Churchill’s Angels

by Ruby Jackson

  Absolutely fantastic news, Daisy. I shall look up in the sky over Bedfordshire and wave to all the light aircraft and I’ll tell all the girls I work with – two Poles, a Scot and three English girls – that one of them is bound to be my friend Daisy. I don’t suppose you can dip, if that’s the word, yet!! If you can, then do. We shall all wave like mad.

  Daisy was delighted with Grace’s reaction and pleased that she had added details of what she had been doing. She thought she was to be transferred to a farm in Devon before Christmas and had already written to the Brewers about plans for any Christmas leave.

  Christmas. How quickly the seasons were coming around. This would be the third Christmas of this war. It’s supposed to have been over long before this, Daisy sighed. Would it ever be over? And where was Tomas? He had not been lost. She would certainly have been told if he had disappeared.

  NINETEEN

  October gave way to November. Daisy and her fellow trainees graduated and received their beautiful little golden wings with the letters ‘ATA’ inside a circle between them. They would wear this insignia proudly on their uniforms. Daisy Petrie was now officially an ATA ferry pilot.

  Her first task was not an arduous one, merely to take an Oxford to a station near Carlisle.

  She planned her route, which included a refuelling stop, and memorised it. The forecast was, unfortunately, for typical November weather, but Daisy was too stimulated by the realisation that this flight was what made the long arduous months of trial and tribulation worthwhile to worry about weather. She would manage. All she had to do was fly low enough to see the railway line she intended to follow and so, she crossed her fingers that flying through November weather would not be too much of an ordeal.

  ‘Remember it’s damned cold up there, Daisy,’ said one of the very experienced pilots in her group, ‘Wear your warmest undies and at least two pairs of socks, and good luck.’

  And Adair’s scarf, thought Daisy as she thanked her.

  ‘See you back in the mess in a few days.’

  That was when Daisy realised that she had no idea how she was supposed to get back. After all, she was leaving the Oxford in Carlisle. ‘Excuse me, sorry, but one more question? How do I get back?’

  The older woman laughed. ‘Oh, poor darling; we’re not looking after our chicks very well, are we? Before every trip, unless you know you’re flying a crate back, pick up a rail warrant in the office. Trains are bloody in winter. Good idea always to ask around at the base – if a plane’s coming this way, you might just hitch a lift. All right?’

  ‘Thank you so much.’ Daisy felt that she was being a nuisance and was sure the first officer was trying hard not to glance at her watch.

  ‘Glad to help. Good luck,’ and with a wave she was off down the corridor.

  Later, complete with railway warrant, Third Officer Petrie was off on her first ferry flight. She wanted everything to go smoothly and instructed herself as she taxied along, now pull up and away we go.

  She was airborne, a perfect take-off. Oh, Adair, I’m beginning to do my bit, see my wings.

  That first flight, even with some fog, mist and unfriendly winds, was uneventful. She stopped, wishing that there had been some way of letting the station know that she was coming, and refuelled.

  ‘Don’t fret; you’re our third today. You’ve time for a cuppa or, better still, hot soup.’

  Daisy was delighted to have the bowl of thick, wonderful-smelling, tasty soup. She could not isolate the main flavour and asked one of the canteen staff.

  ‘No idea. Cook throws in all the left-over bits of cheese from the officers’ mess; sometimes it’s great, sometimes it’s …’ He tried to think of an acceptable adjective, ‘not’ was the best he could do.

  Flying Officer Petrie was delighted to have landed on a good day.

  She took off again and found herself flying, for the first time, through sleet that landed on her windscreens, covering them up as quickly as she wiped it off. She was debating whether or not to descend to a lower altitude in an effort to get away from it when the Oxford pushed its lovely nose through a patch of sleet and rain and they were in the clear.

  The further north one goes in a British winter, the earlier it begins to get dark. Daisy sang tunelessly to keep her spirits up, and looked down to see, if possible, where she was. Her heart lurched. The railway line had gone – it just was not there. For a moment she panicked and then, was she imagining things, but in her head she heard a voice. ‘Listen to me, Daisy. I am here with you and you must listen and remember everything I say. Then, when I am not with you, concentrate and you will hear me.’

