Bobby's War

by Shirley Mann

  ‘I had no idea,’ Harriet began, but then added, ‘Oh, no, I do remember, that was when I took you in hand and made a lady out of you. Well, I tried.’

  ‘Hmm, well, you failed there, but I did appreciate your efforts – all that brushing of my hair and making me put it in rags to curl it.’ She fingered her hair. It was so thick no curl had ever taken over from the natural waves, but Harriet’s cajoling had made Bobby realise, for the first time, what it was like to have a friend.

  With two ciders inside her, Bobby was feeling quite mellow. ‘Do you know, coming home always makes me feel a bit too pensive. I’m so happy when I’m up in the air with other things to concentrate on, but coming home always makes me think, and I’m not sure I like it.’

  ‘Oh, yes, thinking . . . personally, I’ve always thought it’s overrated! I just act first and think later and that, Bobby, is exactly how I got into trouble again this week. Let me tell you about it . . .’

  *

  At the farm, Bobby’s father was also doing some thinking. He sat in the gloom in his study with the blackout curtains drawn. The farm was struggling to make ends meet. There were constant demands from the government to provide more food, but the supply of feedstuff was getting more scarce and the profit margins were narrow.

  In front of him was a letter from the War Office informing him that his land to the east of the farm was to be used to house German prisoners of war. His knuckles clenched and his expression hardened. A survivor of Passchendaele, his memory of the steel helmet and the desperate face beneath it holding up a bayonet to his chest haunted his dreams every night and he was not a man to forgive easily. He had battled with the men from the Ministry, but his objections had been overruled and the first batch were due to arrive next week.

  He stood up and went over to the gas lamp in the corner to read the fine print of the instructions about what housing they would need. He had restored the lamp to reduce the electricity bills, but to be honest, it was really hard to see by it and his eyes narrowed to read the long list of demands, feeling fury rising in his chest. His equanimity had not been helped by the argument he’d had with his daughter over women pilots. Every time he saw her, she seemed more difficult, more belligerent and infuriatingly more stubborn. Agnes could have told him that they were traits Roberta had inherited from him, but that comparison never occurred to Andrew. Instead, he was mulling over an idea he had had after meeting Archibald Turner at the country club the previous week, which might just provide a way to protect the farm’s future. The idea was purely to his and the farm’s advantage and seemed like a very practical solution; the fact that it would prompt even more anger from his daughter did not occur to him.

  Chapter 6

  The winter was a relentless round of aircraft deliveries and Bobby had no time to dwell on the lingering suspicion that her father was plotting something. Her days off were spent sleeping or reading up on aircraft and as Bobby was not in the habit of indulging in introspection, she pushed all thoughts of her family out of her mind. After flying a Wimpy to Staffordshire in late March, 1943, she was exhausted and was even grateful to bag a bunk in a freezing cold hut, but before she fell asleep, she checked her logbook. The last few pages were a mass of pencil scribbles, impossible timescales and technical notes for herself. She liked to go over them each night to remind herself of things that might be useful when she was flying the same aeroplanes again, although when she looked at the list of craft she had flown over the past month, she noticed there were hardly any repeats.

  She flopped onto the flock-filled pillow, sniffed and wondered whether she had a cold coming. A cold was a casualty of war, not an illness that warranted time off curled up with a hot cocoa and a hot water bottle; the pilots simply carried on with streaming, red noses, struggling pathetically into freezing cold planes, shivering and sneezing. Bobby sniffed again; she definitely had a dry throat.

  The girl in the next bed turned over, opening one eye to glare at Bobby.

  ‘Sorry,’ Bobby whispered. She glanced over at her uniform, hung up on a hanger. There was an inspection due when she got back, and before she went to sleep she systematically went through all the items in her head. Ticking each item off, she stopped suddenly when she came to her hat. Her skirt was hung up in the wardrobe at Hamble but when she envisaged the top shelf where the hat should have been, she could not remember having seen it for ages.

