His Very Own Girl

by Carrie Lofty

  “Just keeping you on your toes. I was glad to get out of Kinloss. There’s nothing much to do that far north.”

  “Wouldn’t know, ma’am. All I know is no one else has chanced landing today.”

  Turning her face to the sky, Lulu took in the broad expanse of low, dark clouds. He wasn’t wrong. Setting down under such conditions had tested her nerve and her skill. But she wasn’t haunted by images of crashing on a cloudy day. Her memories included bright, sunny skies and wide cloaks of snow.

  Walking to the hangar, Lulu’s parachute dragged as heavy as a dead body on her shoulder. She signed away her plane and handed over her ferry chit to the air base deputy. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything heading back toward Mersley, would you?”

  The deputy, an RAF captain with a thick white mustache and entirely bald head, offered a disapproving grunt. “A Typhoon bound for Litchfield, maybe.”

  “That’s perfect. I’m sure to find an Anson to take me home from there.”

  “Don’t be daft, woman.” The captain stirred his tea, blew on it, and took a sip. “Won’t be anything lifting off before this weather clears.”

  She let her parachute smack the ground; it landed with a boom that echoed through the hangar. “I just came off a P.I.W in Scotland, and I’d dearly like to get home. I’ll have sunlight for another three hours. Give me the plane.”

  “No,” he said, not looking up from his tea.

  Lulu swallowed her frustration—a frustration born of three dull, endless days of waiting for a plane that seemed as if it would never be airworthy. She’d played round after round of poker, wished in vain for a backgammon player as skilled as Nicky, and endured the awkward attentions of rural Scotsmen who rarely enjoyed the luxury of female company while on duty. The hangar’s utility closet had been her temporary quarters. With only one change of clothes, she’d needed to rinse her woolen underthings in a bucket. At least she’d thought to bring flannel pajamas. An air hangar in Scotland was a frigid place in late February.

  But with a P.I.W, she hadn’t been able to leave. The aircraft was intended for a special task, which made it priority one. Once accepting it as her responsibility, Lulu had needed to complete its delivery before returning home—no matter how long the wait that entailed.

  And bugger it all, the boredom had provided plenty of time to think about Joe. He’d burrowed into her thoughts like a tick that gorged on fantasies. She should’ve danced with him longer or kissed him once more. Instead she’d waved her good-byes from a black cab and hadn’t seen him since. Three long weeks.

  Now, what if he and his unit had already moved on?

  She should’ve agreed to see him again. Across four years of soldiers and war, she had yet to meet another man like him. If that was just her hungry body and lonely heart talking, making him into something he wasn’t—it hardly mattered. The desire remained.

  She needed her own bed. Maybe then she wouldn’t dream about him.

  “I won’t be grounded, sir.”

  The captain looked surprised to find her still standing there.

  “Give me the Typhoon,” she said with more resolve. “Please.”

  His expression detailed exactly how much he disliked dealing with the likes of Lulu. She had faced down countless men with identical attitudes. She and the other female pilots of the ATA were tolerated as part of the total war philosophy Britain had so thoroughly embraced.

  But when the war ended . . . What would her life look like then? Who would she be now without flying? Without that purpose and pride?

  “You don’t have a choice,” the captain said. “I’m not giving you a plane. I won’t risk it.”

  Lulu rifled through her overnight bag and pulled out her ATA certification card. “Do we need to do this, sir?” She offered the card for his inspection. “I have the authority to determine weather readiness for myself and for any plane in my keeping.”

  With his lips twisted beneath his bushy mustache, he took the card and made a show of reading what he knew very well was written there. Many in the Royal Air Force disagreed with how much autonomy the ATA permitted its pilots—a measure of trust that the RAF did not cede their own airmen. When that pilot happened to be a woman, the disagreements emerged even more forcefully.

  “I’ll give it to you.” He spoke with the complete lack of enthusiasm a man used when conceding a point. “Mostly because you’re the kind of bird who gets me steamed, and I don’t want you swannin’ about my hangar and ruining my tea.”

