Abby shook her head, then turned her full attention back to Billingsworth. ‘I want orders in place that anything non-essential, which is everything except the aircraft themselves, is to be abandoned in the future. I don’t want anybody dying over wine, not even a... a...’
‘Chateau Podreaux ’89.’ Derek supplied in a stage whisper.
Abby gave him another look, causing him to wither under her gaze. ‘Yes, not even that.’
Billingsworth nodded. ‘Very well, ma’am.’
‘Good. Right then, as I said, we’re abandoning the base and I need you to organise the packing.’
The men and women nearby had paused in their duties to listen and Abby turned to address them as dismayed murmuring arose among them. ‘I know that this is our home, but we can’t fly from here, it’s too damaged so we have to leave. We have been offered a new home by Lady Penelope Bagshot and her husband on their estate, so we will be moving there while we get back up to strength.’
‘Back up to strength, ma’am?’ asked a young servicewoman.
Abby only then realised that she had neglected to inform the men and women of the squadron how much the fight against the Barons had cost them. It hadn’t occurred to her that they would only have read the reports in the papers, reports which strategically omitted the casualties sustained by the Misfits. She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, you should have been told. We are down to less than half strength. Seven aircraft were damaged or destroyed and Lady Penelope has been injured and is not likely to be able to return to us. We’re going to have enough work to do to get this squadron back into the air, without having to worry about rebuilding as well.’
She saw understanding, however reluctant, blooming in the eyes of the gathered servicemen and women and she turned back to Billingsworth. ‘Halt all repairs and contact Whitehall, please, Squadron Leader. Tell them that Badger Base is out of commission and no longer secret, so we are abandoning it.’
‘Very good, ma’am.’
Abby began to turn away, but he stopped her. ‘One last thing, ma’am. A few telegraphs have arrived for you over the last few hours.’ He handed her more than a dozen small cards, saluted her smartly, then walked away, already barking orders that sent the watching personnel scurrying.
Abby glanced at the messages and laughed.
‘What is it, skipper?’ Bruce led the pilots as they gathered around her.
Abby wordlessly handed the cards to him.
‘The Dorchester apologises for the recent misunderstanding and wishes to renew its invitation to Misfit Squadron to reside in its suites whenever it is in town,’ read Bruce before turning to the next card. ‘The Ritz Hotel wishes to extend its invitation to Misfit Squadron...’ He flicked through the rest in quick succession. ‘The Savoy Hotel wishes... The Royal Lodge... The Iron Tower Hotel... The Darwin Inn... The Brass Palace... Ooooh! This is nice!’ He put on a high-pitched, nasal voice - his impression of an upper-class twit that had so entertained his fellow pilots in the past - and lifted his little finger from the cards as he read. ‘Lady Wilburforth desires the presence of the delightful Misfit Squadron at a soirée to take place whenever it is convenient for the pilots to attend.’ He kept flicking through the remaining cards. ‘Bloody Norah, there’s invitations to balls and dinners and all sorts of hoity-toity shindigs here! We won’t have to pay for our own food and drink for ages!’
The Misfits cheered, but knew that they wouldn’t be accepting any of the invitations anytime soon; all their energy needed to be directed towards getting the squadron back to operational status, no matter how tempting the prospect of free drinks was.
Abby clapped her hands to call their attention back to the matter at hand. ‘Right, then, you lot! Go get your personal effects packed up. Bring one kit bag with whatever you’re going to need for the next few days and leave the rest on your beds - I’ll have them picked up and brought later with the rest of the equipment. We’ll meet in the briefing hall in half an hour for a quick lunch before we go back to Hawkinge.’
She watched them as they started picking their way through the rubble that was strewn across the path down the side of the officer’s mess, then turned to her fitter, Sergeant Potter, who had been hovering, waiting for a chance to speak to her. He had large scab in the middle of his forehead, from a deep-looking cut and she frowned at him.
‘Why weren’t you in the shelter in time, Henry?’
The man pushed his round glasses back on his nose before speaking. ‘Well, ma’am, Hummingbird might not be my aircraft, but her fitters are my people and I had to make sure they were safe.’
‘Very well.’ Abby nodded her understanding. ‘Now, please tell me you have some good news.’
Potter hadn’t been able to tell her anything to lighten her mood, though, so Abby was feeling just as downcast when she reached the briefing hall after packing her own room up and her stomach only fell further when she caught sight of her son, Jimmy, sitting with her three junior pilots; there was a bandage around her head and his cheek was a mess of fresh scabs. The only thing stopping her from forsaking any dignity she might have left after having led the Misfits for so long and rushing to him was the promise she’d made both of them that she would let him make his own way and wouldn’t keep checking up on him all the time. Also, by the animated way he was waving his hands about, he was probably telling the story of how he came about his injuries in an effort to impress the good-looking women surrounding him and really didn’t need her butting in.
It was hard to believe that he was still only sixteen. War was making adults out of children long before their time.
She sighed and placed her kitbag with the others by the door, each with the name of one of her pilots stencilled on it in Indian ink, then made her way towards the serving tables at the back of the room. On the way she stopped at many of the tables to share reassuring words with the people under her command, so it was a while before she could make it back to the pilots. When she got there, Jimmy was on the point of leaving and she grabbed him to keep him from rushing off. ‘What the dickens happened to you, James?’
