by Tessa Arlen
“Not without taking the engine cowling off, and I’d make a huge mess, which would be spotted immediately by the accident committee inspectors. I just want to see if the engine is damaged, or if there is some sign of tampering with the cowling.”
The nose of the Spitfire was resting on the earth of the plowed field in such a humble pose that I felt almost embarrassed that it had to be seen this way. It hadn’t taken much for this powerful bird of prey to be reduced to a shorn-off wing and a twisted tail. I tried not to look at the cockpit.
Griff crouched down on the ground and inspected the area around its nose. He ran his hand underneath it. “Here is where the gasoline tank is, one of them, anyway.” He patted the engine’s tummy in the way you would pet a dog.
“How many rolls and dives did she do before the crash?” I asked.
“A double victory roll and then she started to do the Immelmann turn.”
“Then if the RAE restrictor had been removed, why didn’t the engine conk out before, when she did her victory rolls?”
He looked up at me. “But the engine did reignite; she pulled out of the dive and everything appeared to be fine. And then she was all over the place again, before she hit the top of that tree, there.” He pointed to a lopsided uppermost branch of the elm and to the debris around the plane. “If she had hit the ground in a full dive, there wouldn’t have been much left.”
He climbed up on the sound wing and put his head into the cockpit.
“What are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure. Everything looks quite normal. Doesn’t appear to be a gas leak. I remembered thinking at the time, when we were getting her out of the cockpit, that there wasn’t an odor of gasoline or carbon monoxide.” He jumped down.
“How do you know about Spitfires, anyway? Do your Mustangs have the same problem?”
“Yes, they did, but our P-51s were built after Merlin had redesigned.” He folded his arms and stared at the machine. Then he lifted his right thumb and gently flicked its nail against his chin. “I’d give anything to fly one of these,” he said, his admiring gaze traveling the length of the Spitfire’s body. “What pilot wouldn’t be fascinated by the Spitfire? It’s an incredible machine: the design of the body is near genius.” He turned to me. “And, like you, I am a naturally curious individual.”
“If Edwina’s and Letty’s planes were sabotaged, could it have been done by an enemy agent?” I asked, hoping to spring a surprise question on him. His reaction was immediate: his head whipped round, and I could tell by his expression that he was trying not to laugh.
“An enemy agent?”
“Yes, so that the delivery of planes would be disrupted. It would be something the Germans would want to do wouldn’t it? I mean, you know about things like that, don’t you?” He didn’t answer me immediately.
“You seem to forget, Poppy, that I am an American and you are referring to RAF planes.”
“You mean the Americans wouldn’t consider a bit of fraternization with the RAF on issues of national security?” I said. “I thought we were allies. Share and share alike!”
He was still smiling as he answered. “Not me, Poppy, I’m a simple old sky jockey. No fraternizing for me!”
“But you said that the ATA delivered Fortresses to Reaches air base. I heard you! So you do share and share alike when it suits you.”
He walked around the plane whistling between his teeth. “And so they do. The ATA deliver all sorts of planes to all their allies in Britain. Did you know that there are American volunteer ATA pilots at White Waltham, and, yes, they are women.” He did some more whistling as he looked the plane over. “This is a Spitfire Mark II. Probably saw service in the Battle of Britain.” He stroked his hand down the long ellipse of the plane’s undamaged wing. “What a lovely thing she is, to be sure. And after she had been fitted with an RAE restrictor she would be as reliable as they come. Fast and maneuverable: a joy to fly.” He couldn’t hide the wistfulness in his tone as he stood in front of the plane. “What a nose!” he said. “You British and your long, aristocratic noses.”
I smiled, but my mind was too busy to join him in rhapsodic praise of perfect machinery. What had someone said yesterday? “A lady in the air and a bitch on the ground”?
“How can we find out if the restrictor was removed?”
He stood back from the plane with his hand caressing a line of rivets on the side of the engine’s nose.
