WAAF sergeant would read aloud from a list as the items laid out on her bed were checked.
‘Coat, great, one. Overalls, blue, two. Gloves, knitted, one pair. Panties, three. Knickers, three. Vests, WAAF, three. Shirts, poplin, three?’
Winnie pointed nervously. ‘One there, one on and one in the wash.’
‘Collars, poplin, six. Skirts, two. Slacks, blue, one. Stockings, lisle, four?’
There were only three pairs and the Section Officer was seriously displeased.
‘Last time you had lost your housewife, Jervis. If you can’t find them, they’ll have to come out of your pay.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She was not careless in her work, however. Her notes and diagrams were models of neatness and accuracy and the other WAAFS often copied from them. When they were studying in the hut in the evenings Hilda would sing out from her lower bunk,
‘I can’t make head or tail of this. Let me see your diagram, Winnie.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Hurricane fuel system. And the oil system too. Mine are both in a mess and I can’t read half what I’ve written.’
They were tested every week on what they had been taught and if they failed more than once on a test they were taken off the course. As time passed, faces disappeared from the classes.
Winnie and Hilda rehearsed questions and answers with each other.
‘Give me one disadvantage of a single carb, Hilda.’
‘Hmm. Hang on a mo. Oh, yes, I know. It doesn’t atomize or emulsify fuel.’
‘That’s right.’
‘My turn to ask you. Let’s see . . . what tools would you use to check the bore of a cylinder?’
‘An inside micrometer.’
‘That was too easy. What about this, then. Describe a Merlin coolant pump.’
Winnie said at once: ‘It’s a centrifugal impeller pump bolted beneath the wheel case and driven from lower vertical drive. The pump is in two pieces. The lower half contains two coolant inlets, a drain tap and a Morganite thrust pad. The upper half contains two outlets, two lead-bronze lined bushes, a packin’ gland, a gland nut and a grease cap. The gland prevents coolant leakage –’
‘All right, all right! You know it backwards. Now ask me something nice and simple.’
‘Where do you enter up fuel, oil and coolant after servicin’?’
‘Form 700. Ask me another one like that. It gives me confidence.’
‘Who’s the last person to sign Form 700 before a flight?’
‘The pilot. Make it harder than that, Winn.’
Winnie turned the pages of her notebook. ‘All right. What’s meant by high tensile steel?’
‘Steel that’s capable of taking a tensile strength of fifty tons or more. Give me another one.’
‘Name two types of piston rings.’
‘Compression rings and scraper rings. Compression rings are to make a gas tight joint. Scraper rings to prevent excess oil passing the piston and going into the cylinder head. Now ask me something even harder.’
‘What can you tell me about superchargin’?’
‘Ouch! Well, I did ask for it. Hum. Well, here goes. Supercharging consists of supplying a greater weight of mixture to the induction system than would be induced by normal means, with the object of increasing the power output . . . OK? Now let’s have a break before our brains get addled.’
Hilda fetched her ukulele from her locker and began to strum quietly, sitting on her bunk. It was raining hard outside, drumming an accompaniment on the Nissen hut roof. She was a good-natured girl with short, straight dark hair. Everything about her looked square. She had a square jaw, square-shaped hands and feet, but her ready smile transformed her plain face into something near beauty. She had told Winnie all about her home life in Rochdale. Her mother had worked in a mill, her father on the trams. Hers was a northern town world of back-to-back terraced houses, cobbled streets, black pudding, jam and chip butties, chimneys, smoke, soot and Lancashire rain. Her childhood had been spent playing in the streets. She had scorned dolls and played cricket and football with the boys instead. At fourteen her mother had taken her along to the local factory to queue for a job. The factory made paper tubes for the cotton to wind on to. She had worked there for four years until it burned down. Then she’d joined the Civil Defence when war broke out and was put into the ambulance corps where she learned first aid.