  ‘Adair?’

  How silly. For a moment … In her head she could hear his voice, and she listened. She reset her compass and slowly changed her course until there, below her, was the railway line.

  Thirty-five minutes later she was approaching the runway and following the calm voice that told her, step by step, how to land, to taxi and to stop.

  When she had completed the instructions for leaving a plane, she picked up her overnight bag and her maps, and climbed out. On legs that seemed somehow to have turned to unmanageable rubber she found her way to the office where she was to have her chit signed to prove that she had handed over one Oxford.

  Later she was welcomed to dinner in the officers’ mess, and wondered if she would ever be able to behave as if she felt she actually belonged to this group. It had never occurred to her that pilots were officers, even female pilots who had moved from the mechanics pool.

  One of the men at the table told her that unfortunately no plane was going in her direction for a few days. ‘But we’re jolly glad to have the Oxford. Least we can do is take you to the station.’

  They did and her home station ATA officer had been absolutely correct. Trains were bloody, if by that she meant they were absolutely freezing. Daisy had been cold while flying but her suit had kept her from freezing. As the train inched its way south, she felt that she would be better off if she were to pull her flying suit out of her suitcase and put it on over her uniform, greatcoat and all. Wind whistled through the train and her ankles and legs were so cold that she felt she might cry. The thought of her mother’s face were she to see her ‘delicate’ daughter now made her smile and she forced herself to paint pretty pictures in her head until the nightmare journey finally rattled to a halt. But her one overwhelming thought as she – and six rather happy airmen – finally reached the base in a taxi with a broken window was: I’m an ATA pilot and have successfully ferried my first plane.

  The airmen insisted that she not pay a part of the taxi fare. ‘Honour and privilege to travel with you, ma’am.’

  Daisy was given Christmas week off and she looked forward to going home, especially as she had not been at home the Christmas before. She had promised to attend the base New Year’s Eve dance with several ATA pilots, both men and women, and for her first dance at the base she wanted her lovely dress, her Mrs Roban dress, which was, of course, now safely at home.

  It would be lovely to have good news of Tomas’s whereabouts before her leave started and so she took her courage in both hands and asked several of the working pilots if they knew him, or of him.

  ‘Sapenak?’ A pilot who had worked for a civil airline before joining the ATA thought hard. ‘It’d be easier if he flew in and out of here, Miss Petrie, then we would certainly be up to date with news. But, one thing I can tell you, if Sapenak had bought it, we’d know.’

  Daisy felt incredible relief. ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Very respected flyer, Sapenak. We would know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank me by saving me a dance at the New Year’s Eve shindig.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Delighted, sir. But may I ask you one more question.’

  ‘Of course. If I know the answer I’ll tell you, if I don’t know, I’ll tell you that too.’

  Daisy blushed. Here she was asking questions about Tomas and all because he had no
t contacted her in several weeks. Why should he? He owed her nothing. It was the other way round … except that he had asked her to memor-ise a route and had promised to fly it with her. He had broken a promise and somehow Daisy knew that Tomas Sapenak was not the kind of person who broke promises.

  ‘Wing Commander Sapenak is a fighter pilot and if he had been on a mission and been shot down, you would know but … could he have been doing something else?’

  ‘Of course he could. It’s war, Miss Petrie; there’s a dozen things a multilingual experienced pilot like Sapenak could be doing. He could have flown into enemy territory to pick up something or someone. Even we humble ferry pilots do other things besides take plane X from A to B, you know.’

  ‘I’m a bit silly to worry then.’

  He shrugged. ‘No idea, depends on how close you two are.’

  Daisy blushed again. ‘We had a mutual friend, that’s all. I didn’t know he was multilingual, if that means more than speaking English and whatever they speak in Czechoslovakia.’

  ‘It does. I’ll hold you to that dance … and I hope you’ve heard from him before Christmas.’