He dusted his hand along the line and then lifted his palm and looked at it. He did this a couple of times before he took me by the arm and walked me away from the Spitfire as if she might overhear our conversation. “I can’t tell if the engine cover has been tampered with. I just don’t know enough about these things. Let’s stroll over to Mac Wilson and ask him what he thinks. Perhaps he has an opinion and can enlighten us on little things like cowling covers and restrictors.”
“Wouldn’t he have already checked the engine?”
“Possibly not, if he thought the crash was due to pilot error.”
TWELVE
RIGHT OFF THE BAT I DIDN’T TAKE TO MAC WILSON, BUT I HAVE been brought up to believe that little things like looks and appearance should not count in our initial reaction to people.
Wilson watched both of us walk over to his hangar as he stood in its half-open doorway, his hands in his pockets and his head cocked to one side.
He had the pale, papery look of a man who avoids fresh air and sunlight if he can. I imagined that in his off-duty hours he spent most of his time at the Pig and Whistle in Didcote. He had a short snub nose and a pair of enormous light blue eyes. There was something vacant and empty in their expression: they reminded me of a doll I had been given as a birthday present when I was a little girl. A doll I had carefully hid in the back of the toy cupboard after my elderly spinster aunt had left.
“No dogs here,” he said as Bess glued her nose to the ground and started to follow it. “You are both trespassing on government land.” He had a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth and it jiggled up and down when he talked.
I made myself smile, a polite official affair.
“Sergeant Wilson?” I said without extending my hand. “I’m Miss Redfern with the Crown Film Unit, Ministry of Information.” I flashed my travel vouchers endorsed with the impressive M of I stamp.
But not quite impressive enough. His disturbing eyes flickered for a moment and then returned to their vacant stare. “And him?” He jerked his head toward Griff. “That looks like a Yank uniform to me. Stand down, if you please, sir,” he advised. “I only talk to people here on official British business.”
Evidently Griff did please; he retired to a discreet five-foot distance with the offending beast and found a stick to throw for her.
“As you know, we were making a short film about the ATA. We have all the footage we need on our pilots, but as their ground engineer I wanted to ask you a few questions. If you have the time.” He evidently did have time, because he was lolling against the corrugated iron wall of the hangar, his hands deep in his pockets, and one of those smarty-pants looks on his face. “Sir Basil had told me that the only planes they kept for training at Didcote were Tiger Moths and an Anson. The aircraft used yesterday were on loan from Hawker, Supermarine, and Avro, is that correct?”
“’S’right.”
“I see by your uniform that you are RAF. How long have you been with the ATA?”
“Since they been here.”
“And how many and what type of planes do you typically look after? Of course, the star of our film is the Spitfire. Do you often work on those too?” He seemed to almost warm up to the idea of being interviewed.
“Beautiful plane, none to beat her.”
“And when was the Spitfire first manufactured?”
He laughed, took his cigarette out of his mouth, and threw it down, grinding it into the dirt wi
th his heel. “You’re telling me you’re making a film about planes and you don’t know when the Spit took its first flight?” I kept my eyebrows raised in question and nodded enthusiastically.
“We are just film people, Sergeant, not aeronautical engineers. That is why we are asking you.” Goodness, he was as uncooperative as Edwina Partridge.
“Government information.” He said and snapped his mouth shut.
“Exactly, government information that it wishes to share with the British people. Our films are to inform the public, Sergeant. To give them something to be proud of. And the Spitfire has become an emblem of British ingenuity and engineering: the fastest, most maneuverable plane in the world, piloted by our courageous chaps in the RAF. You get the drift of it now. So, if you wouldn’t mind just filling me in on some simple facts, we would be most grateful.”
His mouth had dropped open a little. “‘We’? The royal we, are you?” His lip curled in a sneer. “I take it that you have permission from Commander Abercrombie for these questions.”
“Yes, of course we do.”
He thought for a moment, and then to my surprise he said, “Here’s an answer for you: the first Spit came out in 1938, before the war.”
“How many marks are there now?”
“I dunno.” He scratched his head. “Four? Yeah, four.”