  Where the hell is my hat? she thought with a jolt, sitting up again. She wracked her brains to try to think when she had last had it. It had been over a month ago. A helmet was the usual headgear the pilots wore but they had to keep their hats spruced up and clean to wear for church parade and official occasions and the last time she had worn it had been for a funeral for one of the male ATA pilots who had been killed when his engine failed on landing. She remembered wearing it then because, seeing his distraught widow and two children standing behind the coffin, she had lowered her head under her hat so no one could see she was crying, but after that, for the life of her, she could not remember where she had put it.

  Bobby felt panic rising; the punishment system in the ATA was not nearly as stringent as in the WAAF, but losing a piece of your uniform was a chargeable offence. Her heart started to race and she pulled her knees up to rock backwards and forwards while she went through every possible place where she might have left it.

  Keeping a clean record was a prime objective of every ATA pilot and Bobby had tried not to make any mistakes, but it was uncomfortably true that she had concentrated her efforts on getting the essentials of flying correct, consigning worrying about her formal uniform to the bottom of her list of priorities.

  With the pragmatism that defined her, Bobby eventually shrugged her shoulders and lay back down to go to sleep, reasoning that it would either be at Hamble or, heaven forbid, she had lost it somewhere. She told herself that if she was going to get any sleep, she had to believe the hat was safely at the back of the wardrobe at Hamble.

  *

  Back at base on the south coast, some of the girls were plotting. It was going to be Bobby’s birthday shortly and Sally, Daphne and Patsy were debating whether they should hold a party for her.

  ‘I think she’d like it and it would do her good to mix a bit more,’ Patsy said.

  ‘I’m not sure, she does seem to like to keep herself to herself a lot,’ Daphne said thoughtfully.

  ‘Nonsense, everyone loves a party, even Bobby,’ Sally butted in, leaning forward to grab a pencil and piece of paper.

  ‘You just want an excuse to dress up and flirt,’ Patsy said, leaning forward to pinch the pencil from her.

  ‘Of course I do. Hands off, I’m doing the list,’ Sally protested, holding the pencil in the air out of Patsy’s reach. ‘I know everyone, you don’t.’

  ‘All the men, you mean,’ Daphne interrupted.

  ‘Why would we bother having anyone else at the party?’ Sally laughed and started to write down a list of RAF pilots’ names.

  *

  Bobby got back to Hamble and after a fruitless search, went to the adjutant who sent her to see the commanding officer, Margot Gore. Standing outside the CO’s office on a bright April morning was not the way Bobby wanted to start her 28th birthday. Her nose was still red and she was sniffling uncomfortably. She took a large breath, knocked and went in. Margot was sitting behind her desk and smiled when Bobby came in.

  ‘Hello Bobby, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve, umm, lost my hat and the adjutant said I had to come and see you.’

  Normally, Margot was very informal and would ask the girls to sit down but, on this occasion, she just frowned and bit the end of her pencil, leaving Bobby standing looking very sheepish in front of her.

  ‘It’ll have to go to the Accident Committee, you know that?’ she said. ‘Our uniform is part of who and what we are. I’m sorry, Bobby, but I have to report you.’

  Bobby nodded, more miserable than she could have believed possible. Her CO looked at he
r in disappointment and waved a hand for her to leave.

  Bobby knew this would be a black mark against her and if the committee decided, as she feared they might, to make an example of her, it could cost her dearly, both financially as well as damaging her reputation, which had been spotless to date.

  *

  That evening, Bobby walked slowly into the mess, her head lowered. Her cold was making her feel especially miserable and she was only wasting time before she could go to bed. As she opened the door, a huge cheer went up and she stopped in her tracks.

  In front of her were Sally, Patsy and Daphne, all looking very pleased with themselves. They had decked the room out in paper streamers and on the wall opposite the bar, there was a handwritten ‘Happy Birthday’ sign. Behind the girls were about ten men in uniform who Bobby did not know, all clapping happily at the chance to put the war to the back of their minds and have a good night out.