‘I was doing that when I got a letter On His Majesty’s Service, and that was that. I had to join up. I wasn’t a volunteer, like you, Winnie, but I didn’t mind. I liked the idea – specially when I found out I could train as a flight mech. That was a bit of luck. I was always playing with my brother’s meccano set – I could build better things than him. He used to bash me for that.’
If she found book-learning more difficult than Winnie, Hilda was first class at the practical side. And she could play the ukulele very well indeed. The whole hut rocked and sang to her tunes. Winnie, lying with her arms behind her head and the dank tin roof inches from her nose, listened contentedly to her playing Tiptoe Through The Tulips. The camp was a dreadful place, so cold and bleak, and she had discovered that the high wire fence was a relic from when it had been a POW camp in the First World War, but she had never felt happier in her life. At last she was doing what she had always wanted to do and it was just as satisfying as she had always imagined it would be.
Towards the end of the course, they learned the starting procedure for all types of aircraft. And they practised how to swing a propeller on a small ’plane like a Tiger Moth, and how to nip smartly out of the way before their arm was cut off, or their head bashed in.
‘He who swings and runs away, lives to swing another day,’ their instructor chanted grimly. ‘He who swings and stands about gets his big fat head a clout.’
And they learned how to run-up an aircraft.
When it was Winnie’s turn to climb into the Hurricane cockpit, her heart was thumping hard and her hands felt sweaty with nerves. They’d raised the bucket seat so that she could see out and put some old cushions on it in place of the parachute that the pilot would sit on. As she climbed in, the two airmen ready to tail-squat were looking as though they thought it was all a huge joke. She lowered herself into the seat and stared at the instrument panel in front of her. She remembered it well from the time Taffy had shown her, and since then she had carefully memorized everything. The mechanic standing by the trolly acc. was grinning up at her and, as she glanced at him, he gave her the all-clear. She stretched out her hand towards the panel and began reciting the notes that she had learned by heart, under her breath.
Set fuel cock to Main Tanks ON. Throttle half an inch open. Propeller control fully forward. Supercharger control – moderate. Radiator shutter – open. Winnie licked her dry lips. Work the Ki-gas priming pump until the fuel reaches the priming nozzles . . .
She looked towards the mechanic again and shouted out as she put her hand the on the ignition switch: ‘Contact!’ Her voice sounded high and squeaky to her ears. He was still grinning. Winnie drew a deep breath.
Switch ignition ON and press the starter button. Turning periods must not exceed twenty seconds, with a thirty-second wait between each. Work the priming pump as rapidly and vigorously as possible while the engine is being turned. With normal air temperature and normal fuel it should start after about four strokes . . .
The propeller blades jerked suddenly as the Merlin engine spluttered into life. Ch-ch-ch-ch it went as Winnie held her breath. Then it exploded into a full-throat
ed roar and the blades went from milling slowly into a spinning blur. The Hurricane, firing on all twelve cylinders, trembled and vibrated round her. Winnie released the starter button and screwed down the priming pump. She opened up slowly to one thousand revs. Black and acrid exhaust fumes were drifting back over the open cockpit, which meant that she’d over-primed.
Warm up to at least fifteen degrees centigrade oil temperature and sixty degrees centigrade coolant.
She tried the magnetos in turn and checked pressures and temperatures. Then she opened up steadily to twenty-eight hundred revs. The crescendo roar of the Merlin rose to an ear-splitting level and the fighter juddered and rocked, like a living thing straining to be free. Winnie forced herself to keep calm and think clearly. She checked the ammeter and the constant speed propeller – fine, coarse, fine. Keep your eye on the revs, the oil pressure, coolant temperature and fuel pressure . . . Help! She’d nearly forgotten to read the boost pressure! She tested the mags in turn again, making sure there was not more than fifty revs drop with each, and then throttled back and allowed the engine to idle for a few minutes.
When she climbed down to earth again her legs felt wobbly.
