Blackbirds (3 page)
Linda drummed the side of the fuselage fabric.
Sharon eased the throttle forward and swung the aircraft into the wind.
When the wheels skipped over the grass for the last time, she felt a familiar rush of joy. In the air, all that had happened today, and all that had happened in the last two years, fell away as they gained altitude.
Almost three hours later, Sharon smiled as the wheels and tails-kid trimmed the grass at the end of the runway. As she taxied closer, she saw Bloggs waiting in his familiar pose, leaning against the hangar and smoking a cigarette. Sharon wondered if he had moved from there since they'd left this morning.
When the propeller stopped and the quiet was new, Bloggs said, “Not a bad landing for a bloody woman!”
“Bastard.” Sharon thought she'd said the word under her breath, but could see from Bloggs's reaction that he'd heard.
Linda undid her straps and turned to look at her friend with an expression that said,
Now you've done it.
“Washed out!” Bloggs spat. “Nobody talks like that to me! Especially not a fucking wo â”
“You there!” A woman stood in the shadow of the hangar door, where her voice was amplified.
Bloggs pointed at Sharon, his message clear:
I'm not finished with
you.
Then he turned and said, “Who the hell are you?”
“Senior Commander Pauline Gower! And your name, sir?”
“Waverly Bloggs.”
“I was about to offer these excellent pilots a position in the Air Transport Auxiliary. Can you think of any reason why these two might not be qualified to fly in the defense of England? Keep in mind I've just witnessed an exemplary three-point landing. I'm assuming you're responsible for what must have been their remarkable training?” Gower looked past Bloggs to Linda and Sharon, who stood beside the Tiger Moth.
“Umm. . .” Bloggs said.
“I'll take that as a yes. You two!” Gower waved Linda and Sharon closer.
They walked toward Gower, who had curly hair and appeared to be ten years older than either of them. “We've got a few things to discuss. I don't know if you are aware, but I've been put in charge of recruiting pilots for the
ATA
. Our initial base will be at White Waltham.”
Sharon glanced at Linda.
How do you know so much about what's
going on in this country?
Gower said, “White Waltham is a small airfield close to London and many of the major airfields, like Duxford, Biggin Hill, Croydon, and Henley. So you'll be right in the middle of all of the action that is sure to come, and close to the fighter bases charged with the defense of Britain. I haven't got time to mess about. Here it is: Are the two of you interested in flying aircraft from assembly points and factories to the
RAF
airfields?”
“Why do you get to fly one?”
Linda sipped her tea and left red lipstick on the rim. She handed another cup to Sharon. They sat out front of the green-roofed dispersal hut at White Waltham. It was a long, one-storey, chocolate-coloured building with white-trimmed windows. At one end, there was a hangar, half a cylinder, really, where the aircraft were stored and maintained.
The morning sun set its chin on the horizon.
Sharon listened to the birdsong. “Thanks.” She took the tea and grimaced at the first sip.
“I know, it's disgusting. Still, you haven't answered the question.”
Sharon spoke before thinking. “And you haven't answered my question about my grandmother. You could have warned me.” She thought,
And did you just get to know me because my grandmother asked you to?
When I look back on it, you became friendly with me almost right away
.
“We've been over that. Cornelia wanted it that way.” Linda tried to hide behind her tea. “Who's giving us a lift in the air taxi?”
“I think it's Roger.”
Linda groaned.
“And don't change the subject.”
The dispersal door opened. Roger looked at the pilots. He squinted through overgrown grey eyebrows. There was a river system of red blood vessels on either cheek. “Ready?” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
Sharon poured her tea onto the ground and wondered if it would kill the grass.
Linda set her cup on the windowsill. “Off we go.”
They followed Roger and the formidable odour of sweat and alcohol. He was having a difficult time negotiating his way over the apparently uneven ground.
Sharon looked down at the carefully manicured grass. She glanced sideways at Linda.
Her friend mimed taking a drink, rolled her eyes, and staggered.
“You feeling okay?” Sharon called out to Roger.
“Perfectly fine.” Roger opened the back door of the Anson. It was a camouflaged, twin-engined, humpbacked tail-dragger with delusions of sophistication. He threw his parachute inside and followed it.
Sharon went next. The smell of sour beer filled the confined space.
“Don't worry, I'll get you there safe.” Roger looked over his shoulder, then made his way up to the cockpit.
A sulfurous stench filled the cabin.
Sharon looked over her shoulder.
Linda looked bemused, then distressed. “Wasn't me.” She glanced ahead at Roger. “Let's hurry up and get seated so he can get moving.
That way there'll be a draft running through this crate.” Linda closed the door and stuck her nose in the crook of her elbow.
Sharon thought,
I don't know what's worse: Roger's terrible flying
or his beer farts
.
Linda tapped Sharon on the shoulder. “Why do you get to go to Castle Bromwich to pick up a Spitfire?”
“I don't know.”
