The Spitfire Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘That’s news to me.’ Douglas reached for the telephone on his desk. ‘I’ll get on to them right away. Thank you, Jean.’

  She retreated on to the landing then made her way down the stairs. Fog was still on her mind as she stepped outside and began the long walk to Runway 3, the furthest from the control tower. The short conversation with Douglas also bothered her. Why hadn’t he turned when she’d tried to attract his attention? She’d spoken above the rattle of typewriter keys, surely loud enough for him to hear. And she remembered the look of tried patience on Gillian’s face – raised eyebrows and a quick shake of her head.

  Jean saw Teddy striding ahead of her towards his motorbike parked outside Hangar 2 and she remembered with a fresh burst of anger his throwaway Hopalong insult against Douglas. The anger was soon replaced by concern. Might there be a grain of truth behind the younger man’s callous judgement? Was Douglas’s ability to carry out his duties up to scratch or not?

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ she said out loud, out of earshot of Gordon, who was carrying out the final checks on her Hurricane.

  Over the months Jean had been at Rixley, she’d come to view Douglas as a good friend. He was an affable, serious-minded man whom she could trust and look up to. After all, she never overlooked the fact that she wouldn’t be here now if it hadn’t been for their chance meeting in the pub. And he was the polar opposite to Teddy Simpson, just now roaring off towards the main gates on his Royal Enfield Bullet. How dare he? Jean said to herself as Gordon finished wiping the Hurricane’s windscreen then jumped down to the ground. Douglas is worth ten of Teddy Simpson any day. And next time Teddy decides to have a go at him, I’ll tell him so.

  CHAPTER NINE

  At eight o’clock on Saturday morning, a car arrived at Fenton Royal to take Angela and Bobbie to the factory in Castle Bromwich: a journey of some six miles through wooded countryside into the outskirts of the town and the vast factory where Spitfires were manufactured.

  They waved goodbye with undisguised relief to poor Miss Wilby and her crumbling mansion.

  ‘She can’t have two spare pennies to rub together.’ Bobbie sat back for the short drive. ‘What good are oak furniture and oil paintings when you can’t afford to keep a place heated?’

  ‘Unless you burn the furniture,’ Angela quipped. ‘I wonder where and when the “Royal” came into it. I mean, why Fenton Royal?’

  ‘And why the Queen’s Room?’ The countryside was changing quickly, giving way to neat modern bungalows and after that to acres of low factory buildings made out of steel and concrete. ‘I suppose we’ll never know.’ Bobbie had started to look ahead to the task in hand when Angela broke into her thoughts.

  ‘I feel so much better after our talk last night,’ she confided. ‘It’s quite remarkable.’

  Bobbie smiled in response. ‘In what way, better?’

  ‘Lighter,’ Angela explained. ‘It was such a relief to let it all out; like going to confession. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  ‘Not at all similar.’ Bobbie, who had been brought up a Catholic, found this amusing. ‘I didn’t dish out any Hail Marys, for a start. And I’m no priest – For one thing, I don’t intend to stay celibate all my life.’

  ‘Be that as it may …’ Angela smiled warmly back. ‘I mean it, darling. A problem shared …’ She’d lain awake long after Bobbie had fallen asleep, thinking about her engagement to Lionel. Eventually she’d been able to see beyond her doubts. Lionel certainly had his good points, besides the obvious one that his family was sufficiently respectable and well off to satisfy Angela’s father, which would have proved an obstacle had it been otherwise. No, the thing that really mattered was that Lionel was exceptionally kind and considerate. Beneath his reserve and recently acquired military manner there was gentleness and a true desire not to do harm – rare qualities in a man. He might not be the most garrulous and socially adept, but his actions were generous to a fault; witness the time when Hilary of all people had come a cropper over a gambling debt and Lionel had helped him out, no questions asked. Lying in bed with Bobbie’s regular breathing as a backdrop, Angela had convinced herself that this was the kind of fertile soil in which the seed of love might grow.

  ‘So you’re happy now?’ Bobbie asked as their driver took them along a straight, flat road bordered by a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Beyond the fence was an enormous factory built mainly of corrugated iron and beyond that an airfield with four concrete runways.

