by Ruby Jackson
She began to tremble and struggled to control herself. She was also beginning to feel decidedly sick. Thoughts of how humiliating it would be to be horribly sick in the cockpit of one of His Majesty’s aircraft helped her gain some strength.
Instead of singing she kept saying, ‘I will not be sick, I will not be sick,’ until she saw the runway below her.
‘Five minutes more, Daisy, that’s all. Come on, let’s have a perfect landing.’
It was not the best landing ever but the plane and its rather seedy pilot were unscathed. Religiously, Daisy went through all the instructions for taxiing and stopping.
An engineer ran along beside her as she taxied. ‘Take her straight to the fuel pumps. You’re late.’
Daisy did as she was told but the smell of fuel was just too much for her stomach and she jumped out of the cockpit and vomited all over the ground. She was ready to burst into tears of mingled fright and frustration when she heard an irate voice.
‘Damn it all,’ it yelled. ‘Did I not say women were totally useless?’ and there stood her passenger. He looked at her as she stood there shaking and controlling her tears. ‘Go on woman, get yourself cleaned up and I’ll fly the damned thing to base for you. Be quick.’
Daisy fled, first to clean up and throw ice-cold water, of which there was plenty, over her face, and then, reasonably clean but not at all sweet-smelling, she returned to her now refuelled plane.
‘In you go, Flying Officer,’ said the engineer who had met her on her arrival. ‘He’s not a bad bloke – we heard as how a plane had come down and he was sure it was ’is taxi. Glad it wasn’t.’
‘Me too,’ said Daisy, managing a weak smile.
Twenty minutes later she was beginning to recover and was even well enough to appreciate how professionally Flying Officer Dorward handled her plane. He looked round quickly and saw her watching. ‘Sorry you were sick. You look ghastly, by the way, but there’s a Thermos flask – of tea, unfortunately – rolling around there somewhere. Do help yourself.’
Hot sweet tea. Nectar from the gods.
No one seemed to mind that the passenger was piloting the plane while the pilot drank tea in the back. Thanks to the tea and the rest Daisy felt able to continue, but the station commander decided that it was now rather late and the weather had definitely taken a turn for the worse.
‘I’ll ring ahead and tell them you’ll fly in tomorrow a.m. You’re welcome to the mess for dinner and we’ll find a bed for you somewhere.’
But now that she was safely on the ground, the realisation of what had actually happened during the first flight hit Daisy. I’m responsible for the death of a man. He was the enemy and he wanted to kill me but he was a human being, a pilot like Tomas. Even distressed as she was, Daisy knew that for the first time in a year, she had not thought of Adair first.
The commander must not see her trembling. She managed to convince him that she would be perfectly happy to be allowed to clean up her flying suit and to retire early.
She was shown to a billet where several bedsteads were obviously not in use and chose one near the door. Since the trip was an extended one, she had brought her little bag of overnight things and her wash bag. She wanted badly to clean her teeth. Life always seemed better when her teeth were clean. A nice hot bath would have been delightful too. She remembered the luxurious bathroom at Charlie’s father’s flat. Funny that she had not thought of it until this day. That bathroom, with its soft pink towels, its heated rails and its jars of lovely scented lotions was no more. But, much more importantly, Charlie was no more.
Daisy hurried to wash and to get in between the rather cold sheets, but the billet was warm and she was soon comfortable. Although she was exhausted, more from tension than from actual work, she took a long time to fall asleep. Thoughts chased one another round and round in her head. She had promised to avenge her loved ones, and the little boy whom she did not know, but actually to contemplate an act of revenge or to feel happy over the death of any human being was quite a different matter.
I didn’t shoot down that plane but I feel responsible. He must have known he couldn’t control his dive but he missed the ancient church. Chance? I think he swerved.
Oh, how she wished there was someone to talk to. Tomas? Surely Tomas, with his years of experience, could help her make sense of the day.
She fell asleep.
Next morning she was up early, ate a good breakfast in the mess, and let all the proper officials know that she was leaving.
