The Spitfire Girls(13)
Ruby stifled a laugh. She had a feeling she was going to get on just fine with her new commander, but she still walked into the room as tall as she could to prevent anyone noticing just how short she really was.
CHAPTER THREE
ENGLAND, APRIL 1942
LIZZIE
It wasn’t very often that Lizzie was taken by surprise, but nothing had quite prepared her for the surge of anticipation that gripped her as their ship sailed closer to England. The four other women, pilots she’d hand-picked to go with her before the others joined the following month, had all enjoyed the crossing. Other than a brief diversion when, in the middle of a lively cocktail party, their captain had received instructions to change course due to submarine activity, the crossing had been uneventful. Well, that and the storm that had had them all heaving and clutching their stomachs.
It had taken nine days to reach England, and what with the plentiful food, wine and cocktails, and the company not only of her four travelling companions but also the others on board and the highly entertaining crew, she’d had little to complain about.
She went back inside her cabin to ensure her belongings were all packed, glancing briefly in the small mirror to check her make-up. The last thing she wanted was to arrive looking dreary instead of glamorous, though by all accounts England wasn’t going to be anywhere near as exciting as she’d expected. Her girls had spent the past month living it up in Montreal at the Mount Royal Hotel, and she was certain they’d be envious of the fellow countrywomen they’d left behind, who still had plenty of partying time left. But she’d wanted to get her best fliers here as quickly as possible, because the sooner they made an impression, the sooner she could convince General Hap to give her her own flying squadron back on home soil. She gave her Mae West life vest one last look, the bulky safety device sitting forlornly on her bunk, grateful that she’d never had to get it wet. She still remembered laughing at the captain as he’d explained its name – it was aptly named for the actress’s ample chest.
Back outside, the gloomy weather did little to dampen her excitement about arriving. She wanted to see what this May Jones had managed to establish here and figure out exactly how to build something bigger and bolder back home. America was at war now, too, and she knew how much women could do to help; and, of course, she longed to be back in the sky. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor had shocked her deeply, catapulting her country into the conflict, and she was more determined to fly than ever. All the training in Montreal had been good. It had given her girls a real taste of what they’d be facing on the other side of the pond, but now they were ready to put training behind them and help the Allies to win the war. A smile played across her lips as she imagined her first flight, showing off until she had all the ATA pilots standing in the field with their jaws slack. Doing their job and showing how useful women could be to the war effort was why she was here, but she also wanted to show everyone exactly what an American girl was made of.
‘You’ve got a strong stomach,’ commented Ann, coming out to join her. Ann was the first pilot Lizzie had chosen and she liked the friendly Southerner, her accent a nice reminder of home. ‘The others are trying not to heave into the ocean.’
Lizzie laughed. ‘I think perhaps it’s the alcohol from last night and not the boat that’s to blame,’ she said dryly. ‘But I’m sure the fish will enjoy it.’ Her own stomach was heaving, too, but she wasn’t about to let anyone see that.
Ann grinned back at her and held out a pamphlet.
‘What’s that?’ inquired Lizzie.
‘Apparently from the US War Department,’ said Ann. ‘Sandy discovered it earlier. I found her in hysterics. Want me to enlighten you on the Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain? I suppose we didn’t qualify for an information pack, given that we’re not servicemen.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘Go on. I have a feeling this is going to be good.’
Ann cleared her throat dramatically. ‘Don’t be misled by the British tendency to be soft-spoken and polite,’ she read in a terrible British accent that made Lizzie chuckle. ‘The English language didn’t spread across the oceans and over the mountains and jungles and swamps of the world because these people were panty-waists.’
Lizzie chortled, wiping at the corners of her eyes as she wondered who on earth had been charged with writing this propaganda. Panty-waists? She wished she could tell her father – he’d be in fits.
‘Even more importantly, don’t be a show-off. It says that here in bold,’ Ann told her. ‘The British strongly dislike bragging.’
‘Well, honey, they’re not going to like me one bit then, are they?’ remarked Lizzie.
Her mother might have agreed with that point. She could still see her standing there, pleading with Lizzie not to go, imploring her to be happy with her own plane rather than heading off to prove herself to the world. Lizzie blinked the image away, refusing to let anyone, even her mother, sow seeds of doubt in her head.
Ann handed the pamphlet over. ‘Enjoy the read,’ she said, turning to go inside. ‘Call me when it’s time to finally put our feet on the ground.’
Alone again, Lizzie tipped her face back to the sky, wondering how the air could smell so different in a foreign country. She’d travelled far and wide in her own plane throughout America, but to be arriving somewhere by boat, at the mercy of a captain instead of her own piloting skills, was a different experience entirely. She’d thought leaving home would be so easy, and in some ways it had been, but waving her parents farewell and actually departing still played on her mind more than she’d expected.