The Spitfire Girls(3)

‘Excuse me, but do you have a match you could spare?’ May asked, gesturing to the handsome mechanic in overalls, who was still hovering near the door.

He walked over, dark eyes searching out hers, his broad, straight shoulders and easy stance telling her that he wasn’t in the least intimidated by what he’d heard. She watched as he reached into his pocket, and when he politely extended the matches and some cigarettes, she thanked him and took only one match, swiftly lighting it and placing it to the open page of the magazine.

‘You can’t light a fire in here!’ he blurted, flapping his hands at the paper she still held as a low flame licked across it. ‘What the heck do you think you’re doing?’

‘I don’t want any of you reading this kind of rubbish again,’ May insisted loudly, ignoring the poor mechanic. She dropped the paper to the concrete floor and he stomped on it to put the fire out. ‘We have every right to be flying, and one day our fellow countrymen will look back proudly on what we did for the war effort.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cried Betty, stamping her feet.

‘We are doing our duty and enabling men to go to the front and fight, and I will not hear a bad word said about any of you brave ladies. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly clear, ma’am!’ Sarah called back, saluting and giving her a big grin.

May received murmurs of ‘Yes’ and nods from the seven women gathered, and in that moment, as she saw how proudly they wore their flying suits while they waited to be assigned their planes, she could hardly believe what they were about to do. Their flying outfits might not be fashionable like their smart dark-blue uniforms, with their gold threaded wings and ATA insignia on their jackets, but they were practical, and they’d been made just for them. And she’d never been so proud to wear anything in all her life. To hell with their superiors, who’d thought they could wear skirts in the air in almost polar conditions – a pilot was a pilot, and they all needed the same protective clothing in the sky. She wasn’t going to stand for men making decisions about her women, not if they were going to be taking to the sky to help defend their beautiful country.

They were the First Eight, and they were about to show the rest of England exactly what they were made of.

‘It’s time for wheels up, ladies,’ she said, signalling for the women to follow her and shrugging at the mechanic’s still-furious expression. ‘Any questions?’

She received none, and she hadn’t really expected any. She’d hand-picked the women herself, and with impeccable logbooks and thousands of hours of flight experience between them, their ability to do their job wasn’t something she worried about. The weather conditions? Yes. She was constantly concerned about the cloud cover that England was so well known for. The chance of being fired upon when they had no bombs or guns to defend themselves with? Absolutely. And the fact they were flying without radios and instruments? Every second of every day. But not once had she doubted their ability to fly whatever plane they were asked to transport; and the slow, sturdy Tiger Moths weren’t difficult by any means. It wasn’t glamorous work, and no one else wanted to fly the sluggish aircraft in the middle of winter, but she was going to prove that her little squadron could fly every darn plane the military had. If they had to prove themselves in Tiger Moths first, then so be it.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked the mechanic, turning her attention back to him.

‘Benjamin,’ he replied. ‘I’m actually your flight mechanic, ma’am.’

She froze. ‘You’re my mechanic?’

‘That’s me,’ he said, his dark gaze never straying from hers. She couldn’t decide if she liked how forthright he was or whether it irked her. ‘I’ve completed a thorough visual check of your engine; it’s been uncovered and completely examined for leaks. She’s warmed up and ready to fly.’

May hesitated before speaking again, wishing they’d got off on a better footing if they were going to be working closely together. ‘Thank you, Benjamin. And if you’re assigned to me, we should be a team – there’s no reason for formalities. May will do just fine,’ she said briskly. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for my little stunt before.’

Benjamin raised a brow, still looking unimpressed. ‘We’ll see.’

She watched him go before turning back to her squadron. They all walked outside, with May in the lead, and she cast her glance skyward. The cloud had mainly cleared, which meant conditions weren’t likely to get any better, so it was time for take-off. The planes sat in the gloomy morning like shining steeds lined up on the runway. They were a mixture of new and repaired, and May and her squadron needed to fly them to Scotland immediately, then bring back wounded, less able versions to be worked on at the factory. That was the flight she worried about most, because even the best pilot in the world was only as good as the engine and wings keeping him or her in the sky, and limping back in a damaged plane was never ideal. There would be no assigned flight mechanic at the other end to make sure they all made it home safely, that was for sure.

‘I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,’ said Amber, the youngest pilot of the group. Her voice wavered as she spoke, and May knew how she was feeling; her own bravado was more for the benefit of the other girls than a reflection of how she felt about their first real test. They’d waited all this time: so many months of her petitioning for women to have the right to assist the war effort in the sky, answering questions and refusing to take no for an answer, and then preparing the pilots to join her. Now they were finally going to be playing their part. This was it.