‘Oh, wotcha, mum, didn’t see you there!’ He shrugged. ‘I got caught in the bombing, no big deal.’
‘What were you doing still outside? You should have been in the shelter.’
‘I had to make sure Hummingbird got up alright, didn’t I? Couldn’t let Scarlet down!’
Abby glanced at Scarlet over Jimmy’s shoulder, but the Irishwoman just shrugged; like all of them, she was helpless to get the boy to do what he was supposed to. Jimmy wasn’t in the RAC, he was just there because of Abby, so he wasn’t under military discipline and just drifted from one job to another as the mood took him. If he got it into his head that he was one of the fitters of a particular aircraft, there was nothing any of them could do to stop him. ‘I suppose not. Thank you.’
‘No problem, mum!’ Jimmy gave her a big grin, then rushed off to join a group of airwomen, who had just joined the queue for lunch.
Abby watched him for a few seconds then shook her head. She placed her tray on the table and sat down next to Gwen. ‘Didn’t he have a girlfriend?’
Gwen smiled. ‘Yes. But there’s no stopping him. You know that.’
Abby sighed again. ‘Only too well...’
As soon as the Misfits had all finished eating, Abby got them moving.
The plan was for Kitty and Wendy to stay at Badger Base to pack up their workshops, ready for transport, before joining them at Bagshot Hall later that evening and Abby gave them permission to use as many people as they needed for the task. Meanwhile, the rest of the pilots would travel back to Hawkinge, where those with intact aircraft would fly them to their new base escorting the Lekker which would carry the others. The damaged aircraft would be left behind for the fitters to dismantle for transport.
The Misfits said goodbye to Badger Base, probably for good, and piled into two autocars for the trip back to Canterbury train station.
A slight adjustment had to be mad
e to their plans, though, because a large metal box, containing the remains of the Barons who had been shot down, was waiting for them at Hawkinge, along with a message from Whitehall, saying that arrangements had been made for Scarlet to deliver it to coordinates near the French coast that evening. So, while the other pilots prepared to go to their new home, Scarlet dressed in her flight suit and prepared to make a foray into enemy territory.
Hans Gruber stood stiffly at attention as he watched the camouflaged aircraft follow the trail of red smoke that they had laid out for it and slowly lower the green metal box to the ground. Its overhead rotors were at full power as it struggled with the task - the box was far larger and heavily laden than on previous occasions because it contained the twisted remains of twelve Prussian aircraft and what the British had been able to scrape together of seven Crimson Barons, men who had been proved unworthy of the name he had given them. Also inside were his trophies, parts from the paltry four Misfit aircraft that he and his squadron had managed to shoot down. He didn’t know which shamed him more, that those few trophies were the first his squadron had ever obtained from their enemies, or that the cost had been almost his entire troupe.
It was fortunate that he was such a well-loved and public figure, otherwise such a defeat might have cost him his rank, if not his freedom or his life. As it was, it had taken some judicious bending of the truth for him to keep hold of his squadron and standing behind him were fifteen new pilots, men whose names he hadn’t bothered to learn and who would remain nameless and faceless to him until they had distinguished themselves. Three pilots had made it home from the raid, but he had had the two who had run at the start of the fight executed for cowardice and sent the third to one of the MU9 squadrons; he didn’t want any reminders of past failures.
He was the only one left from the original Crimson Barons, now. The only one remaining of the brave squadron that had spread such glorious carnage over Spain, Poland, Denmark, Belgium and France. It didn’t matter, though; the squadron would rise from the ashes, better than ever before, with him leading them in the new aircraft that was almost ready for him.
And then the Misfits would pay for their crimes.
He saluted as the aircraft rose back into the air, once more remarking at how beautiful the pilot was and wondering at the stupidity and cowardice of the British that let such women fight and die for them. Then, when the silly machine had disappeared over the trees, he lazily dropped the salute and walked forward to open the box, eager to see his trophies.
He was intrigued to find a slightly soiled white envelope pasted to the top of the box where it had been protected from the elements underneath the aircraft’s spring. Even more curiously it was addressed to him in a neat but ornate script, obviously a woman’s writing, and he wondered if it was a message from his opposite number, Abigail Lennox.
He opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper within. It was lightly perfumed and the note was written in the same hand as the envelope.
My debt to you has been paid.
Until we meet again.
Gwen Stone.
Pilot of Wasp.
Gruber laughed when he saw the two thick lines carefully drawn underneath the name of the aircraft - a pink one over a black one.
As if he didn’t know the name of the aircraft or the pilot that had humiliated him.
When they met again, he would destroy both, but his revenge would have to wait for a while; with the invasion of Britain on hold he had been assigned another task.
Chapter 2
Early the next morning after a hearty breakfast in the spectacular dining room of Bagshot Hall, where they now found themselves billeted, the Misfits wandered out into the grounds of the mansion to inspect their new home.