  Lulu accepted the ferry chit and signed her name on the register. To spite the man, she kept her smile and voice bright. “Thanks awfully, Captain.”

  She arrived back at Mersley four hours later. Exhaustion had become as much a part of her as skin and hair. Her feet felt bloated and clumsy. She completed her paperwork and trudged into the pilots’ residence, where a single whiff of some sort of meat dish knotted her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The meals that came out of rationing—the leanest sort of experimental cooking—rarely amounted to much, but she was in no mood to be particular.

  Paulie came out of her room, nearly running into Lulu in the corridor. “Oh, you’re back! Jolly good. I hate those dreadful P.I.W’s.”

  Lulu nodded absently as she opened the door to her room. “My C-47 was stuck out in Kinloss with busted hydraulics,” she explained as Paulie followed her in. “How is it that I did nothing for three days and now I’m utterly exhausted?”

  “Because you’ve been doing thirteen-day shifts since late 1940?”

  “Ah, perhaps that’s it. I’m off tomorrow, thank goodness.”

  “You coming down to supper?”

  “I need a bath and clean clothes,” Lulu said around a yawn. “Then maybe just sleep.”

  She dropped her pungent overnight bag and collapsed onto her bed. A stack of training manuals and flight logs toppled off her end table. “Oh, dear. I’m going to dislike that come morning,” she said, not looking at the damage she’d caused.

  “You’re really going to sleep?”

  “Yes. Out.”

  Paulie held up a placating hand. “Fine, fine. I’ll save you some supper in case you’re hungry later.” She was about to close the door behind her when she stopped. “Oh, wait here.”

  “Not going anywhere.”

  A few moments later Paulie returned with a bundle of letters. “These came for you today. Thought you might want them. Sleep well, grumpy.”

  Lulu looked at the little stack where her friend laid it on the old writing desk in the corner. Whose letters this time? And worse, whose letters still had yet to arrive? She hadn’t heard from one particular corporal in months. Quincy Fields, a twenty-year-old machine gunner from somewhere in the American South, was fighting in Italy. He’d said she tasted of peaches and still called her that in his letters. When he wrote.

  After a brief nap she found the strength to wash, change, and unpack. She snuck downstairs and grabbed her serving of Woolton pie—a wartime necessity conjured out of gelatinous vegetables, oats, and potato pastry. Margaret almost managed to make it palatable despite an absence of salt or cheese. Lulu took it and a set of utensils back up to her room. The other pilots were chatting and playing cards, but she wanted only more sleep.

  But first she had letters to read, letters to write in return. In doing so she’d be reminded of the soldiers who depended on her words. And she’d demonstrate to her needy body and rebellious heart that, since the start of the war, she’d passed up a good many clever, handsome, funny servicemen, none of whom were any more endearing than a certain medic.

  Dressed for an evening out, Lulu felt refreshed and eager. The morning market had been soggy and useless. Not even the black market merchants had been out with any convincing vigor. Only once the first spring fruits and vegetables arrived would the market prove worthwhile again. But the day out with Paulie, along with a good night’s sleep, had been just what she needed.

  Taking turns with the other pilots at Mersley, t
hey braved long queues on their off days to make rationing purchases for the entire pool. That way tired flyers wouldn’t need to shop for themselves when they returned from hard hours in the air. It had been a treat to tackle the mundane chore with Paulie to keep her company.

  It’s That Man Again, a program that mined for comedy gold by lambasting Hitler, was playing on the wireless in the downstairs lounge. The pilots she counted among her dear friends had settled in for the evening. Aside from Paulie, Betsy, and Nicky, there was Margaret Plimsole, a woman in her midforties who’d owned her own flight school before the war. Lulu had spent countless hours grilling the patient dear about the ins and outs of owning a business, hoping one day to replicate her success. For ten years Margaret had been married to Jack Plimsole, Nicky’s deputy, who laughed along with her on the settee. They’d met in Kent when he became the first man to sign up for her lessons.

