Churchill’s Angels Page 14

  Her hesitation was not lost on Charlotte. ‘They were hours late doing the medicals,’ she exaggerated, ‘and so I’m perfectly sure time is relative at this moment. I need to eat and so do you. The WAAF seems to have us, body and soul, for years, which was a teeny-weeny shock, but “Courage, mon ami, le diable est mort.”’ She laughed at the expression on Daisy’s face. ‘Sorry, this does seem to be my day for alienating the rest of the world. That’s just a sentence from a book my grandfather read me when I was about eleven. It means, “Courage, my friend, the devil is dead.” They were the first words I learned in French and the family use them as a sort of mantra. In other words, Daisy, dear, everything’s going to be all right. Come along, a bowl of soup, not nearly so good as Mother used to make, and a cup of tea, and then we shall deliver ourselves to the war effort.’

  They did just that, and when they got to their next destination the reception was the same as before. The girls were late. ‘Don’t look so worried, love,’ a uniformed WAAF encouraged Daisy. ‘We do know there’s a war on. Get off your feet for a few minutes – Gawd knows when you’ll get the next chance to sit – and do go to the little girls’ room.’

  ‘Before or after we get off our feet?’ Charlotte wickedly asked Daisy.

  But eventually the time came for Daisy to be interviewed by a careers officer.

  ‘What would you like to do in the service? Any other experience apart from shop work?’

  This was it. Remember what Adair had said. ‘I’d like to work on aircraft, miss. I have been driving since I were … was … fifteen, and I can maintain the engine.’

  The careers officer eyed her carefully. ‘You’re a shop girl.’

  ‘Yes, miss, but my dad has his own shop and a delivery van for … deliveries,’ she finished weakly. ‘Most days I did the deliveries. The van’s past it really, but I can get her going again.’

  ‘Interesting. We’ll have you take a test,’ began the woman.

  ‘I spent a lot of time this year stripping an aircraft engine and putting it back together again.’

  ‘Really, Miss Petrie …’

  ‘An Aeronca C-3.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A plane, miss, an American one. And the pilot took me up in her and I had a few lessons.’ She would not mention the Czech wing commander. That really would sound as if she were boasting. ‘Once he even let me fly solo.’

  ‘How wonderfully useful you would have been to us had your American followed through with a recommendation. Sit at that desk and answer as many questions as you can.’

  She doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m a storyteller and she hates me. And the cow thinks I can’t answer her questions. Well, maybe I can and maybe I can’t.

  Daisy walked over to the desk, sat down and picked up the pencil.

  Her parents would be thrilled.

  With all her might, Daisy hoped that was so. Mum had been so down and clinging one minute and the next saying how much she wanted Daisy to go. Which was truer? Sometimes Daisy had heard her mother weeping from her parents’ bedroom – difficult to hide anything in a building like theirs. ‘My boys is gone … my Rose near lost her hand … I can’t let Daisy out of my sight …’

  Hard to bear her mother’s tears. But now a pleasant RAF officer had told her that the tests showed that she was much too intelligent to work in the stores, which was where the female interviewer had suggested that she work.

  ‘You show aptitude for engineering, and I think it was said that you have worked on an aircraft engine. Had it been car engines only, I might have suggested you transfer to the ATS, but we desperately need aircraft mechanics. You won’t let me down, Petrie, if I put you there?’

  Stunned, Daisy could only shake her head.

  ‘Good, it’s a Grade Two occupation, well paid, two shillings per day.’

  Two shillings. How could she live on that?

  Her terror must have shown on her face for he said very gently, ‘And of course that’s your pocket money, as it were. We take care of everything else.’

  She smiled with relief.

  ‘Good luck, Aircraftswoman Petrie. Welcome aboard.’

  She tried to walk smartly out of his office. Aircrafts-woman Grade 2. She would not snivel because she could not tell her parents face to face.

  She met Charlotte crossing the frighteningly vast parade ground. She was grinning too.

  ‘Well?’ they chorused.

  ‘Grade Two, and, Charlotte, he believed me about planes and he’s given me a job working on them. I’ve got to do a course but he says as how I probably know it all. What about you?’

