Code Name Verity(30)

Well – four days have passed, three of them mentally and/or physically draining, and I have lost the thread. I haven’t got my prescription forms to look over or even Engel to remind me where I was. I suppose she must have other duties besides me and may even get a day off every so often. Beastly Thibaut is here with another man today hence I am writing like a demon, any old drivel, so as not to draw attention to myself. I hate Thibaut. I am not exactly afraid of him the way I am afraid of the cook or the Hauptsturmführer, but buckets of blood, I despise Thibaut – as I suppose he despises me – turncoat thugs that we are. He is crueller than von Linden, I think, enjoys it more, but has not v.L.’s genius or commitment. As long as I am writing Thibaut leaves me alone. I wish he did not fix these cords so savagely tight.

I forget where I had got to and I am also panicking a bit about Time. It is the 9th day since I started, and v.L. said I could have 2 weeks. I don’t know if that includes the past 4 wasted days or not, but at this rate I am not going to reach a conclusion (I think we all know I am never going to look at that stupid List again).

I will beg him for another week, in German, this evening. It puts him in a civil humour when people are formal and polite. I am sure that part of the reason I am treated as such a dangerous lunatic, apart from biting that policeman when I was arrested, is because I am always so foul-mouthed and foul-tempered. They had another British officer in here one time, an English airman, very I-say tip-top well-bred chap what, and though he was kept under guard he was always allowed to walk about with his hands free. (I’ll bet he had not got my amateur escape artist’s reputation. And I really can’t help my foul temper.)

No, I will take a look at that List again after all. Perhaps it will give me some idea of where to pick up the story. Also, Thibaut and his mate will have to scurry about to find it, which will be entertaining.

Random Aircraft

Puss Moth, Tiger Moth, Fox Moth

Lysander, Wellington, Spitfire

Heinkel He-111, Messerschmitt 109

AVRO ANSON!

Air Taxi with the ATA

How could I forget the Anson!

I don’t know how you manage to keep the Luftwaffe supplied with serviceable aircraft. The Air Transport Auxiliary is how we manage with the RAF, ferrying planes and taxiing pilots. A constant and steady supply of broken planes coaxed back to repair sites, new ones delivered from factory to operational base – all flown by civilian pilots, no instruments, no radio, no guns. Navigating by trees and rivers, railway tracks and the long straight scars of Roman roads. Hitchhiking back to base for the next assignment.

Dympna Wythenshawe (remember her?) was one of these ferry pilots. One blustery autumn afternoon when the frantic days of the Battle of Britain had faded and flared into the explosive nights of the London Blitz, Dympna landed at RAF Maidsend in a twin-engined transport plane, delivering three pilots who were to fly broken Spitfires away for repair. (Three lads. They didn’t let lassies fly fighter planes, not even broken ones, till a bit later in the war. Not much later.) Dympna came into the canteen for a hot cup of something and there was Maddie.

After they’d finished hugging and laughing and exclaiming (Dympna knew where Maddie was stationed, but Maddie hadn’t been expecting Dympna), and had consumed cups of Camp Coffee (chicory extract and hot water, blechhh), Dympna said, ‘Maddie, come and fly the Anson.’

‘What?’

‘You can have the pilot’s seat. I want to see if you remember how to fly.’

‘I’ve never flown an Anson!’

‘You’ve flown my Rapide a dozen times. The Annie’s got twin engines too, not so different. Well . . . a bit bigger. And quite a lot more powerful. And it’s a monoplane, with a retractable undercarriage –’

Maddie gave an incredulous bark of laughter. ‘“Not so different!”’

‘– But I’ll take care of the undercarriage. It’s a right pig to raise and lower, you have to do it by hand, 150 turns –’

‘Done that on a Wellington,’ Maddie said smugly.

‘There you are!’ Dympna cried. ‘No worries then. Come along, I’ve got to make a hop to RAF Branston and drop off another ferry pilot.’

She looked around the canteen approvingly. ‘It’s so nice to land at an airfield where you can get hot buttered toast. So many airfields are strictly Boys Only, with a cold sitting room for the ladies, usually empty. Heaven help you if you can’t get off the airfield before blackout – I had to spend the night in the back of a Fox Moth once. I nearly froze to death.’