‘We’ll let Luton know you’re on your way. Should be there in time for morning coffee.’
Daisy laughed, agreed, and went to her plane.
On the pilot’s seat was a small bouquet of exquisite hothouse flowers. Their glorious perfume filled the area. A small white card was attached to the flowers.
Please forgive my appalling crassness. The spotter who saw the Heinkel come down also observed your brilliant manoeuvre. Well done. I’m honoured to have been your ferry pilot.
Sebastian Dorward
Daisy was thrilled. They were the first flowers she had ever received.
They’ll never keep till I’m back in Dartford, she told herself, but I’ll keep a few petals to show Mum and Rose. Wonder where on earth he got flowers like that in the middle of the night.
The journey to Luton was uneventful although an area of sky was crisscrossed by the elaborate smoke trails caused by a dogfight. Once again Daisy was struck by the thin dividing lines between beauty and ugliness, life and death.
She set the plane down at the airfield and was glad to have the chit signed. She had delivered the plane and she supposed she had delivered the pilot, but perhaps he had delivered himself.
Had a plane been going to White Waltham she could have been a passenger but she was out of luck. A refuelling lorry was heading for London and the driver had no objection to taking a passenger along. Daisy picked up her bag and her flowers and climbed in. Compared to some of the journeys she had made recently, this was easy and pleasant. The lorry driver, who told her his name was Eddie, drove her right to the airfield.
‘Thanks, Eddie, I shall look out for you. Definitely preferable to train travel.’
To Daisy’s surprise, she was told to report to the base commander’s office immediately. For a moment, she could not think why he might want to see her. On the way to his office, still carrying her little overnight bag and her bouquet, she realised that he must have been told of her narrow escape. She worried. Had she done the right thing? She was right to try to avoid being shot down; it did not take a genius to work that out, but had she forgotten some protocol? Surely she was correct to fly on rather than setting down as close to the accident as possible.
The office seemed to be full of people, among them some of the legends of the ATA. She had done something wrong and was to be ceremoniously drummed out.
Suddenly everyone was clapping, the noise echoing in every corner of the building. And then the singing started – ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ – and Daisy realised that they, the men and women whom she revered and hoped to emulate, were singing to her. The base photographer took several photographs: of Daisy alone, holding her flowers; of Daisy and the base commander; of Daisy and the ATA’s most senior woman pilot; and of Daisy in front of the entire group.
‘One day, Flying Officer, we will wine and dine you in style but in the meantime, we salute your courage, your quick thinking, and your professionalism. We are proud to have you with us.’
Daisy’s muttered, ‘Thank you,’ was lost in the cheers.
Thirty minutes later she was checking out another plane.
Daisy was pleased to have so much work to do. She knew that she was not a heroine and felt rather silly at being fêted. After all, what had she done? Simply taken evasive action. The unfortunate German pilot had been unable to pull out of his dive and had crashed on a hill. She did not want to think about it, or about him. He had been a pilot, just as Adair had been. They had been on oppo
site sides but now they were both dead. She touched the scarf, Adair’s scarf, which she wore constantly. He had given it, his lucky scarf, to her and she had survived. She would continue to wear it and she would work.
She wrote telling her parents that she was now studying the Class Two planes. She did not say that Class Two consisted of fighter planes, but she named two types, the Defiant and the Mustang, names she was positive would mean nothing to her parents. Very carefully she omitted two others, the Hurricane and the Spitfire. Was there anyone in Britain who did not know those planes? She knew her mother would lie awake at night worrying if her daughter were to say that she might soon be allowed to fly a Spitfire.
Neither did she tell her parents how close she had come to crashing. On the day that they received her letter, however, they were much too excited to actually concern themselves with something so mundane as the types of planes their daughter was flying.
Early one morning, Fred had been opening the blackout curtains when he glanced out into the street as he always did. As usual, even so early, the street was busy. At the far end of the street and moving briskly towards him was a figure that caught his eyes; there was something so very familiar about the tall thin form. It was the way the man walked, more than anything else, but Fred felt his heart begin to beat more quickly and the blood to run around his body as if it was suddenly so glad to be alive.
