Carrying our parachutes over our shoulders while walking out to the line, we met our instructor on the apron. He was a dour and aging Squadron Leader called McCormack (or to Marie, ‘that damn, condescending sonofabitch’) who was afflicted with a dodgy limp and an eye for Anna’s more than ample bust. I couldn’t work out if he was simply a miserable and disillusioned old man, or if he had taken a disliking to us as women pilots. We were, after all, driving a coach and horses through what had been a bastion of manhood. Whatever his problem was, we didn’t care, because McCormack was nothing more than a means to an end to us. This was our moment and we were going to make the most of it.
A Spitfire sat on the line, shimmering in the sunshine, waiting. Marie and I danced with excitement while listening to a final chat from McCormack. We were to take turns to get airborne, fly two circuits of the airfield, then land – that was it. He glanced pointedly between myself and Marie – no heroics, he said, and no showing off. I stood between my two friends and took their hands in mine while we listened. Anna’s hand was shaking.
At the end of the chat, we were left to decide between us the order in which we would fly. Anna had no intention of going first, but Marie and I (who had eyed each other with a good-natured but steely competitiveness since the day we met) spoke over each other volunteering to go first, neither one prepared to back down. The instructor took a shilling out of his pocket and flipped it. Marie called heads. She won.
She whoopee-d, tapped me on the backside and walked towards the Spitfire with a wink and a wiggle that left the ground crew drooling. Marie paused by the port wing, taking out her Ferry Pilot’s notes, before completing her outside checks. With a final salute in our direction, she climbed onto the wing, slipped into the cockpit and started her up. With the sound of the iconic Spitfire engine echoing through the station, Marie taxied across the grass strip, turned the aircraft into wind, opened the throttle, hurtled down the runway and was airborne with her wheels retracted before the paint on her fingernails would usually have had the time to dry.
The sun glinted off the airframe, highlighting her curves in all the right places, and just like Maire on a Mayfair dance floor, the Spitfire glided around the sky with a style and panache guaranteed to turn every head in the crowd.
‘I honestly don’t think I can do it.’
I took Anna by the shoulders as Marie turned downwind to land.
‘What is that you’re frightened of? Crashing?’
‘A little, maybe. But it’s not just that, Juliet. What if I mess-up, make a fool of myself and ruin it. This is such a big deal, you know, for womankind, I mean.’
‘Womankind? Isn’t that a bit … dramatic?’
‘No, I don’t think it is.’ She nodded her head in the direction of the ground crew. ‘Just look at that pair, over there, sniggering, waiting for us to fail. And it’s such a powerful machine, Juliet. I’ve never flown anything anywhere near as fast as a Spitfire.’
‘Neither have I! None of us have. But you aren’t going to open up the throttle and dash off into the sunset. We have to stick to 250 mph in the cruise, remember, and you aren’t even going to get anywhere near that in the circuit. And honestly, Anna, all you really need to know for the sort of flying we do is the take-off speed, the stalling speed and that landing speed. That’s it.’ I turned to face the airfield to watch Marie land. She bounced a bit and we both laughed.
‘It’s just another aircraft, Anna.’ We both knew this was a lie. ‘It has an engine, two wings and wheels. Come on, give it a go, what do you say?’ I nudged her playfully, ‘I’ll let you have my chocolate ration next month if you come back alive …’
Anna smiled and sighed.
‘Oh, all right. I’ll give it a go. But you go next. I need a little bit longer to pull myself together.’
Marie taxied in and cut the engine. She was buzzing when she jumped out.
‘Jeez Louise, that was fantastic!’ she said, throwing her arms around the instructor, who balked and blushed. Despite his gruffness, I was surprised to see that he was pleased that Marie had cracked it, and maybe even a little proud, too. Maybe we were beginning to break through?
