[Woman of WWII 02] - Poppy Redfern and the Fatal Flyers

by Tessa Arlen

  “But I can’t! I’m leaving town tomorrow morning, early. I have to pack, and I have heaps to read.” The excitement of writing my first script was momentarily eclipsed at the thought of Griff here in London and me . . . where? On an airfield in Hampshire.

  “I hope it’s somewhere exciting.”

  I stopped behaving like my spinster aunt. “Oh, it is, Griff, it really is. It’s my first assignment—a fifteen-minute film about the Didcote Air Transport Auxiliary.”

  The sun slipped below the horizon and he became a dark shadow by his car.

  “Blimey!” It was clear that Griff’s infatuation with cockney slang was still with us. “That’s what I call good news. Now we have something to really celebrate!” The slightest pause. “Did you say the Didcote Attagirls?”

  I nodded. How on earth had Griff heard about these astonishing women when I had only discovered them this afternoon? “The Attagirls? Is that what they are called?”

  “Not sure if that’s what your guys in the Royal Air Force call them, but we do. They’ve delivered a couple of aircraft to us at Reaches.”

  I might have known that American pilots would have a catchy name for a group of Englishwomen who thought nothing of taking off in a fighter plane and flying it to an airfield in far-flung Yorkshire or Scotland.

  “Can I invite myself along? I’ll pick you both up after breakfast and we can have lunch on the way down to Didcote.”

  I bent down to ruffle Bess’s ears as I considered what was turning out to be a splendid end to a perfect day. “You can come on one condition,” I said as I stood up. “That I drive to Didcote.”

  He laughed. “Then we had better plan on having dinner on the road too.”

  TWO

  HALF A DOZEN WOMEN STANDING BY A MAKESHIFT BAR IN DIDcote’s Air Transport Auxiliary’s mess turned appraising faces toward us. For one panicky moment I felt I was back at boarding school on the first day of term.

  “Good morning, Miss Redfern. I’m Vera Abercrombie, Didcote’s commanding officer.” A compact-looking woman with a direct, no-nonsense gaze introduced herself. I suppose, like everyone else who first met her, I was surprised that the Didcote ATA commanding officer wasn’t the standard-issue senior male RAF officer with a waxed mustache. Vera Abercrombie was probably in her mid-thirties, but her fair northern skin was deeply lined, either from years of flying or from the burdensome responsibility of her wartime job.

  She carried a clipboard with a sheaf of papers pinned to it and her glance strayed to it often, as if she might have inadvertently overlooked some small but important detail. There are not many women who have shot to the heights of command that Vera Abercrombie had achieved without being conscious of their seniority every hour of their long working day, but there was no arrogance in her greeting and no feeling that this was her “show” and that Crown Films was lucky to be allowed to interrupt her demanding schedule.

  “This is a friend of mine, Captain O’Neal.”

  Abercrombie glanced at the insignia on Griff’s arm. “American Army Air Force.” She extended her hand to Griff and then bent down to pat Bess’s head.

  “What a sweetheart,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Eighty-Fourth Wing. I hope you don’t mind my butting in here. We’ve had planes delivered by the ATA and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet you all.” I’ve always envied Griff his relaxed and easy manner. It’s something I’ve noticed that most Americans possess. We English tend to stand around in stiff, awkward silence as introductions are made, but Griff just sails right in, as if he’s known everyone in the room forever.

  Commander Abercrombie was clearly impressed. “Welcome to Didcote, both of you.” She looked down at Bess again and smiled. “All of you! Now, let me introduce you to the first-officer pilots taking part in the film tomorrow.”

  She turned to the silent, watchful group of women at the bar. “From left to right: Officer Trenchard.” A tall, athletic brunette with a serious face nodded and said, “Welcome to Didcote.” I nodded back and smiled, but her face remained grave, as if introductions were not the time for friendly chitchat.