  Bobby looked round in horror. A party was the last thing she needed or wanted. She was feeling ill and was far too distracted by the uncomfortable conversation she had had with Margot Gore earlier that day.

  Sally moved forward and swept her towards the men. ‘We thought you deserved time off for some celebration,’ she said, pushing a drink into Bobby’s hands.

  ‘This is Wally, he’s just dying to dance with you. Someone put the gramophone on and let’s get the dancing going.’

  Bobby stood awkwardly in front of Wally, who at the age of twenty-two, suddenly felt intimidated by this tall, older woman in front of him.

  ‘W . . . would you like to dance?’ he murmured, tentatively reaching his arms out towards her as Glenn Miller’s ‘American Patrol’ started up.

  Bobby hesitated; she really did not feel like dancing.

  Sally came up behind her and fiercely took her arm, steering her momentarily away from the embarrassed Wally.

  ‘Come on, Bobby, lighten up a bit, everyone’s gone to quite a bit of effort to make a nice do for you. It might be helpful if you tried to enjoy it a bit.’

  Bobby looked around at all the expectant faces. It was the first birthday party anyone had ever organised for her and she suddenly felt ashamed that she was such a reluctant participant.

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly, making an effort to brighten her face. She took a large swig of the drink, which slid down her throat in an instant. It helped to ease her sore throat. She turned back to Wally, who was suddenly captivated by the beautiful smile in front of him and took courage enough to whisk her away into a lively dance.

  By her third drink, Bobby was surprised to find she really was feeling better and enjoying herself. She had two days off to look forward to and the hearing about her uniform wasn’t until the following month, so with her usual equanimity she decided what would be would be and there was nothing she could do about it, so she may as well let her hair down a little.

  Towards the end of the evening, she went over to the little group of girls who were standing by the bar.

  ‘I’m sorry I was such a misery guts,’ she said. Bobby paused, it did not come naturally to her to open up and share the possibility that she might have failings but with three drinks inside her, she decided she would risk ridicule.

  ‘I’ve lost my hat and now there’s a hearing in a month.’

  She looked around at the group of girls waiting for sarcasm or superiority but she saw nothing but sympathy and understanding. Patsy leaned forward and patted her arm.

  ‘Oh Bobby, no wonder you were so fed up, but all in all perhaps this was exactly what you needed. A good party is a great way to forget your miseries.’

  Bobby looked around at the little group and felt a surge of affection she had rarely felt before.

  ‘Thank you all for going to so much trouble,’ she told them, and then, ‘To be honest, that’s the first birthday party I’ve ever had.’

  Daphne looked horrified. With five brothers and two sisters, her whole year was an excuse for celebrations and birthday parties were a regular occurrence in her household. Even Sally looked surprised.

  Patsy spoke first, ‘Do you know what then, Roberta Hollis? We’d better get on and make sure it’s one you never forget.’ And all three of them grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back towards the dance floor.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Sally called out, ‘I think this young lady needs to have the birthday bumps. Apparently, she’s never had them.’

  The men whooped with delight and scooped Bobby up in their arms to throw her up and down in the air.

  ‘How many times?’ one yelled to Sally.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Bobby panted as she landed back into the outflung arms, ‘but I think that’ll do. I’m exhausted!’

  They gently placed her on the ground and then all gathered around her to sing, ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’.

  Bobby felt tears appearing on her cheek. For the first time in her life she was part of a community and she could not believe how good it felt.

  *

  The following month, Bobby paced up and down outside Margot Gore’s office, knowing that, at any moment, Margot would receive the telephone call from White Waltham where the Accident Committee were meeting. Her palms were sweating. The girls had all wished her good luck that morning and their genuine concern had helped her face the day, but the possibilities of the various forms of punishment kept flashing before her eyes. She kept trying to reason it was only a hat, she had not damaged any aircraft, disobeyed any ground instructions or been guilty of ‘lifting the arm’ – drinking too much – so surely, the punishment could not be too severe. Could it?