He wiped his eyes, which seemed to have misted over, looked again and then Fred Petrie, known throughout Dartford for imperturbability, threw down the duster he was holding and ran out of the shop and into the street.
Flora, who had just reached the foot of the stairs, saw her husband – in his slippers – race out of the shop and, terrified at what she might be about to see, raced after him.
She ran a few paces, stopped and burst into tears. ‘Sam, my Sam,’ she sobbed, and attempted again to catch up with her husband.
‘There, there, Flora, it is your Sam.’ Miss Partridge, coming in a little early, for today was fresh egg day, put her arms around her friend and employer. ‘You’re not seeing things, Flora dear. See, Sam is hugging his father, and he’ll be here with you in no time at all.’
And so it was. Sam Petrie, thinner than when he had left England, but bronzed and weather-beaten, caught his mother in his arms and, as if roles had been reversed, became the consoling parent to the sobbing child. ‘There, there, Mum, don’t cry. It’s me and I’m fine. I’m home again and all the way across Europe I were dreaming of your apple fritters.’
They reached the shop and there, at the door, stood a young lad whom Sam did not know. The boy looked at him, smiled shyly and made to slip past him but Sam reached out a very strong hand and held the boy. ‘Who’s this then, Mum? A new help?’ He looked down at George. ‘No need to leave, lad. By looks of that crowd gathering there, seems to me you’ll be needed more than ever.’
Petrie’s Groceries and Fine Teas had never been as patronised by non-customers as it was that day. Even the editor of the local newspaper sent a reporter and a photographer. At last a piece of local news that everyone could share. Sergeant Sam Petrie, injured at Dunkirk, captured by the Germans, from whom he eventually escaped, had returned safe and sound to the bosom of his family. In the few minutes before ‘customers’ started filling the shop, Fred had time to explain George’s presence.
‘He sleeps in your room, Sam, but we’ll find somewhere else for him.’
‘D’you snore, lad?’ asked Sam, looking down at the boy.
George nodded. ‘Somethin’ terrible, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Sam, ruffling his hair. ‘It’ll be like old times, an’ I’m Sam.’
Miss Partridge tentatively suggested that the shop close for the day but Fred said no, it was unfair to their customers.
‘Customers looks forward to their fresh eggs of a Tuesday, Miss Partridge. We’ll take it in turns to be behind the counter.’
Flora wanted nothing more than to take her son upstairs and to look at him. He had been gone for two years. She felt that she never wanted to let him out of her sight again.
After the initial rush of visitors, Sam asked to be left alone in the flat above the shop with his family – and he included George. In a day or two, he added, he would be happy to see old friends.
Rose, overwhelmed by the return of her brother, had refused to go into the munitions factory. ‘They can sack me,’ she said, ‘but today I’m staying at home.’
The vicar, Mr Tiverton, went to make Rose’s apologies to the management and returned with good wishes to the whole family.
Miss Partridge stayed in the shop for the wholeday, and even though Fred and Rose and George took turns helping, she was exhausted when they closed the doors at five thirty.
‘Come upstairs and eat a bite of supper with us,’ Rose tried to persuade her, but she was adamant. The family needed to be alone with their son and brother.
‘I’ll take George, Rose.’
Rose smiled. She had seen Sam look at George the way he had once looked at Grace, and at any other child who needed help. ‘Sam’ll care for him, Miss Partridge, and just you wait, wee George will care for Sam.’
Miss Partridge agreed, but was surprised when Fred came down to walk with her to her home. ‘I’m on duty tonight, Miss Partridge. Not much of an example to my son, as brave as he’s been, if I use him as an excuse not to do my duty. I know he’s home and will sleep sound in his own bed tonight. That thought will keep me company on my rounds. Now we’ll need to get a letter off to our Daisy.’
But here Miss Partridge had a better idea.