The instructor nodded. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’
Their final exam was both written and oral. In the written paper, Winnie read the first question anxiously.
What is the function of a solenoid switch?
She picked up her pen and began to write: A solenoid switch enables light leads to be used to the cockpit switch. When the button is pressed the circuit is completed in the heavy duty leads and so to the electric starter. Winnie drew a diagram and labelled it neatly. She looked at the next question.
How does a propeller work?
She wrote on steadly.
At the oral test her examiner had cold eyes and an even colder manner. He made no attempt to put her at her ease; quite the reverse. He picked up something from the bench and held it in front of her.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a condenser, sir.’
‘What is its purpose?’
‘To help the rapid collapse of the primary circuit, sir. And to minimize arcin’ at the contact break points.’
He picked up something else. ‘What about this?’
‘A cylinder head, sir.’
‘How many cylinders does a Rolls Royce Merlin engine have?’
‘Twelve, sir. In two banks of six.’
‘And what’s this?’
‘A carburettor, sir.’
‘What type?’
Winnie hesitated for a moment. The cold eyes watched her impatiently.
‘I think it’s a Claudel Hobson, sir.’
‘You think? Aren’t you sure?’
She swallowed. ‘Yes, I am sure, sir.’
‘And what engine, for example, do you think it might have come from?’ His voice was sacrastic.
‘A Bristol Pegasus, sir.’
‘Hmm. If an engine overheats where would you look for trouble?’
‘In the coolin’ system, sir. There might not be enough coolant. The pump could be defective, or there might be a restriction. Or the rad shutters might be closed.’
‘Or?’
‘Or I’d look at the cowling shutters, sir – on an air-cooled engine. They might be closed.’
‘Hmm. Suppose your engine’s running irregularly – misfiring and losing power during normal running. What could be wrong then?’
‘Shortage of fuel, perhaps, sir? The air vent to the tank might be choked, or the pump defective. I’d check those. Or there might be water in the fuel. Or it could be dirty jets, or plugs. I’d clean them.’
‘What else? If it’s none of those things?’
Winnie thought hard. ‘Well, there might be an airleak in the system somewhere. Or a mag defect. Or the mixture control might be defective.’
Coldly. ‘What else?’
She searched her mind desperately. What else could be wrong? The examiner was frowning. He glanced at his watch. She remembered suddenly.
‘Oh, yes, there could be a valve stuck open, sir.’
The questions went on and on. What was this? What was that? What was it from? What was its function? How did it work? How would she fit this, clean that, test the other? Assemble these, please. The examiner gave no sign as to whether or not she had given him the right answers, or done the right thing in the right way. When he dismissed her without a word of encouragement or thanks, she was sure that she must have failed.
The results came through and she found that she had not only passed, but done so quite easily with sixty-five per cent marks. And with her success came reclassification to aircraftwoman first class. She had risen from Trade Group IV to Group II which meant an increase in pay to three shillings and fourpence a day.
She would have been completely happy but for her posting. She and two other newly-qualified WAAF flight mechanics – two Engines and one Airframes – were to go to an operational training unit near Dundee in Scotland. She looked it up on the map and it seemed a very long way away.
Hilda had been posted to an initial flying training school in Nottinghamshire. Winnie wished that she were coming to Scotland with her. They said goodbye and wished each other luck before they went home on leave – Hilda to Lancashire and Winnie to Suffolk.
As she walked into the farm kitchen, Gran said, as though she had never been away:
‘They be comin’.’
Winnie lowered her kitbag wearily. The journey had taken all day and she had had to walk the last two miles from the bus stop outside the Pig and Whistle.
‘Who, Gran?’
‘Them thare Amuricans. They be a-goin’t’ knock down trees an’ hedges over at Josh Stannard’s. ’Tis all flat thare. ’Twill be fur Amurican flyin’ machines. Turrible mess, they’ll be makin’. Thass what I’ve hared. I doan’t hode wi’ it.’