Lord Bagshot had been quite the scandal of the British aristocracy in recent years. Not only had he married a commoner, and for love of all things, but he had also given over much of his estate to the construction of a racing track for himself and a private aerodrome with full construction facilities for his new wife. He didn’t care one jot, but he had won back a good measure of his prestige when he had been among the first to invite a fighter squadron onto his lands after the RAC bases had been bombed out. He had even paid for many of the additional buildings and facilities necessary to the running of said squadron out of his own pocket. Until recently it had been the Harridans of 223 squadron who had had the pleasure of his hospitality, but with the Prussians changing the focus of their bombing from aerodromes to cities, the pressure had been relieved from the RAC and they’d been had time to rebuild and recover. 223 squadron had returned to their newly reopened home a couple of weeks previously, just in time for the Misfits to move in.
The pilots wandered around, familiarising themselves with the facilities.
The main hangar was large enough for a squadron of fighters, but wouldn’t be able to accommodate something the size of Dreadnought or Bloodhound, which would have to have something built specially for them. Next to it was a ready room for the pilots, equipped with leather sofas and a brass tea urn that would keep them well-supplied while waiting to scramble. There were several paintings by well-known aviation artists on the walls, but there were also a few framed newspaper clippings scattered among them and Gwen paused as one in particular caught her eye.
‘Mac, is this you?’
‘What? Where?’
‘Here.’ Gwen pointed to the article and the Scotsman wandered over. The rest of the pilots gathered around and to peer at the photograph on the printed page.
‘Och, aye! That’s me there next to Penny. That was the first time she beat me for the Schnitzel Trophy.’
Gwen read the article aloud for the benefit of those pilots who couldn’t get close enough. ‘In her very first appearance at the Schnitzel Trophy, sixteen-year-old Penelope Doris Bader took first prize, pipping last year’s winner, William MacShane, to the post by less than a second.’ She looked around in surprise. ‘Why didn’t anybody tell me that Lady Penelope was Penny Bader? I was there that day! I remember cheering her to this victory when I was eight! What happened to her? She won again two years later, but then she just disappeared.’
Mac shrugged. ‘She fell in love and got married. Her heart was never in it after that, I s’pose there were jus’ too many other things to do. Damn shame it was; competing with her was the best thing that ever happened to me - we pushed each other to greater heights. I never entered another cup after she left; it wasnae fun no moa.’
Mac turned and left the room, followed by the rest of the pilots, all except for Gwen who leaned in close to take one last look at the young woman in the photo, before hurrying after them.
Behind the hangar were several workshops and Gwen was delighted to find a fully-equipped design room with several large desks. Lastly, there were row after row of barrack houses and a large mess hall for the combined personnel of the base to eat together, all far more luxurious than anything that would be found on a standard RAC base.
After their brief tour, the pilots naturally ended up standing on the airfield and they gazed soberly into the shadows of the hangar, the doors of which were open to reveal the fitters working on the aircraft which had made the flight up the evening before.
Of the twelve aircraft that the Misfits had started with on the 15th September, only five - Wasp, Hawk, Hummingbird, Bloodhound and Vulture - were in an airworthy condition. Of the other seven, two - Swordfish and Cheetah - had been destroyed and the other five - Dragonfly, Swift, Ballerina, Devil and Dreadnought - were on their way to Bagshot hall in crates and would need extensive repairs before they flew again.
Abby took a few paces towards the hangar, then turned to face them and looked at their long faces one by one. She didn’t like what she saw; despite their victory and the apparent waning of the Prussians’ enthusiasm for invasion, the cost had been high and none of them were in a mood for celebration, especially after finding out Lady Penelope’s true condition. She had expected nothing
less from them, though; they cared about what they did and felt the extra weight that had been placed upon their shoulders by the press and the British public. The best thing to do would be to keep them busy - she needed to put them to work immediately.
‘The King gave me a task last night - he told me to get this squadron back into the air and ready for combat as soon as I could. He told me that if there was anything that I required, that I just had to ask and it would be given to me.’
‘More Podreaux ’89!’
The pilots laughed and Abby joined them, allowing the lightening of their mood, knowing that they were going to need every little boost of morale that they could scrape together for the hard times ahead. ‘I’ll put that on the list, Derek. After the Duralumin sheeting, but before the padding for your seat.’
Derek’s face fell and he sighed. ‘I think I can make do with the ’95 Beaujolais...’
‘That’s what I thought.’
There was more laughter at Derek’s expense and much thumping on his back.
‘Anyway, as I was saying, the King told me to ask for whatever I needed to get this squadron in the air as quickly as possible and I told him that I already had everything I needed; I have all of you. You are the back bone of this squadron and between you we have the talent and the knowledge that we need to rebuild our aircraft and make this squadron better than it ever was. It also doesn’t hurt that we have Gwen Stone, legendary aircraft designer, to help us.’
There were chuckles as Gwen blushed. She’d never been comfortable with their praise, despite the fact that she had earned it by not only improving Wasp, but also designing Bruce’s aircraft, Devil, from scratch in just couple of hours. Not to mention that she had built her first aircraft at only seven years of age and helped with the creation of the Hawking Harridan, one of the most successful British fighters of the war.
The Russian Resistance Page 3