  ‘Happier.’ The qualification was important. ‘Still not head over heels, but definitely more willing to make a better go of it.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  The car stopped for two sentries to check the girls’ documents before they were waved through the gates.

  ‘What a place!’ Bobbie gasped as they drove past rows of brand-new Spitfires lined up by the side of the nearest runway. ‘I can count twenty without even trying.’

  ‘Most impressive,’ Angela agreed. Their driver pulled up close to the Nissen hut that served as an office while Austin pickups criss-crossed the airfield, carrying engine parts and pieces of fuselage from a mountain of scrap metal in a far corner of the airfield. They took them towards the part of the factory where they reassembled aircraft out of cannibalized spare parts. Closer to where Angela and Bobbie sat, wide doors opened on to the section where the new Spits were built. Inside they caught a glimpse of engineers with clipboards and mechanics in overalls climbing up a scaffold to run final checks on a plane that was almost ready to go.

  Bobbie took a deep breath to control her mounting excitement. ‘Here I come; Second Officer Fraser reporting for duty,’ she murmured to Angela.

  She was first out of the car and first into the office where a manager in a brown suit with a green tie peered over the top of his glasses and gave her the usual disbelieving shake of the head. ‘Blimey; are they sending you straight from school these days?’ he said by way of greeting as Bobbie produced her documents for a second time.

  Angela followed soon after. She glanced at the array of posters behind the manager’s desk: a dog-eared one for the RAF – Make the RAF Supreme – Only the Best Are Good Enough! – and beside it her own smiling image on the newly published recruitment advertisement for the ATA. It was the first time she’d seen it in glorious technicolour with all the lettering in place and she thought she looked rather good.

  The factory manager did a double-take. He glanced from Angela to the smiling girl on the poster and back again. Not only were recruits getting younger, now they were sending them from the Paris catwalks as well. Wait until the blokes on the factory floor get an eyeful of these two, he thought as he double- then triple-checked Bobbie’s and Angela’s paperwork. Talk about Anything to Anywhere; that doesn’t cover the half of it!

  ‘If ever there was a plane for a woman to fall in love with, it’s this one.’ Angela stood on the runway, hands on hips, admiring the newest version of her favourite fighter plane. She patted her top pocket containing the precious Blue Book. ‘There are seventy different aircraft types listed in here, and not one even comes close.’

  Bobbie looked down from the cockpit that she’d just climbed into. It was barely wider than her shoulders – a tight squeeze even for her – and she smiled when she remembered the looks of horror that the ground crew had exchanged when they realized that she was to take charge of their valuable war machine. ‘What are you waiting for?’ she yelled down to Angela. ‘Your chariot awaits; over there on Runway One!’

  So Angela set off at a sprint across the grass, lugging her parachute and overnight bag and watched by the mechanics who had wheeled her plane out of its hangar. Instead of ignoring their loud shouts and whistles, she stopped suddenly, turned and dipped a quick curtsy. The men cheered raucously and waved their spanners and oil-stained rags in the air. She laughed back at them then ran on, reaching her Spit just as a member of the ground crew finished his checks.

  ‘You’ll never fly anything better than th
is,’ he told her, giving the blue fuselage an affectionate pat. ‘Make sure you look after her. And remember, you have no radio – you’re on your own.’

  Angela tutted at him as she sprang from ground to wing and from there into the cockpit in one smooth, elegant movement. ‘This isn’t the first time I’ve done this; far from it.’

  ‘Even so.’ Joe Kerr, the mechanic, belonged to the old ‘hand that rocks the cradle’ school. ‘She’s faster and lighter than ever. And her controls only need the lightest touch. You hardly have to breathe on them and they move.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Angela gave Joe a disdainful stare and strapped herself in. Didn’t the dullard know that she’d beaten hundreds if not thousands of other women applicants to get on to the ATA training programme? Not that she wanted to boast about it, for that would be infra dig.

  Joe and a second man in overalls waited for her to give them the thumbs-up. ‘Happy?’ he yelled up.

  ‘I’d be happier if I had a radio and a couple of rounds of ammunition on board, but heigh-ho!’