‘They’re right when they say she’s a bitch on the ground and a babe in the air,’ Marie said, taking off her helmet. ‘And watch the rudder, it’s a bit over-sensitive, and there’s a hell of a kick back when you let off the brakes, but oh my, Juliet, the power in that thing! And she’s a talkative gal, too. She’ll shudder just before she stalls so watch for that, and that damn nose is heavy on the ground, so steady on the brakes after landing. But just wait till you feel the power – the power, Juliet—’
Marie stopped talking then, suddenly speechless. ‘Well, what you waiting for, honey. Off you damn-well go and see for yourself …’
I kissed Marie, hugged Anna who was still puce, and walked into the best dream of my life, just as Marie turned to McCormack and said, ‘Say, Sweetie, can I do that again?’
From the very first day of flying for the ATA I knew I’d found heaven. Working with women of my own ilk, fellow women pilots, most with wild and sometimes quite notorious flying and socialite backgrounds like Marie, who simply wanted to continue to fly, was wonderful. Yes, we wanted to help the war effort, of course we did, but it was pretty obvious that the initial group of women ferry pilots were flying addicts, every last one of us. I at once gave up the house in Oxfordshire and took out a lease on a pretty cottage by the river in Hamble, inviting Anna to lodge with me.
Hamble sat on the neck between the Solent and the Hamble river, conveniently close to the Spitfires that were built at the Vickers Supermarine works in Southampton. Despite the horror of the Luftwaffe bombing campaign just a few miles away in Southampton, living at Hamble was a little like holidaying at a seaside resort and sometimes, just for a moment during the day, it was possible to sit by the river and watch the birds and the occasional boat go by and pretend that all was well. But then the barrage balloons would go up, which were a frightening blot in the skyline for a pilot, or we would hear the ack-ack target practice on the Solent, or worst of all, a Luftwaffe raid on Southampton would hit, and we were catapulted straight back into the nightmare again.
But despite all of this, the atmosphere at Hamble was calm, professional and buzzing with the excitement of a group of women who were finally being allowed to show their metal. We were a fabulous band of sisters – the Attagirls. British, Polish, Canadian, American, Dutch … women pilots from all over the globe who had responded to the call to arms (or if not ‘to arms’, then ‘to fly’, at least), and although our monthly pay cheque was considerably less than our male counterparts for quite some time, I don’t believe any of us really cared. They could have cut our pay entirely and we would still have flown.
My friend Janie had been quite correct when she guessed that we would spend the first few months delivering the Tiger Moth to RAF air stations around the country. I didn’t mind. I loved the Moth. Yes, one winter I had to be lifted bodily out of the cockpit due to having frozen into a solid block flying to Scotland, but at least the aircraft had been delivered – that was the important thing. One moment I might be landing at an air station like RAF Brize Norton and then, quick as a flash, I would be jumping into the taxi Anson, which was a little transport aircraft used to ferry the ATA pilots around, and dashing back to Hamble before jumping in another Moth and heading off somewhere else entirely. It was wonderful to finally have purpose all of my own and not be defined by the rank and status of a husband, or even worse, a house.
Trips to Scotland or the North of England sometimes required an overnight bag and a long, cold train trip back trip to Hampshire the following day, and there had been a (quite significant) degree of chauvinism to deal with initially. The ground engineers would occasionally jibe, ‘where’s the pilot, love’ when looking up to see a woman take off her flying helmet, and then there was the issue of a lack of ladies’ lavatories at many of the air bases to contend with, but we were all just so ecstatic
to be flying again. And there was something else that pushed us on too – an absolute determination not to let the side down – of not wanting to ever make a make a mistake and give ammunition to those – and there were many of both sexes – who objected to women being employed as pilots.