  “Officer Evesham.” A broad smile from a young woman with the bright, healthy complexion that comes from being active outdoors in all weather. She lifted a hand in greeting. “Please call me June.” I caught the trace of an accent and wondered if she came from South Africa. June bent down and swung Bess up into her arms. Strongly aware of her independence and dignity, my little dog usually treats this sort of familiarity with a groan and struggles to be put back on the ground, but June’s laugh of delight was so unaffectedly buoyant that Bess turned her head and gave her an affectionate face wash. More laughter as the rest of the group relaxed. June was the jolly sort: easygoing and unaffected. Her intelligent blue gaze carried only a natural curiosity and a willingness to get along.

  Commander Abercrombie turned to the next pilot. “Officer Partridge is your . . .” She got no further. A petite and very young woman with immaculately waved ash-blond hair and a vivid red mouth walked toward us. She nodded briefly at me, ignored Bess’s best pirouette in greeting, and put her hands on her hips to give Griff the once-over. “Fighter or bomber?”

  Griff laughed and stuck out his hand. “Griff O’Neal—Mustang. Best plane out there.” It was the sort of thing Griff always said, but the blonde took it as a challenge. She smiled, turned to her friends at the bar with her eyebrows raised, and drawled, “Well, we’ll have to see about that. Clearly the captain hasn’t come across a Spitfire yet! I’m Edwina Partridge. And this”—she waved her hand at a tall, stately girl with a thick mane of dark gold hair—“is Betty Asquith, but we call her Grable, of course.” The tall girl smiled and opened her mouth to say hullo, but Edwina breezed on. “And next to her is Zofia Lukasiewicz. I should say Countess Lukasiewicz, but she wouldn’t like that, would you, ducky?” She laughed at her familiarity.

  The countess was a little taller than Edwina, but there all similarity ended. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed and greeted us with a gracious inclination of her head. No one would interrupt this woman, I decided. She was easily the most composed member of this group. “Hullo, what a handsome couple you both make, and such a pretty little dog!” Zofia’s last name might be Polish, but her soft, clear voice gave only the slightest hint that she was.

  Now that Edwina had paused for breath, Betty “Grable” Asquith had a chance to acknowledge us. “Hullo-how-are-you?” It was barely a question and neatly pinpointed exactly where Grable came from in our hierarchical British class system. The faint lengthening of aristocratic vowels, the level English appraisal from not unfriendly, but certainly not inviting, gray-blue eyes. It was clear that Grable came from the ruling class. Her smile was perfunctory, and she was certainly not going to offer something as familiar as a handshake. “Are you directing this shindig tomorrow?”

  “No,” I said. “That would be Huntley Masters, our unit director. I am here to write up a script. The rest of the crew will be here in the morning to start—”

  But Edwina had not finished with her introductions. “All of us have licenses to fly two-engine planes, but Letty here . . .” She waved at a pretty girl with fine, straight fair hair that hung loose to her shoulders. Two extraordinarily round, very blue eyes fixed themselves on my face as she stepped forward. A friendly nod and a smile. “We are so excited about being in your film!”

  She completely ignored Edwina, who lifted her voice to continue. “Letty is the only one of us who is licensed to fly the big chaps: four-engine Lancaster and Fortress bombers.

  “All of them”—Edwina’s hand waved at the lineup along the bar—“are taking part in my film.” Having made her point, she looked up at Griff through heavily mascaraed lashes. “I can fly anything, but the Spit is the love of my life,” she declared.

  Commander Abercrombie cleared her throat, as if she was used to being sidelined by Edwina. “Will
you join us for a glass of sherry before dinner?” she asked me, and turning to Griff: “We have beer . . . if you would prefer, but unfortunately no . . . um . . . Coca . . .” She fumbled for the word “Coca-Cola” as if that was what Americans lived on.

  “Beer will be fine, thank you, Commander.”

  The door opened, and a tall man with gray hair walked into the mess. “Sir Basil, just in time to join us for a drink before we eat. I’d like you to meet Miss Redfern from the Crown Film Unit: she’s here to write a script for tomorrow’s film. And her American friend, Captain O’Neal.” She turned to the older man, her right arm extended, with a particularly proud expression on her face. “Sir Basil Stowe, Ministry of Aircraft Production,” she said with a smile that could have been interpreted as almost winsome.