  Angela was well aware of the official line that contact with the enemy was rare during the short hops between ferry pools. On the few occasions when ATA pilots were unlucky enough to encounter German aircraft, they would normally be flying low enough for ground defences to engage with and shoot down the marauder. So what would be the point of furnishing the aircraft with precious ammunition before the RAF boys got their hands on them? Privately, Angela blamed a clerk in the War Office for pushing through this short-sighted view. Basically, no one with any authority cared enough to have thought it through properly.

  ‘And I’d be happier if she put her lipstick away and stuck to flying the bloody thing,’ Joe muttered to his companion.

  It was true; Angela had flipped open the lid of her gold compact and was freshening up her lipstick. Bobbie had been given the green light to be first to take off, so in fact there was plenty of time.

  On the neighbouring runway, Bobbie opened the throttle and hurtled down the concrete strip, faster and faster until she saw the Spit’s cone-shaped nose tilt and felt a surge of upwards motion as she took off. She climbed rapidly, feeling the kick of extra power in the new engine. Soon she was soaring at 2,000 feet in perfect conditions: low winds, good visibility, with her compass set and the engine purring happily. A quick glance behind told her that Angela had also taken off successfully.

  Bobbie sighed happily and eased back on the throttle until she saw Angela bring her Spit up alongside. They headed north-east together, exchanging broad smiles and thumbs-ups.

  Oh joy! Angela mouthed.

  Loop? Bobbie queried with a grin.

  Angela nodded. A second later the two pilots flipped their aircraft into perfectly synchronized acrobatic back somersaults, nose over tail and turning full circle to fly smoothly on.

  Angela grinned at Bobbie. Roll?

  An answering nod sent them banking to starboard. But the Spits were heavier to roll than expected and it took longer so that when they emerged from the manoeuvre they found that they’d flown slap-bang into unexpected cloud.

  ‘Where did this weather front come from?’ Angela spoke out loud. She checked her altitude dial then signalled to Bobbie that she was about to straighten up then let down in a shallow dive to see if she could fly beneath the cloud.

  Where are we? Bobbie checked her dials. They were further east than she’d expected and between the thick clouds she caught occasional glimpses of a wide estuary below: sea stretched out to starboard and a long hook of land to port. But where was Angela? Bobbie searched all around; there was no sign of her fellow pilot and conditions were rapidly deteriorating.

  Meanwhile, Angela dived until her altimeter read 700 feet. There was no land visible through the mist and the Spit was buffeted this way and that by strong turbulence that quickly disorientated Angela and forced her to consider her next move. OK, so she was below safety break-off height and dare not fly lower. Visibility was practically zero. Worse still, she’d lost all contact with Bobbie. The needle of the altimeter jerked dramatically downwards. Four hundred feet and Angela still had no sight of land. ‘Ghastly pea-souper,’ she muttered angrily. ‘The blasted fog must have rolled in off the sea without warning, damn it.’

  Bobbie found that visibility was no better straight ahead. To the west, the bank of cloud was also impenetrable, while to the east there was the faintest glimmer of sunlight. At 1,200 feet she decided to alter course and fly in the direction of the sun. But where was Angela? What decision had she come to?

  Still zero visibility. The Spit’s engine sang sweetly as it carried Angela into the unknown. Head east, she decided. East towards the North Sea, racing on at 250 miles per hour, blinded by fog.

  From concrete lookout bunkers strung out along the coast, members of the ground defence forces stared up into dense fog as they heard a sole aircraft approach from the south-west: a single-engine model, identity unknown. An instant decision must be taken. A rapid, low-level approach – possible rogue enemy on a solo bombing raid. A sergeant in a bunker on sand dunes overlooking the steel-grey sea gave the order to fire.

  Machine-gun bullets strafed through the cloud cover. There was no clear sight of the target – only a shadow in the fog. The roar of the engine increased. Fire again. Keep on firing until the danger was past.