But flying for the ATA didn’t come without a significant amount of danger. We flew with no radio and no navigational equipment to guide us to our destination, only a map and a compass. Instruments were fitted in the panel in the cockpit, but we were never taught how to use them which meant flying hundreds of miles across the country, dodging cloud, skimming trees and – unable to get weather updates while airborne – hoping the weather stayed with us. Should we have been taught how to fly on instruments? Yes, I do believe we should, but such training would have taken time and money – the ATA had neither. Which left us to deliver our aircraft navigating by the seat of our pants, using rivers, roads and railway lines to guide us to our destination. We were sitting ducks for the Luftwaffe and for friendly ack-ack units (who occasionally got their aircraft recognition wrong), both of which led to the shaky return of many an ATA pilot who had been taken aback to see a friendly tracer flash past a vulnerable wing. It was only our sense of adventure combined with bloody-minded guile and resilience that got us from A to B and kept us going.
It was amazing!
With a last look at my Ferry Pilot Notes I took a tour of the Spitfire, talking my time, drinking her in, admiring her, sitting as she was with her nose in the air, snootily checking out the competition. But she knew she was in a league of her own and in terms of simple beauty, could never be matched. The men who had gathered to watch our first flights – pilots and ground engineers, mainly– still loitered, but it didn’t bother me, I was used to performing in front of a crowd, part of me even revelled in it. With a quick step onto the wing I climbed in and felt at home immediately. The cockpit was no wider than my shoulders – it was the glass slipper to my Cinderella foot, the feel of a perfectly fitting glove on a delicate hand. Aircraft were not generally designed with women in mind but we all knew that the Spitfire was a much better fit for a woman that a man. I was in a cocooned haven of total harmony and synchronisation. She was heaven on earth and I loved her.
I started her up. Once awoken, like me, she trembled with an urgency to be in the air. Leaving the canopy open as we always did for take-off in case of the need to bail out, I gave the signal to the ground crew to remove the chocks and excitement had to be replaced by a steely nerve and calm practicality. Taxiing was tricky. Her long nose, pointing upwards, meant the need to weave right and left to check that that the taxiway ahead was clear – and by goodness, she got into a strop if she had to sit on the ground too long – but I didn’t keep her waiting. The runway was a simple grass strip which meant, with a lean out of the cockpit to have a quick check ahead of me, after a short taxi, I turned the aircraft into wind and prepared myself for the most significant moment of my life.
Letting off the brakes, the kick Marie warned me of threw me back into my seat, and after a gentle pull back on the stick, moments later I found myself airborne, the iconic curves now invisible to me. All I could see was the black, curved instrument panel and a whole heap of sky around me – but my goodness she was responsive. Given half a chance, I really would have opened her up and burned off into the sunset, but not today. As McCormack had said, today was not about heroics. Today was for two perfect circuits and a landing.
There have been times in my life when I have needed to go to a happy place – to cheer myself with a memory – and the memory that always comes back to me is this one. If the day ever comes that I can no longer remember my first flight in a Spitfire, that is the day I want to die. Unlike any other love affair, the Spitfire has never broken my heart and the memory has never been bittersweet – her love was reciprocated and equal in every sense – it was just me, the machine and the sky, flying in harmonious perfection, together, as one.
Anna was no longer puce, but a sickening shade of grey/green when I climbed out of the Spitfire and crossed the grass – beaming – to join her. It was clear that McCormack – who was beginning to doubt Anna’s ability to go solo – was arguing the toss with Marie who was asking for the crowd to be dispersed before Anna took to the skies. It took us half an hour to persuade her to fly, but finally, after many deep breaths and a ‘You’re a damn Canadian, for Christ’s sake! Show these Brits what you’re made of and pull yourself together,’ sharp slap from Marie, the shaking Anna, mustering every ounce of courage she would ever need in her life, climbed into the Spitfire cockpit and started her up. Despite our bonhomie, Marie and I were also shaking while Anna weaved her way across the grass to position herself for a take-off run. She seemed to sit there, considering her take-off, for an age.
‘Come on, Anna … get that sonofabitch into the air, you damn Canadian woozy!’ Marie shouted across the airfield.
I wasn’t sure that would help.