  Daisy thanked him and went off to her billet where she made a pot of tea and sat down to drink it and to brood.

  Tomas, Adair’s friend, was, no, not that. Tomas had not kept a promise. Unusual. Neither had he been in touch to explain why. Therefore he was either in a place from where it was impossible to contact her or he was in trouble.

  She almost spilled her tea as the hut seemed to shake from the force of a thunderous knocking at the door. Daisy replaced her cup and ran to the door.

  A figure stood outside, fist raised to bang again. ‘Petrie? Good. Phone for you, Ops office.’ The messenger, whoever he was, turned and ran, and Daisy followed.

  A telephone call? When had she last had a … oh, please don’t let it be bad news.

  She was breathless when she reached the office that was the heart of the station. Two uniformed airmen were busy at desks but the black telephone on the table in front of the window had its receiver firmly in place. Daisy’s face must have expressed her feelings, for one of the airmen looked and smiled. ‘He’s ringing back, ma’am, about …’ and at that moment the telephone rang.

  The airmen gestured for Daisy to answer it.

  She did. ‘Hello,’ she said tentatively.

  ‘Hello, Daisy, how are you? Tomas here.’

  Oh, such relief to hear her friend’s voice. ‘Tomas? Where are you?’

  ‘Home,’ he said, which told her exactly nothing. ‘Daisy, I’m sorry I didn’t keep my promise. I have been a little busy.’

  What could she say? It was impossible to ask questions with two airmen hearing every word she said. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Are you going home for Christmas?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let me take you out to dinner on Christmas Eve.’

  Christmas Eve. Family tradition meant that the Petries went to the Midnight Service on Christmas Eve. ‘I go to church on Christmas Eve – in Dartford.’

  ‘We could have dinner first, Daisy, and I will explain everything. Please say yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will be in touch. Good night, Daisy.’

  ‘Good night.’

  The sound of silence hummed along the wires and Daisy quietly replaced the receiver, thanked the room’s occupants, and went back to her billet.

  How she wished that there had been more time to talk. She realised that she had agreed to have dinner with Tomas on Christmas Eve. Would he want her to meet him somewhere in the centre of the town? What if he wanted to meet her at the flat? She was not ashamed of her home – her parents had furnished it very nicely and it was scrupulously clean – but she worried about her mother’s reaction when she told her, as she would have to do, that she would not be at home for tea on Christmas Eve but would be dining out with a Czechoslovakian pilot. At least he was not an aristocrat; at least she thought he was not. Daisy, however, knew that a gentleman like Tomas would expect to meet a girl at her home, to introduce himself to her parents. Oh, please don’t let this be a nightmare. Let Mum be so involved with George that she forgets to worry about Czechoslovaks. And why didn’t Tomas come here to the station to have dinner with me? Where would he be staying on Christmas Eve? In Dartford? That was it. It was obvious, was it not, that Tomas was planning to spend Christmas with the Humbles?

  During the next few weeks she flew several missions, twice ferrying planes and three times ferrying RAF pilots. Like every other ATA pilot she treasured her small ring-binder with its sheaf of notes on the idiosyncrasies of the different types of planes in the various classes. She wondered if she would ever get used to finding herself expected to safely fly a plane that she not only had never flown before but also had never actually seen before. In a perfect world there would have been hours of instruction in every type of aircraft but this was not a perfect world.

  To her great surprise, for he was not the usual family writer, Fred wrote of how proud he was of his ‘little girl’.

  A girl, and one half the size of a pint at that, flying a blooming great plane. As your dad I would have wished for a easy life for you, pet, but, again as your dad, I have to say as how my heart beats loud with such pride in you, and Rose too, working hard as a man in that factory. We saw changes after the Great War, women doing work side by side with lads, but we never thought anything like this would come. If I was to see you flying a plane my heart would jump into my mouth with fear and it’d never get back in place but I am the proudest dad in Dartford and always will be. Young George is pulling more than his weight. He’s good company for your mam and is begging me to teach him to drive. No word of his father – good riddance, I say – and George doesn’t ask. I never thought my Flora could part with our Ron’s things but she’s making over everything that’s suitable for young George, and his coupons have gone for new shoes and winter boots. He’s drawing a picture of you in a plane. Don’t know nothing about art but I can see it’s a plane and you’re in it so that’s good, right?