  ‘An office job somewhere.’ She laughed at Daisy’s disappointed expression. ‘Call me Charlie, by the way, and don’t worry about me, I won’t be typing the boss’s letters, Daisy. Trust me, it’s exactly what I wanted.’

  Everything, apart from her black lace-up shoes and her grey lisle stockings, was blue: blue skirt, blue tunic, blue overcoat, blue cap and blue underwear.

  ‘Hope to God it doesn’t come out in the first wash, or worse still, on me. I’ll be blue apart from white hands, white legs and feet, and a white face.’

  Daisy looked down at the complete uniform she had been given when she and Charlie had finally arrived at RAF Wilmslow, after an uncomfortable twenty-minute walk from the station. Daisy had often walked for far longer than twenty minutes, but not wearing heels or carrying suitcases. Wilmslow, also known as No. 4 School of Recruit Training, was where, for the next eight weeks, they were to learn the basics of becoming WAAFs. The walk, however, was not over at the gate, for it seemed that the building housing WAAF intake was as far from the main entrance as it was possible for it to be.

  ‘Whose little joke was this?’ asked Charlie as she rubbed her right heel where she could feel a blister forming.

  But they had got there, been processed, assigned a hut, and issued with uniforms in double-quick time. RAF or WAAF efficiency?

  ‘Are you all right, Daisy?’ asked Charlie now as they tried to find places both for the clothes they had brought with them and also for the issued uniform. ‘You had such a strange look on your face, as if you’d remembered something nasty.’

  ‘Not exactly nasty, Charlie. I had a friend who went into the Women’s Land Army; a dear girl; we were great friends growing up. She didn’t have much of a home life and she wrote a letter when she reached her first posting. They’d given her a uniform and she was so pleased because everything was new. I’d never thought of real poverty before. My mum and dad have a little shop. There are – no, were – five children and we didn’t live in luxury but we always had enough and a little over for people like Grace.’

  ‘Where is Grace?’

  ‘No idea. She wrote once, said she’d write again, but she hasn’t.’

  ‘Christmas in a week. Maybe she’ll write then. Oh, my God, Daisy, did you hear what I said? Christmas in a week and we’re here in what has to be the most miserable place in the entire country. My mother will not be pleased.’

  ‘Don’t suppose mine will be singing “Joy to the World” either.’

  ‘Oh, clever, Daisy. I love that hymn. We’ll sing it together in our …’ she stopped and looked around at the ten other beds, most of which had suitcases on top of them, ‘… charming little holiday let. Maybe they’ll send us all home for Christmas.’

  But when she asked the question next morning at their first briefing, she was reminded in no uncertain terms that there was a war on. ‘I’m sure if your parents really try, Featherstone, they’ll come to terms with your absence.’

  ‘If my father really tries,’ confided Charlie later. ‘He’ll be asking a question in the House. It’s almost worth telephoning him just to burst her little bubble.’

  Once again Daisy had no idea what her new friend was talking about but she merely smiled. She liked Charlie and it seemed that Charlie liked her. It would have been terrifying to have faced this experience alone.

  To someone who had spent eighteen
years in an overcrowded flat, the vastness of the airbase was frightening. Ugly squat concrete buildings, which included chapels or churches of various denominations, a cinema just for new recruits, a sick room and an RAF hospital – definitely ghastly; would sick or injured WAAFs be abandoned to their fate? – were dotted here and there on what seemed endless acres of concrete. Charlie, an only child who had probably grown up surrounded by servants, had no terrors of the enormous mess where hundreds of blue figures of both sexes queued for food. Daisy’s healthy appetite shrivelled up completely and she would have turned and escaped had it not been for Charlie.

  ‘English boarding schools prepare their pupils for everything, and let me tell you, the food that is passing our little noses is much better than what my poor parents paid a fortune for.’

  They spent much of the first day learning how to march on the parade ground where one day soon they would hope to march in what was termed a passing out parade – ‘Define passing out,’ said naughty Charlie – and by the end of the day almost every girl in their hut was exhausted.