  Griff and I walked over to shake hands with Sir Basil. He was one of those men who become more attractive as they age. Sir Basil Stowe was probably in his early fifties: broad shouldered, still slim, and elegantly fit. He wore a flawlessly cut suit that whispered Savile Row as if it were comfortable old tweeds, and he had a look of burnished well-being, as if he had just returned from somewhere in the Mediterranean. He stood a hair taller than Griff, and the two of them immediately fell into conversation, leaving me stranded with Edwina.

  I took a deep breath and decided that the best approach, as with all sizable egos, was to spread the butter nice and thick. “Since you are our star, I would love to have some background on you—I have only two lines from Crown Films. How long have you been flying? And when you say you love Spitfires, do you fly other planes too?”

  Ilona, the protagonist of the mystery novel I wrote, often floats her observations into my head when I’m feeling tense or tongue-tied, and this little creature made me feel extraordinarily nervous. Just let her do all the talking, Ilona advised. I don’t think she’s much of a girl’s girl.

  Edwina ripped her gaze away from Griff and folded her arms. “Flying solo since I was eleven.” Her voice was flat with ill-concealed boredom. “I’ve flown everything there is to fly, but I won’t fly heavy fighters. I’m not sure why we have them in this flick—they look ugly on the ground, and they’ll look even worse on film. I mean”—she laughed and shrugged her shoulders—“the Spitfire is the real star here. No one gives a damn about all the different planes we have to deliver.” Her tone was sharp, and Bess got up and trotted back to the group of women by the bar, who were laughing at a story that Grable was recounting.

  I hadn’t a clue what a heavy fighter was, but I struggled on. “So, tomorrow you are going to give us a demonstration—an aerial performance in a Spitfire?”

  There was no humor in her laugh. “I can’t imagine a performance on the ground being much fun!”

  This was the star of our picture? I felt the beginning of alarm. “I don’t actually know very much about aeroplanes.” I felt an awkward need to explain and perhaps to elicit some understanding of my ignorance. Let her be the expert if that’s what she wanted.

  She was only about five foot two, but her confident, immaculate presence made me feel like my hands and feet were too big and that I should do more than just brush through my hair in the morning.

  “Why are you writing the script if you don’t know anything about planes?” The question was so direct that I couldn’t think of a thing to say. “I mean, it seems a bit ridiculous to send someone who doesn’t actually know anything about aircraft. Oh, and by the way, we don’t call them aeroplanes—we just say ‘planes.’” She was still staring at Griff’s back, her arms folded, her forefinger with its long scarlet lacquered nail tapping the pale blue of her uniform shirt.

  I flashed her a bright smile. “Actually, I don’t really need to know anything about aircraft at all,” I replied. “Because I have all of you to tell me about them.”

  She laughed. It was a genuine laugh and I almost liked her for it. “Oh, touché!” she said. “Come with me.” She steered me through the group, which had now left the bar in ones and twos, to stand me near the woman with the suntanned face. “June”—Edwina’s voice was loud—“is a walking encyclopedia on aircraft. Aren’t you, Junie?” A strong, firm handshake from June Evesham.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.” Now I recognized the Australian accent. June focused her smile on me as Edwina returned to Griff. “Most aircraft are similar depending on how many engines they have. Letty here is the only one of us who is licensed to fly four engines.” They laughed at my confusion.

  “Look, we have this crib sheet for you.” Letty handed me a page with six different aircraft illustrated in two silhouettes: one from the side and the other as if seen flying overhead. “We’ve written our names next to the planes we’re flying tomorrow. They were chosen because they are easy to identify both in the air and on the ground.”

  “Thank you, how thoughtful of you.” I took the sheet of paper and read: “Annie Trenchard.” I glanced at the tall brunette who had said nothing since she had been introduced by Commander Abercrombie. “Fairey Swordfish, is that the name of a plane? It sounds so dainty!” Nods and laughter, and Letty smiled at June as if to agree with her that I wasn’t a stuck-up know-it-all from the films after all. “June Evesham: Mosquito; Letty Wills: Avro Lancaster bomber, gosh, that’s a huge thing!” Annie, June, and Letty had raised their hands as I read their names. “You fly that monster?” I asked Letty, and June replied for her with pride, “Like a bird.”

  “Zofia Lukas-ie-wicz?” I stumbled over her name and blushed.