  Hell and damnation! Bullets hit Angela’s Spit with enormous, ear-splitting force and the plane tipped over as metal struck metal and the Perspex canopy disintegrated over her head. The blast of cold air almost ripped her seat from its bracket. She stamped on her rudder pedals as her starboard wing tip was torn off and the plane wobbled erratically. Three pieces of shrapnel lodged themselves in her instrument panel and she recoiled in shock. If in doubt, bail out. More bullets cut into the fuselage of her perfect flying machine. The poor, precious Spit was done for, wobbling and swinging out of control, with only seconds before it spiralled downwards and crashed. Destroyed by friendly fire.

  Angela released her seat harness and braced herself as she turned the plane upside down. Gravity kicked in and she fell from the shattered cockpit. She had a split second to pull her ripcord then pray that it would open in time. So Angela left the Spit to its fate and plummeted down.

  Bobbie heard the gunfire. It came from ground level but she had no way of knowing if the gunner had hit his target. Damn this foggy confusion! She kept on flying east until at last she cleared the mist and looked down on a steel-grey sea. The gunfire ceased. Now all Bobbie could hear was the steady thrum of her Merlin engine.

  What next? Should she resume her original course? Or should she circle the area and look for Angela? The last Bobbie had seen of her was when Angela had gone into a shallow dive, no doubt to see if she could fly below the cloud. What if that had proved impossible and Angela had drawn the attention of the ground forces who manned the lookout points all along the coast? It seemed more than likely that it had been friendly fire that Bobbie had heard. She felt her stomach tighten; despite the risk, she must try to find out.

  So she eased back the revs and slowly turned her plane towards the coast, flying in low and feeling the heat of the sun on her back through the Perspex canopy. The mist rapidly thinned, allowing her to make out pale strips of beach and black, rocky headlands. There was still no sign of her fellow pilot and a glance at the gauge told Bobbie that she was short of fuel. Their earlier acrobatics had cost her dear, it seemed. Should she continue to search or ought she to head straight back to Rixley? Stay and search. With her heart pounding and with a sense of mounting foreboding, Bobbie flew on.

  Angela’s parachute opened over the sea. As her Spit hit the water and broke apart like a child’s balsa-wood toy, she floated peacefully down, white silk canopy above her and the chilling prospect of an ice-cold dip below. No Mae West jacket. No rescue flare. She braced herself as the restless waves raced up to meet her. In feet first and fumbling to unbuckle her harness, she felt the parachute descend over her head. Free of the harness, s
he plunged underwater and kicked hard, leaving the parachute behind. Angela resurfaced to fill her lungs with air and discover that she was roughly a mile out to sea, surrounded by pieces of the Spit’s wing and fuselage. The water was bitterly cold, her flying suit waterlogged and threatening to drag her down. A mile was a heck of a way to swim in these conditions, but what choice did she have? So she tugged off her boots then struck out towards the distant shore.

  Bobbie reached the coast and flew over beaches lined with concrete bunkers. The mist had almost evaporated; surely to goodness if the ground defence gunners spotted her plane they would recognize the Spit’s distinctive shape and hold their fire. The thought that Angela had fallen foul of their guns in the fog drove Bobbie on with her search. In vain she scanned the sky for a sighting of a second Spit. Then she looked out to sea. She saw a tiny fishing boat on the horizon and beneath her a headland where breaking waves threw up clouds of white spray. She glanced at two upturned rowing boats on the sand close to the headland and then again at the brown, broiling surface of the sea. That was when she spotted wreckage: a black tyre floating on the surface next to shards of blue-green metal, a propeller blade then part of a wing with the red, white and blue RAF insignia. And swimming through the waves and the debris was Angela.

  A plane flew overhead. Angela looked up. The shape was unmistakeable: a Spit flying low over the water. Hit from behind by the force of a large wave as it rolled towards the shore, she swallowed sea water then raised both arms and waved frantically.

  Angela! With her bird’s-eye view Bobbie saw that her friend was unlikely to make it to shore unaided. She was too far out and the offshore currents were strong. Without hesitating, Bobbie knew what she must do. Ignoring the unseen occupants of the squat concrete bunkers, she circled the nearest beach with the aim of bringing her plane down on a strip of firm sand close to the water’s edge. With her heart in her mouth, she unlocked the undercarriage and prepared to land.