  Then there were the Americans: Todd Springer, Felix Anderson, and handsome Lee Cooper. He was by far the most suave and easygoing of the men, but never with any sense of false flattery. All three were 4-F for one reason or another, which meant they renewed their ATA contracts every year rather than returning to the States, where they’d be forced to sit out the war. The ATA made no such distinctions. If a qualified male pilot could fly despite his infirmities, he was considered for the service.

  Todd was working the Times crossword, his obsession, and smoking a cigar despite his emphysema. Felix and Lee were playing poker. Felix had elevated his right foot because of gout, and Lee wore thin leather gloves to conceal fingers twisted by arthritis. They’d been her family since arriving at Mersley—one of the first ferry pools to house both men and women. She enjoyed the varied camaraderie a great deal more than her previous assignment to Hatfield, which was women-only.

  Betsy finished a telephone conversation and joined them.

  “What trouble’s Howie been up to?” Paulie asked her.

  “Still giving them a good kicking.” Betsy had met and married Howard Rosen within a year of arriving in Britain. Howie, a stiff Oxford grad whose only apparent soft spot was for his American wife, was a flight instructor stationed at White Waltham, the ATA’s base of operations northeast of London. “Although he says there’s less call for new pilots.”

  “That true, Nicky?” Lee asked, glancing up from his cards.

  Nicky was still dressed in his uniform, although everyone else had changed for the evening. “Fewer recruits, maybe, but no reduction in work for the lot of us. The U.S. just finished a week using P-51 Mustang fighters as escorts for their heavy bombers over Germany. Word has it from Command that it was a massive success. Our boys can finally drop over cities, factories, and railroad hubs and still make it back here alive.”

  “That’ll help clear the way for the infantry, once they cross over to the mainland,” Betsy said. “Disrupt Hitler’s defenses before the men charge in.”

  Lee grinned, as winning as a movie star. “So get ready to move a lot of Mustangs, eh, boss?”

  “Absolutely,” Nicky said with a nod. “We’re not working these impossible shifts for nothing.” He turned to Lulu and the girls. “Now how about you dames getting out of here, right? Go enjoy yourselves. You’ll be back in the air soon enough.”

  “Just be careful with my Austin.” Lee was the only pilot at Mersley who owned an automobile, which he’d won in a hand of poker during a layover outside Liverpool. Severe petrol rationing meant it rarely left the garage. “I might need it again. One day.”

  “If you ever decide to go out on a day off,” Felix said, snickering. “My mama hauls her little old self into town more often than you do.”

  “Your mama would stay home, too, if she had you around to fleece at cards.”

  “We’ll be good, Lee.” Paulie blew him a kiss. “Promise.”

  Nicky touched Lulu’s arm, giving her a pleasant shiver. “A word, Davies?”

  “Of course. You two bring the car around, yes? I’ll be right out.”

  Betsy and Paulie continued to the foyer while Lulu followed Nicky into the short corridor that connected the lounge and the dining room. He looked tired, and probably faced another three hours of paperwork.

  “You should come with us. You’d have a swell time.”

  She’d asked on a number of occasions, but he always refused. She wondered at his reasons. Only thirty-five years old, he was as robust as a man a decade his junior. He still flew three or four flights a week despite scheduling, budgeting, and handling relations with Command.

  She actually wanted to dance with Nicky, if only to see what it was like. He was her superior officer, which might complicate relations, but he would’ve made for a novel night out. They might see where his more obvious interest led.

  And he’s safe. Nicky isn’t going anywhere.

  To add strength to her invitation, she took his hands in hers. Frankly, she wanted to feel something—anything like the tingling anticipation that Joe’s skin brushed over hers. She was a prize idiot for craving that thrill over the companionship of her dear friend.

  “I’m well past making a fool of myself in a club.” Nicky kissed her knuckles, just as he had weeks previous. “I simply wanted to let you know that you’ve been approved for four-engine training.”

  Lulu couldn’t speak. She was too busy grinning past her shock. Nicky rocked back on his heels, just once, as if his news put a happy little spring in his step.

  “When?”