  She folded the letter carefully and put it away with her other treasures.

  A few days later Tomas telephoned again. ‘Daisy, do you know Hythe Street in Dartford?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, there is a restaurant there, Frederick Comber’s restaurant, number eighty-seven. You know this?’

  ‘I have never eaten there, Tomas, but yes, I know where it is.’

  ‘Good, but you have not eat the food.’

  ‘No, but I’m sure it will be as good as any other restaurant – there are shortages everywhere.’

  ‘I know, but I want something nice for you. There is also a hotel named The Bull Hotel, and this is on the High Street. You know this place?’

  ‘Not really, although I must have passed it a thousand times.’

  ‘In Prague or even London I would know, but Dartford I do not know.’

  Daisy smiled. As if she cared about the restaurant, but it was rather nice that Tomas wanted it to be special. ‘Tomas, it is going to be very nice sitting down and having a chat without hurrying or running out of pennies.’

  ‘You are kind, Daisy, and so we say then the first one. I will find it but the time is very scarce and so will you meet me there? This is rude, I know, but—’

  She was relieved and interrupted him. ‘That will be very nice, Tomas.’

  ‘Nice? I can scarcely believe I ask such a thing and what my father would have said I shudder to think. But please believe it is not bad manners that make this necessary. Of course, I will deliver you home safely or to your church, whichever is more convenient.’

  ‘It’s quite all right, Tomas. It will be lovely to see you. Comber’s should be easy for you to find as the buildings opposite, really an engineering works, have been camouflaged to look like a row of terraced houses.’ She thought for a moment, ‘Well, from the air, that is.’

  ‘But I do not fly, Daisy,’ he said, and she liked the s
ound of his laughter. ‘I will find.’

  Daisy wondered whether or not she could ask her next question and then decided to go ahead; much depended on his answer. ‘Tomas, will you be staying with Alf and Nancy?’

  ‘Yes. That is a problem?’

  ‘No. It’s just that, this year, I think I told you, we’re having real English ham for our Christmas dinner, and I thought, if you had air force business in Dartford, perhaps you would like to have a meal with my family.’

  ‘Oh, dear Daisy, how you are thoughtful but no, I must refuse your very generous offer. Alf has asked me to stay for the few days of my leave. They are very kind; I think that maybe for them I am a connection with …’

  ‘Adair.’ Daisy was amazed by how calm she sounded. ‘Alf told me Nancy thought of him as the son she never had.’

  ‘Yes, it is so very sad. But I must not talk more and return to work. I look forward so much to Christmas Eve.’

  Daisy hurried away from the call box through the sleet and the biting wind. Christmas Eve, almost a year since … She stopped and two other women ran past her, yelling out, ‘Come on, Petrie, you’ll catch your death out here.’

  That brought her to her senses and she waved even though they could not see and hurried after them, desperately hoping that there was nothing on the pavement for her to fall over.

  The billet was warm, the blindingly hot pipe that carried the smoke from the fire out through the roof sending comforting warmth into every corner of the rather basic room.

  ‘Going home for Christmas, Daisy?’ asked one of the girls, handing her a mug of hot cocoa. ‘Lucky duck. I’m on this year but if I’m up on Christmas Eve, I fully expect to encounter jolly Old Saint Nick.’

  The girls spent the next few hours talking nonsense but having relaxing fun, and Daisy, after a few minutes of worrying, joined in and found that her colleagues laughed with her just as they did with one another.

  How wonderful it was to be a small part of this wonderful group.

  A few weeks later, she walked home through the streets of Dartford, carrying her case and her carrier with its carefully chosen Christmas presents, which she had wrapped as artistically as she could in old newspapers. As she walked she looked out for a stand selling sprigs of holly. Holly, if she was lucky, complete with red berries, would make the parcels beautiful.