“And the one Miss Partridge flew yesterday was a what?”
“Ay, wait a minute. You could have asked these questions of Miss Partridge or Commander Abercrombie. So why didn’t you? Are you trying to suggest . . . ? Yes, you bleedin’ are . . . the ruddy cheek of it. That Spit was in perfect condition to fly. You want to know about the crash yesterday? There’s only one person you can talk to, and that’s Commander Abercrombie. Now, hop it with your snooty Crown Film Unit credentials.” He took a step toward me and Griff did too.
“Sergeant, that’s quite enough. You better calm down; otherwise I’ll have you up on a charge.”
“You don’t have any authority here, mate. Now, take your lady friend, your little dog, and get out. Or I’ll call the perlice.”
Griff kicked at a late dandelion clock in a leisurely way as we left; he seemed to be counting under his breath. “Five,” he said as he took my arm. “Why so many gasoline storage tanks, when they only have three or four training planes and a couple of Anson taxis?”
* * *
* * *
“WELL, WE HANDLED that just brilliantly,” I said as we crossed the airstrip. “Do you think he rang Abercrombie?”
“I think we are going to find out when we get back to the mess. And when we do I’ll ask her straight out about the RAE restrictor, so that we don’t look as if we are sneaking around asking questions behind her back.”
“I really didn’t mean to put my foot in it quite so badly!”
“You didn’t; you were polite and respectful. He was already on the defensive when we arrived.”
Of course Ilona had to add her opinion too. I think that little blighter is up to something shady. More investigation needed there.
We walked up the steps and into the mess, and there was Vera Abercrombie waiting for us. “Just going to let you know that we will have quite a few of our pilots home tonight. I’m sure you would enjoy meeting all of the girls stationed here. You are welcome to stay to dinner.” Her gaze, as usual, was steady as she treated us to her faint official smile, but there were dark circles under her eyes.
“Thank you, Commander Abercrombie.” Griff was at his most open and frank. “We just bumped into Sergeant Wilson, and we might have upset him.”
She nodded in understanding. “Not difficult to do, I’m afraid, Captain. Wilson is feeling very tender about Edwina’s Spitfire.”
“I noticed it was a Mark II. Was it fitted with a restrictor?”
Her gaze intensified as she looked from Griff to me and back to him. “Why would you ask that?” I noticed that she was clenching and unclenching her hands, the only sign of tension in this calm and controlled individual.
“Because for Miss Partridge to lose control of her plane while doing something as simple as an Immelmann turn seems kind of . . . well, kind of out of keeping with her level of experience, wouldn’t you say?”
She hesitated, and in that moment I realized that the question made her uncomfortable, really uncomfortable. Then she pulled herself together. Not quite so straight-ahead now, I thought, and wondered if our invitation to dinner might be withdrawn.
“Funny you should say that.” She tugged her tunic smooth at the hem and straightened her shoulders. “Sir Basil took Wilson out to the Spitfire early this morning. Made him open up the engine and check the carburetor—the restrictor was still in place.”
“So the engine didn’t stall because it was flooded.”
A small tight smile. “Oh, no, Captain. If the engine had flooded, surely we would have all seen that telltale trail of black smoke along the fuselage.” She shook her head and her voice took on an official tone: clipped and brisk. “I’m afraid it was pilot error. We were worried that there might have been a carbon monoxide leak from the engine into the cockpit, causing Edwina to black out, but according to Wilson apparently not.”
According to Wilson! I wouldn’t let that moron fix my bicycle, Ilona’s voice cut in.
“As a matter of interest, what happens when a plane crashes like that?” I asked.
“The ATA Accident Committee will make their inspection in the morning, and then their report will be presented to our headquarters commander at White Waltham. After that the Spitfire will be repurposed.”
“Mend and make do.” I should imagine every woman in England has said this at one time or another during the last three years.