Gossip came to Gran. Sitting in her chair close by the range – even in summer – she somehow heard it all.
Winnie couldn’t imagine Americans in Suffolk. Where they lived everything was so new and clean. In the films the sun was always shining, the sky blue and the colours so bright. The people all wore beautiful, glamorous clothes. They drove those big cars and lived in houses with big rooms and kept their food in huge refrigerators, and hung those starched, white, frilly curtains at the windows. What would they make of the grey skies, the rain and the mud, and everything being so small and old and shabby?
‘What’ll they think of Elmbury, Gran? Whatever’ll they think of us?’
Gran snorted. ‘Huh! ’Tis more like what’re we goin’t’ think o’ them?’
‘Münster,’ Sunshine barked, glaring round the briefing room as though daring anybody to contradict him.
‘Christ, another bloody snorter!’ Anne heard someone mutter behind her.
‘Vital rail junction between Germany’s northern coastal ports and the heavy industries and munition plants of the Ruhr valley . . . marshalling yards . . . hundreds of tons of armaments and war materials . . . factories making Messerschmitt and Focke-Wulf parts . . . military garrison . . . strategic importance . . .’
‘OK. OK.’ The voice muttered again. ‘No need to go on about it.’
Anne glanced over her shoulder from her seat in the front row. She couldn’t identify the voice but all the faces she saw looked drained and weary. Two scrubs in succession had taken a toll on nerves, and last night’s op had been a shaky do, to say the least. Three Wimpeys lost, complete with crews.
When the Group Captain had finished, people came and went on the stage. The Met man, when it came to his turn, spoke vaguely of low stratocumulus over the North Sea and uncertainty about the weather over the target.
The same voice grumbled behind her. ‘Bloody useless wanker! Don’t know why they don’t just ring up the bloody Huns and ask them what the weather’s like over there . . .’
The crews filed out of the briefing room collecting their rice-paper flimsies, their escape kits a
nd their orange juice, chewing gum, barley sugar and wakey-wakey pills.
‘Can I have your egg if you don’t come back?’ she heard one of them say to another.
Latimer’s crew passed her and she smiled at them all; the spry little rear gunner gave her a huge wink. Latimer looked back as he went out and raised his hand with a smile. Eighteen done. Only twelve more to go.
She went down to stand by the beginning of the main runway. It was dusk and she watched the procession of laden Wimpeys trundling round the peri track towards her. One by one they swung round onto the run-way, the most senior first. B-Baker, T-Tommy, K-King, D-Dog, S-Sugar, E-Easy thundered off in turn and staggered away into the darkening sky. She waved to them all, along with the rest of the faithful little band of personnel and ground crew. A-Apple was next and she watched the Wimpey lift and climb away. Good luck, Digger . . .
Latimer’s, C-Charlie, swung round into position, waiting for the signal from the Watch Tower. She stood on tiptoe and waved as hard as she could. I hope he’s seen me.
The green signal flashed out and C-Charlie began its take-off run with a howling shriek of engines, and a thumbs-up from the rear gunner as the bomber gathered speed away from her. She followed it with her eyes as it tore on towards the far end of the runway and then sighed with relief as it began to rise at last, wallowing a little, and to clamber upwards slowly and painfully, like an old lady climbing very steep stairs. Hannibal would be there, up in his front row seat, watching what was going on; seeing the concrete and grass slip away beneath him.
Beside her, one of the ground crew said suddenly: ‘Crikey, I don’t like the sound of that bloody engine . . .’
She strained after the bomber. Its left wing dropped suddenly and the Wimpey seemed to fall sideways out of the sky. The wing hit the ground first and the bomber cartwheeled over on its back and burst into flames.
She stood frozen in horror, her hand still lifted in farewell. The fire-engines and a bloodwagon were tearing pointlessly towards the terrible inferno.
Very slowly, her hand sank to her side.
Bluebirds Page 45