  ‘Josephine and Emily have two left feet, poor darlings,’ said Charlie as they waited in a line for the showers.

  ‘There must be some way to help them.’

  ‘Don’t think so. There was a girl at school like that, hopeless, but she fell over the dreamiest boy at her come-out and married him this summer. So life will go on.’

  ‘That nasty drill sergeant is terrifying them,’ went on Daisy, who was sure that life for debutantes who fell over their own feet was quite different from that of the Josephines and Emilys of this world.

  It was, at last, her turn for the shower. For a girl who had been scrubbed in a basin of hot water in the kitchen before graduating to the local public baths, this part of military life was luxury.

  ‘Petrie, there’s twenty more after you,’ yelled a voice, and Daisy hurried to finish rinsing her hair before the cubicle door was wrenched open.

  Drilling, or square bashing, as the more experienced called it, was easy for Daisy, an athletic girl, and for Charlie who was also very fit. But why, they wondered, were they being taught to march when what they really wanted was to get down to real work?

  ‘I can’t see me doing much marching about if I’m half inside an engine, Charlie. You may be a girl that talks right—’

  ‘Who talks properly, Daisy, dear,’ interrupted Charlie who had been quite prepared to correct Daisy’s speech after Daisy had tentatively asked her.

  ‘A girl who talks proper … properly,’ repeated Daisy. ‘Maybe girls who talk properly and have nice, clean office jobs in London, maybe they could march around while the rest of us is—’

  ‘Are,’ said Charlie automatically. ‘While the rest of us are doing a proper job. Very funny, Aircraftswoman Second Class Petrie, but I assure you I will be too busy “doing a proper job” to march anywhere.’

  Daisy sat down on her bed and looked seriously at her new friend. ‘Can’t you tell me? Hush-hush, is it?’

  ‘So bloody hush-hush, they haven’t even told me, Daisy. But, silver lining, we’re getting to know each other and that, my dear girl, is a bonus.’

  Daisy had no idea what to say. Charlotte, however, had no compunction in saying what she felt. ‘Daisy, friendship is very precious. If we survive this war, let’s promise to remain chums.’

  ‘Chums?’

  ‘Friends. It’s an old, old word, even older than Frau Führer.’

  Frau Führer was the nickname that Charlie had given their immediate commanding officer, a middle-aged WAAF who wanted everything to be perfect at all times. Captain Jenner scared Daisy and almost everyone else on the base except Charlie. ‘Poor old dear reminds me of every head girl who ever blighted my innocent youth,’ she explained, ‘and so I’m inured.’

  Daisy could only nod. Just talking or, more often, listening to Charlie was an education in itself.

  Day followed endless day with classes of various types, marching, climbing, often over anything that would remain still enough to be climbed; aircraft recognition, cloud formations … By the end of the first week Daisy could unerringly recognise at least eight different aircraft. Cries rang out, ‘Don’t want you shooting down the wrong ones, Petrie,’ or ‘Featherstone’ or whichever poor recruit happened to be nearest to the instructor. Weather conditions meant nothing to the military and the recruits were outside regardless of rain or cold. Shouts of, ‘Pick your feet up, Petrie,’ regularly echoed around the base, but those cries were mild compared to the ones addressed to Aircraftswoman Featherstone.

  Night after night Daisy fell into her bed and was asleep in minutes. She was happy with her new life.

  Flora forwarded a letter from Adair.

  Dear Daisy,

  After all your brilliant work the Daisy isn’t suitable for combat; as I feared, guns would be too heavy. Machine guns are mounted on the wings, and poor old Daisy would crumble under the weight. At first I was fearfully disappointed but then a chap in the mess told me about this new endeavour – the Air Transport Auxiliary – make note of that name. It’s basically a civilian organisation BUT, Daisy – words ten feet high here – they train women to be pilots, not to fight, naturally, but to ferry new aircraft practically from the factory floor to wherever a chap needs one. Totally outstandingly brilliant idea. A former commercial pilot came up with it and he’s recruited experienced pilots who’re too old for the air force or who have glasses – yes, the Government does know there’s a war on – and women. The Daisy has been accepted and will be used by them to move pilots from base to base or supplies or whatever.