But Marie was right, Anna did need to get going. We knew the Spitfire hated to sit on the ground once the propeller was running and could over heat if the pilot dallied for too long. It was a tense and uncomfortable couple of minutes, but the stoic Anna finally rallied, let off the brakes, powered through and took to the skies like a beautiful, graceful swan. And when she landed ten minutes later and the propeller had stopped and the chocks were in, Marie and I dashed to the Spitfire, lifted Anna into the air and bounced her around the airfield like a conquering Olympian. I have never, in my life, been so proud, of anyone. Every part of Anna’s body and soul had been petrified of flying the Spitfire alone that first time, and she knew that she carried the weight of responsibility – for womankind, no less – to prove that women could fly every bit as well as men.
And by God, she did it, too.
From that moment on the three of us called ourselves the Spitfire Sisters – true Attagirls. We were bound together for eternity in the way that only those lucky people who have experienced an incredible moment together can be. On completion of the course, Anna and I returned to Hamble and Marie to White Waltham with a promise to meet as often as we could in London. No longer restricted to flying the Tiger Moth but qualified to fly all aircraft of a similar type, including the Hawker Hurricane, we felt that we had finally earned our ATA golden wings.
Chapter 16
Katherine
Seaweed
She flew a Spitfire! A bloody Spitfire. I lay the manuscript down with the realisation that Juliet Caron was nothing short of a wonder woman – a true heroine, a goddess!
But Juliet’s story would have to wait, because a little adventure of my own awaited me. It was time to head down to Fenella’s, have a quick lesson in how to tell my bladder wrack from my three cornered leek, jump into a wetsuit and go foraging for seaweed, and all because the residents at the local home for the elderly wanted to get smashed off their tits on bootleg gin this Christmas (even as the sentence formed in my head, it seemed ludicrous). Also, I was pretty certain there were laws against collecting seaweed, which made me a potential criminal in anyone’s book. But if Juliet could fly a Spitfire for the first time solo, surely, I could paddle a few yards out to sea to grab a bit of seaweed …
The door clicked shut behind me and I headed down the lane. The cloudless sky allowed the moon to act as my flashlight for the evening, albeit a flashlight equipped with a low-watt, energy saving bulb. But there was something very special about the sea tonight, lapping in moonlight, and I was just about to take a few seconds to imagine canoodling with James on the harbour wall (I knew it was self-harm but the thoughts would come) when my moment was smashed by Fenella, who was standing at her front door and beckoning me to hurry up while furtively glancing up and down the harbour, looking for all the world like a silent movie villain.
It took ten minutes to yank the wetsuit over my thighs. Fenella tried to help but gave up and disappeared off with a chunter, muttering something about too many biscuits. She wandered into that dark place she often
retreated to – not the deepest recesses of her mind, but a place shrouded in awe and mystery nonetheless, a place also known as ‘the back room’. I was standing in front of the Aga (a bad idea) jumping up and down trying to get the crotch of the wetsuit to marry-up with my own crotch when Fenella re-appeared from ‘the back room’ holding, not just a life jacket, but fisherman’s socks, wellies, a head torch, Gortex gloves and an elf. The elf, who was the size of a human toddler, was tucked under her right arm. She put all her accoutrements down on the table, sat the elf on a chair, opened a drawer and took out some scissors.
She moved towards the elf and positioned the blades against his throat. I swear his little eyes widened in terror, but I could do nothing to help. My arms were trapped inside the wetsuit which was only half-up.
‘Stop, Fenella! In the name of all that is Christmas, stop!’
She looked up, nonplussed, the scissors remained only a fraction away from the elf’s terrorised face.
‘What?’
‘You can’t dismember an elf … it’s … it’s … well, I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not right, especially this close to Christmas.’
‘But I need his hat.’
Don’t ask why. It will be nonsense.
‘Why?’
‘Gerald always canoes to the island wearing a hat with a bell on it. But it’s his own hat. I haven’t got it.’ She nodded towards the elf. ‘So, I thought we’d use this one.’
The Last Letter from Juliet Page 11