  The door opened and Margot came out. She gave Bobby a severe look and then her face relaxed.

  ‘Fined one and ten pence,’ she said.

  Bobby heaved a huge sigh of relief and moved out of the way to let Margot past.

  ‘Oh, and you have to pay for another hat,’ Margot called back.

  ‘With pleasure!’ Bobby said quietly.

  Chapter 7

  Night-time bombing had started and Bobby was working harder than ever with relentless schedules to make sure the RAF had aircraft in the right places at the right times. At the end of May 1943 she sent in her logbook to the commanding officer as usual and was delighted when Margot Gore put her forward for more training.

  She turned from the post up on the noticeboard in excitement to Sally who was also scanning the list.

  ‘Sally, we’re going to White Waltham. Spitfires, here we come!’

  Sally grabbed her by the arm and swung her round, narrowly missing the wall. ‘High-flyers, that’s what we are. Oh, what a dream. Next, it’ll be the heavy bombers like Wellingtons. Oh, and Bobby, just think, we can get to London from there. Right, I’ll find out what parties are on.’

  ‘But we’ll be far too busy cramming for the tests,’ Bobby said hurriedly.

  ‘We’ll just see about that,’ and with that Sally linked her friend’s arm and made her waltz down the hallway.

  *

  White Waltham was just outside Maidenhead and was the headquarters of the ATA. Walking down one of the corridors, it seemed an age since Bobby had come for her initial interview and she paused for a moment outside the door with the revered Senior Commander’s name on it. Reaching out her hand and tracing the letters of Pauline Gower’s name, she remembered the day of her practical test and interview at the beginning of 1942, when she had shivered with trepidation on a bench outside this very office waiting to be called to her aircraft. She had had to sit on her hands to stop them twiddling nervously, knowing that her experience as a pilot was very limited, with only some crop spraying to her name. Bobby looked across at the training rooms with those familiar desks where they had all learned about Morse code, navigation and plotting. She remembered the steep learning curve that had taught her how to plan her route using golf courses, railways, churches and roads, instead of radios or navigation equipment. Then there had been that all-important interview with Pauline. To begin with,
Bobby had almost frozen in fright at being in front of the woman who had taken on all opposition to make sure women were given the same status as men in the ATA, but then Pauline Gower smiled at her encouragingly and she had relaxed. She had not known that Pauline was delighted to see a serious, more mature young woman applying to join, so was willing her on to succeed. Aircraft production was being stepped up after the destruction of so many aeroplanes during the Battle of Britain and the demands on the ATA were relentless, so they needed pilots like Roberta Hollins, the head of the ATA had thought, stamping her application form with the word ‘Accepted.’

  Bobby knew how far she and women in general had come in the last few years. Without the war, she thought, crop spraying would have been her only expression of freedom; the rest of the time, she would have been expected to pursue ladylike activities, help her mother in the garden or attend the most tedious cocktail parties. She sent a prayer of thanks skyward for a leader like Pauline and, she ruefully admitted, for a war that had opened new opportunities to girls like her. As a child, she had stopped in wonder to stare upwards on the rare occasion that a plane flew overhead, astonished at its speed and ability to soar above the clouds and here she was, flying aircraft all over Britain. It seemed like an impossible journey in such a short time. Dawdling outside Pauline’s room, Bobby heard a chair scraping inside and scuttled away before the door opened, unwilling to be found hovering in the corridor like a star-struck schoolgirl.

  *

  The advanced training week at White Waltham went quickly and with a head spinning with information about the more advanced single-engined aircraft, Bobby sat in the exam room nervously twiddling her pencil. She had successfully completed the practical tests without any problem but the written test demanded an in-depth knowledge of a huge number of aircraft, weather patterns and navigation risks and by the time the exam was over, she had bitten off the end of her pencil in consternation. She raced straight to the library to check what facts she had written down and heaved a huge sigh of relief that most of them seemed correct. She just hoped the examiners agreed with her.