Her smile this time was genuine, and I realized that underneath the strain of her responsibilities, when Vera relaxed her commanding officer’s vigil, she was an attractive woman. Her serious, formal manner had layered years on a woman far younger than I had first thought. “It must have been very distressing for you, Miss Redfern, to see such a terrible accident, especially as you had the opportunity to get to know Edwina. It’s always a tremendous shock when someone we know is killed. However”—her face assumed her shut-down senior-officer expression again—“we are at war, and these things happen.”
“Have you any more information about Letty?” I asked and saw her eyes half close, I thought, in pain.
The sound of aircraft engines filled the air, and she looked out of the window, shading her eyes from me. “Ah, look, here is the first Anson coming in to land.” Visibly grateful at the arrival of her rescue party, she glanced at her clipboard. “You will be able to meet some of our other pilots, Miss Redfern. Some of them have only just earned their stripes: I am sure they would love to tell you about their adventures.” The telephone rang in her office. “May I leave you to introduce yourselves? I expect that’s White Waltham again.” She bolted for her office and closed the door.
“What do you think?” I asked Griff as he stood there, cap in hand, staring at the door.
“She doesn’t want to talk to us about what happened. I suppose I can hardly blame her. Her job is to keep morale up when one or two of her pilots go west, and she probably doesn’t want outsiders asking questions she doesn’t have the answer to.” He hesitated. “But it’s more than that. She’s defensive, on guard. What do you think?”
“I think it’s hard to be a commanding officer if you are a woman. And I really hope that is the reason why she is so self-protecting.”
Even at a distance the arriving ATA pilots’ voices filled the air as they climbed out of the Anson. There were only a handful of them in the first taxi, but their chatter almost drowned the sound of two more air taxis coming in to land.
“Do you really want to join them all for dinner, or shall we go back to the inn and eat there?” Griff asked as a dozen or so women strode across the top o
f the drive toward the mess. There was nothing svelte, well-groomed, or glamorous about this lot. They were any group of workingwomen after a long day.
“I rather think I’ll have dinner with the ‘ordinary’ Attagirls. They look like a splendidly talkative group. I want to know more about Letty and Edwina. I want to find out what these girls, the rank and file, think about our six glamour girls.”
He put his hand on my arm. “Don’t forget that none of them know about Letty’s death yet. I’ll take Bessie back to the inn and she can share a pint with me.” He put on his hat and made for the back door as the first group arrived: windblown, voluble, and ready for dinner.
* * *
* * *
“DID I KNOW Edwina Partridge? Only by sight—she never talked to me!” A woman who had introduced herself as Anthea Smalley lifted her head to glance at me briefly and then returned to inhaling her dinner off her plate. She looked as if she hadn’t had a square meal in days, and her crumpled uniform made me wonder if she had slept in it more than once this week. “I am sorry that she crashed her plane, really I am. But these things happen.” She lowered her voice as she scraped her plate. “On the QT, she was a bit of a show-off, and there was all sorts of gossip swirling around her—not nice gossip either.”
The woman sitting next to her gave her a nudge in the ribs. “Gossip is rarely nice, Anth,” she reminded her.
“Sorry, it’s been a ghastly week.” There was no remorse in Anthea’s voice. “It’s always a shock when someone goes for a Burton, even if you don’t know them very well. I think it’s best to talk things out, but you know, ‘stiff upper lip’ and all that nonsense.” She put down her fork and leaned a little closer to me. “Earlier this year there was another accident. It was awful; set us all back, I can tell you. One of our girls smashed her plane into a hill near her parents’ home. Maureen Crossley was very popular with everyone: thoughtful, considerate, and an all-round chum. Poor Vera had to go and view the crash site and stay with Maureen’s body after the RAF had pulled her out of the wreck. It turns out that Maureen had flown into a solid wall of cloud and rain and wouldn’t have been able to see the hill at all. Vera was devastated because it happened soon after Maureen transferred from White Waltham to Didcote. They had known each other, you see, from the start of the ATA. It was almost as bad as when Amy Johnson went down in the Thames Estuary. You remember her, don’t you? She was famous.”