  But you know how very much I want you to have more flying experience. I’ve been given four days next week – someone thinks I need a rest – and I’ll be at the farm, to pick up Daisy, I’m afraid, and hand her over. If you’re at home, then we could go up at least.

  He finished by giving her Alf’s telephone number at the farm. A note had been added after his signature.

  ‘At least let me know how you are. Safe and well, I hope.’

  She wanted to burst into tears. Why could he not have been given leave before? Then she remembered the non-stop air raids and knew why. She smoothed down her blue uniform skirt and admired the shine of her sturdy shoes. The Daisy was gone and Adair was gone. What did that matter to her? Why did she suddenly feel so bereft? They hadn’t even been real friends, for pity’s sake. She remembered her delight on seeing the lovely flower painted on the fuselage and the name, Daisy. She remembered his teasing words, ‘Will I give you a push?’ when she had been so overwhelmed by joy that she had half-fallen across the wing.

  She stood up and straightened her tie. Oh, but she looked smart. Better this way, she told herself. If he’d been there, flying with her, she might have grown quite fond of him. She wondered, now that she was a WAAF, if she should write to tell him. This dilemma was too personal to discuss even with Charlie.

  Less than a week later she received a letter from her mother but there were no enclosures. The wonderful words, ‘We’ve had news about Sam through the Red Cross,’ seemed to jump out of the page. After all these months, the family now knew that he was alive, that he had been shot while wading out to a ship off Dunkirk, and had been assumed dead as he floated there in the bloody water. No accurate knowledge of how he had ended up in a hospital staffed by Roman Catholic nuns was available, but once he was well enough to walk he had joined many other soldiers of different nationalities on a forced march to a prisoner-of-war camp – somewhere.

  ‘You’re much happier with that letter than with the last one, Daisy.’ Charlotte was sitting on her bed painting her toenails.

  Where did she find nail varnish these days?

  Daisy smiled. ‘Oh, it’s fabulous news, Charlie. My brother Sam, he’s alive. Taken prisoner at Dunkirk and in a prison camp, but he’s alive. My mother will have to be held down or she’ll start to bake ready for him coming home.’

  ‘She sounds wonderful, and it is wonderful news; we must cel
ebrate.’ She looked out of the window at the rather grey and forbidding concrete structures. ‘Sadly, as yet I have no idea where.’

  She finished admiring her scarlet toenails. ‘I am pleased for all of you. The Red Cross are such troopers, aren’t they? The Geneva Convention makes it a rule that names of all prisoners must be sent to their own government as quickly as humanly possible. I’m almost sure that families can write a little letter back, only a few words, about two dozen or so. Not much, and only about family, but better than nothing. Things like, “Daisy is in the WAAF and has a terribly attractive friend called Charlie. Mum won Best in Show at the WI bake-off.” But these are the things he’d want to know anyway. Perhaps he wouldn’t want to know about Charlie and he might wonder at the name, I suppose.’

  ‘You are funny, Charlie. Sam would like you, even though you are unbelievably vain.’

  Charlie smiled. ‘My mother’s the local Red Cross president and thinks that the organisation is quite wonderful. Tell Mrs Petrie to send a letter, short remember, to her local branch and they’ll make sure it gets to him. I think Mummy said something about all mail being sent to Switzerland. I don’t know whether to say, write loads of notes in the hope that at least one will get there or to write one every few weeks.’

  ‘I’ll let her know straight away.’

  ‘Good, now if you’re feeling very friendly, will you come to the gym and help me with the dreaded climbing? I’m determined to get over that bloody wall with a smile on my face. Won’t that be one in the eye for Frau Führer?’

  For some reason Charlie seemed to find it impossible to get to the top of the climbing frames. Daisy would shin up and down like a monkey, passing Charlie both on the way up and on the way back down.

  The gym instructor had had no sympathy. ‘Pull yourself together, Featherstone. Afraid Nanny won’t be able to help you with this one.’

  ‘Cow,’ whispered Daisy, but Charlie still clung to the bar with hands so tight that her knuckles showed through her skin.