Maybe if I change the subject
. “Where is Castle Bromwich?”
“Huge factory northeast of London, near Birmingham, but you already know that. You're just trying to distract me.” Linda leaned back, crossed her arms under her breasts, and shook her head. “Bloody unfair.”
Sharon approached the Spitfire
with more than a little apprehension.
Don't lose your nerve. Not now, not here!
She belched, put her left hand on the wing, and promptly threw up onto the grass.
The fitter looked the other way as she wiped her mouth.
She walked around the wing. There was the scent of fresh paint and oil.
She swallowed hard and lifted her parachute onto the wing before stepping onto the wing root and climbing to the open cockpit door. She balanced there, hooked up the harnesses of her parachute, and climbed inside. The fitter closed the door and helped her strap on the Sutton safety harness. “Did anyone warn you about the Spit's habit of pulling to one side after take-off? Propeller torque, you know.”
Sharon nodded and smiled up at the man, who smiled back.
“And don't forget about the sewage pond over there.” He pointed off the end of the runway. “Try not to end up in there. The rescue crews are a little reluctant to go in after pilots who end up in that mess.”
“I'll do my best.” She looked at the gauges and recited the routine she'd memorized during weeks of training for this moment.
When the engine fired, it belched exhaust past the open cockpit. She opened the throttle and the Merlin smoothed out. She followed her training, taxied out, did her run up, checked the windsock, checked for traffic, and opened the throttle. The acceleration was like no other aircraft she'd ever flown before. Ready for the torque of the propeller, she countered with opposite rudder. The tail lifted. The wings bit the air. The wheels left the ground.
She touched the brakes, then retracted the undercarriage. At five hundred feet, she closed the canopy and brought up the flaps. The Spitfire was clean and alive. She leveled off at one thousand feet, set the propeller at coarse pitch, and saw that she was cruising at nearly two hundred and fifty knots. It seemed like only minutes later that she found herself just south of London, circling the legendary
RAF
airfield at Biggin Hill. She looked down at the runway on top of a hill. Sharon throttled back, then lowered the flaps and undercarriage. Reluctantly, she guided the Spitfire to land into the wind.
After signing over her aircraft, Sharon followed the scent of coffee to the canteen and sat down near the outside wall of the tent. She'd spotted four pilots gathered along the inside at a table next to the canvas wall. Their conversation was easy to hear. The voices were a mélange of accents from Scotland, England and New Zealand.
“Anyone see that wee slip of a girl deliver the new Spit this morning?”
“Quite the looker, that one. Brown hair, blue eyes, petite.”
“Landed like she knew what she was doing.”
“There's not much of that happening around here these days. Wee pups of pilots who can barely change their nappies, let alone fly a Spitfire. We're so short of pilots, she'll be fightin' soon.”
“Rather fly with her than the one the skipper sent packin' yesterday.”
“The stupid bastard would na follow orders.”
“Malan's got his own rules. He expects you to follow 'em and expects you to do your job.”
“I know. I know. Watch out for the Hun in the sun.”
“Don't shoot 'til you see the whites of their eyes.”
“And he uses the finger-four formation instead of line astern.”
“Typical bloody colonial, making his own rules to suit the situation.”
“Would ye like to join one of those other squadrons and be arse end Charlie?”
Sharon sipped her coffee in the brief silence, worrying they'd caught onto the fact that she was eavesdropping.
“Not on your life! I'd like to survive this bloody war!”
“Skipper sent another one packin' this mornin'.”
“That opinionated bastard with three last names?”
“That's 'im. Would na want him watchin' my back. So busy followin' the
RAF
rules of engagement, he'd get me killed. One of Hitler's secret weapons, that one.”
“Skipper's our secret weapon.”
“Him and O'Malley.”
Sharon stopped breathing. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the reply.
“Bloody magician, that one.”
“Bloody-minded Irishman, if you ask me.”
“Ever have your guns jam in the middle of a dogfight?”
Another silence.
“Ever have an engine failure?”
Another silence.
“I thank my lucky stars every day for that bloody-minded Irishman. Talk to the pilots in other squadrons, and they'll tell ye what it's like to find yourself in the middle of a mess of Messerschmitt 109s with jammed guns. That does na happen here because O'Malley and Malan will nay have fools workin' around our Spitfires.”
There was the sound of a twin-engined aircraft on finals.
Sharon looked up and spotted a sleek biplane settling onto the grass. She recognized the Dragon Rapide that was to be her ride back.
“Yer ride's here, lassie.”
She saw a smiling ginger-haired sergeant pilot peering at her through a gap in the tent's fabric.
He said, with his no-nonsense Scottish accent, “Keep your wits about ye. There'll be Germans nearby, and they don't take the time to find out whether you're a woman or a man. They'll kill ye given half a fookin' chance.”
“So, you met him?”
Linda sat across from Sharon in a pub near White Waltham, where the heavy scent of fermenting beer was almost as thick as the tobacco smoke.