A few days later, Daisy was thrilled to hear that she was to expect a telephone call at two o’clock in the afternoon.
‘Just as well you got back last night, Daisy. He rang up but said he’d ring again today.’
He? Tomas. It had to be Tomas. How she longed to talk with him, to tell him of the frightening experience, to hear his measured view on how she had handled herself.
She lunched with other pilots, who found her distracted. It was, however, quite common for overworked pilots to be a little distracted and so no one made any remarks. Each pilot knew exactly what the others went through and accepted occasional lapses.
At five minutes before two, Daisy was walking up and down outside the officers’ mess waiting, waiting, and waiting. And then came that distinctive ring and she pulled open the door. ‘Hello, Daisy Petrie speaking.’
‘Hello, Daisy.’
It was not the voice she expected but, in some ways, it was even better. She was so stunned that she leaned back against the glass for support. ‘Sam? No, it can’t be. Sam, is that you, really you?’
‘It’s me, Daisy. Mr Tiverton let me use The Rectory telephone. He and Miss Partridge arranged it. How are you, Daisy? A flyer? I can’t believe it. I’m that proud I could burst with it.’
They talked for a few minutes and Daisy discovered that, yes, he had heard of Ron’s death and knew that Phil was somewhere on a ship. She asked about his escape.
‘Too much to tell on the telephone, Daisy; it’s the vicar’s money. I got to the south of France and a British flyer picked us up, me and some others that I met along the way; scariest thing ever, getting in that crate. How can you do it? I’ll tell you the whole story when you come home. Got to go.’
The line went dead and Daisy, trembling with emotion, replaced the receiver and walked out into a snowstorm. She had been so enthralled at hearing her brother’s voice that she had not even been aware of the clouds that had come in.
No flying today, she thought as she ran for shelter.
For the next two weeks, Daisy and the other ATA pilots, weather permitting, were ferrying not once each day but two or three times. The aircraft factories were turning out new planes to reinforce the air force and, sadly, to replace those that had been shot down. The ATA pilots spent days picking up new planes as they came off the factory floor and delivering them to stations anywhere in Great Britain and Northern Ireland where they
were needed. Daisy found that she preferred short flights, as she began to learn the shortest, safest ways to get from one station to another. Two nights out of three she was happy to sleep in what she now called ‘my own bed’. For a girl who had lived in the same comfortable but rather crowded flat all her life, becoming used to living in different billets and feeling ‘at home’ was quite a surprise. She felt older, more mature, ready to go anywhere at any time.
Every pilot had looked forward to spring. It had been such a long cold and dark winter. Spring brought colour, and Daisy looked with delight on the early green shoots of daffodils and other spring flowers. She remembered the arduous work of digging in the hard soil of her friend Grace’s little garden, scarcely more than a patch. It had been tough but they had enjoyed the challenge, and Daisy felt that she, like Grace, would never forget the joy of picking and eating the few vegetables that they had planted – and cared for – themselves.
Each station she visited had plantings of some kind and Daisy enjoyed them all.
One day, when this war was over, somehow she would find a way to have a garden, an English cottage garden like one she had seen in a magazine. In the meantime, life went on.
She had applied for a pass; even twelve hours would allow her to get home and hear her brother’s truly amazing story. She’d learned only the bare bones: that he’d been shot and almost drowned at Dunkirk, rescued and taken to a hospital run by Roman Catholic sisters. Next, a prison camp and later an escape. Somehow he had escaped from his prison and made his way to Italy. Why? How? Who had helped, for he must have had help from somewhere? It was like a story in a book except that it was not a story. What had actually happened to her big brother? He had lived and worked in Italy, had left the wonderful people who had hidden him and had made his way to France and from there, home. Twelve hours was not long enough to do more than skim the surface of his story.
Two weeks after she had applied for leave, there was still no hint that she might be granted a few hours to go home. She had not heard from Tomas or Grace; in fact no one had been in touch with her for weeks. She blamed the war. Everyone blamed everything on the war.