  “Please, just Zofia.” I looked down at the Polish countess, who was on the floor playing with Bess, oblivious to the dog hair all over her uniform.

  I corrected myself. “Zofia: Hawker Hurricane, that’s a fighter plane, isn’t it?”

  Zofia stood up and brushed ineffectually at her uniform jacket. “You see, you know more about aircraft than you think!”

  I read the last name but one, “Betty Asquith: Anson air taxi.”

  Betty “Grable” levered herself forward from the top of the bar with her elbows and turned her mouth down. “Yes, that’s me. I was a London cabbie in my last life.” Good-natured laughter. And I felt my shoulders come down a notch as she said, “And Edwina, of course, will be flying a Spitfire.”

  My lesson over, I surveyed the group of women I had come to write about and felt as if I had known them for years.

  “That’s all you need to know! Just make sure you get lots of film of Edwina,” said June to more laughter. “And don’t let her scare you away.”

  Zofia lit a cigarette. “She is what you English call a character, but she knows everything there is to know about flying. Once she gets to know you, she is very generous and goes out of her way to help. To make you feel at home.” She raised her eyebrows slightly as if waiting for someone to say otherwise. No one did. But Grable cleared her throat.

  “What she’s trying to say is that Edwina is a good sort— underneath,” Annie Trenchard translated with a slight frown at Grable.

  “Underneath the reinforced concrete and the barbed wire?” June said to roars of laughter.

  I hadn’t known what to expect of women volunteers who flew military aircraft. I had imagined them all to be a bit daunting after I had read the ATA recruiting leaflet Miss Murgatroyd had handed over with my travel vouchers. Even the distraction of driving Griff’s zippy Alvis along the winding lanes of Hampshire hadn’t been enough to subdue my apprehension about meeting these impressive women. I had imagined they would be rather hearty in their manner, with the sort of swagger that pilots in the RAF had adopted, the sort of women who would be competitive at field sports. Edwina might look like a starlet, and Grable and Zofia exuded a self-assured worldliness that I was unused to, but Letty, June, and Annie were the sort of well-scrubbed wholesome girls who liked to swim and play tennis: the sort of girls I had grown up with at school.

  “Can you really fly thirty different types of aircraft?”
I asked them.

  Zofia shook her head. “Don’t be put off by that ridiculous number. Fighter planes are all very similar, and so are heavy fighters. Once you’ve flown one, you can fly the others. But ‘thirty different types’ does make us sound astonishing, doesn’t it?” She looked around at her friends and then fixed dark, serious eyes on mine, and her full-lipped mouth made a puff of dismissal, as if flying different aircraft was a meaningless achievement.

  She was the most arresting woman I had ever met. Not pretty by today’s standards: Zofia’s nose was too strong and her chin too firm for the popular taste of today. But her skin was as pale and as fine as an eggshell, without a scrap of makeup, and there was a grace and sensuality about her that any man would have found alluring.

  “Edwina,” June said to Miss Partridge’s back, but Edwina did not turn around or acknowledge her name. She had cut in on Griff’s conversation with Sir Basil, leaving the older man at a loose end.

  Whatever Edwina was saying certainly had all my friend’s attention. I hoped their conversation was confined to comparing Mustangs and Spitfires, but I could tell by the expression in Griff’s eyes that, with her gesticulating hands and fluttering lashes, Edwina’s subject was much more amusing than aircraft.

  “Edwina.” June obviously agreed with me, because she lifted her voice. “Why don’t you tell Miss Redfern about your brush with the Luftwaffe?” It was an invitation for Edwina to take center stage and I would have thought she would leap at it. She turned her head, eyes shining, her expression still animated from the story she was actively recounting and frowned at us. “You tell it,” she said to June in what I had quickly come to recognize as her aggressively dismissive voice. “You do it so much better than me.”

  June snorted and glanced at Letty. “Such a flirt,” she said under her breath, and then perhaps hearing herself she said to me, “But she’s one of the most skillful pilots here.” There was no envy in her voice—simply a professional’s acceptance of superior ability—but I happened to glance at Letty and saw her normally good-natured features harden into a mask of contempt as she folded her arms and stared at the floor.