  “Couldn’t say. Soon, I’m hoping. Command needs all of us working at full strength. Whatever’s coming, it’s going to be big.”

  This time she felt a very different sort of anticipation, one closer to fear. A shadow stretched over the future. Aside from a tiny toehold in Italy where Allied forces had taken back territory, Hitler enshrouded the Continent in the darkness of Nazi oppression. Poland and the nations to the east had been gutted, their people slaughtered. France and the border nations had been subjugated and fortified with German tanks, artillery, and troops. To make even the smallest advance against such a prepared opponent would require the utmost in cooperation and sacrifice.

  Every chap she met tonight would take part in that deadly campaign.

  “The pilots have been talking,” she said, her throat dry. “We all feel it—an urgency, if you know my meaning. That’s why we’ve been working so hard. It’s finally coming together.”

  “So if you’re going to train, it’ll happen soon.”

  “I can hardly believe it.” Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a fierce hug. “You made this happen.”

  From outside came three quick bursts from the car horn.

  Nicky gave her a squeeze, then let go. He cleared his throat, as was his habit. “Nonsense. You worked hard. You’re skilled, dedicated, and you’ve earned it.”

  “Maybe, but no one’s ever believed in me as much as you have. That counts for so much. Thank you, Nicky.”

  With a bashful smirk, he nodded toward the foyer. “Go now. Have a good time.”

  His bright blue eyes still looked tired. He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead and strode down the corridor.

  Lulu wrestled with a strong urge to stay behind. She and Nicky could play backgammon. They’d talk over coffee and listen to the BBC Home Service at nine. It might begin awkwardly as they found their footing—stuck between colleagues, friends, and a little more. With him, she might rediscover something vital, something as precious as lost treasure: peace of mind.

  But the car horn blared again, longer and more impatiently. She tightened the sash of her greatcoat and headed out the door.

  Joe was dancing with a short blonde nurse from Wolverhampton when Lulu walked in. He hadn’t known she would be there. But with a weekend pass, the Henley was as good a place as any to spend a Saturday night. He hadn’t been back since fighting Dixon. The odds of running into him once again were probably greater than seeing Lulu, but Joe had taken the chance.

  When the song ended Joe spun his partn
er and finished with a dip. She laughed, a titter so high-pitched that it sailed over the noise of the crowd. “Thanks for the dance,” he said.

  “You could buy me a drink.”

  He couldn’t remember her name. His gaze was pulled to the front door, where he hoped to catch another glimpse of Lulu. She was still there; a pair of Polish servicemen were already chatting up her and Paulie.

  “Maybe some other time,” he said.

  The nurse caught the direction of his interest. Her smile turned cheeky. “Pilots. They have all the fun. Take care, soldier.” She landed a new partner before reaching the edge of the floor.

  Joe weaved his way through the dancers as “Jeepers Creepers” began to play. Lulu was just accepting a drink from a dark-haired RAF captain. They looked good together—His Majesty’s loyal subjects ready to sacrifice everything to safeguard their kingdom. So good, in fact, that Joe nearly talked himself out of speaking to her. He could take a hint. If the risk of getting to know a soldier was one she didn’t want to take, then he could hardly change her mind.

  Hell, he almost didn’t want to. Waiting on news from a friend would make her just like those riflemen who, after McIntosh’s accident, had stood around dumbstruck and anxious. Waiting on news sounded like a vile curse.

  Then he remembered her kiss. And he remembered being stuck in Plainfield, when he hadn’t seen a smiling female face for three years, let alone had the opportunity to kiss one. Lulu made him bold. The recklessness she wore like her uniform gave him a taste for what it was to be free—not just out of detention, but really free.

  Joe tapped her on the shoulder. “Dance with me?”

  Expressions scattered across her face: surprise, happiness, a flash of fear. Then . . . nothing.

  “No.”

  “C’mon, Lulu. Be serious. Dance with me.”

  “I said no.”

  “Just like that?” The blood in his ears wouldn’t be quiet. “Just like that and we’re nothing? How can you do that?”