When the Lights Go On Again. Annie Groves
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conditions were unfavourable.
Lou had been glad she had listened to the advice of her instructor, Margery, who had told her to return via the maintenance units of Little Rissington, Kemble and Aston Down, where ultimately she would be expected to deliver the new Spitfires for their mechanical fitting out, and then Number 6 Ferry Pool at Ratcliffe before returning to Thame. Since the Fosse Way passed the boundary to Ratcliffe’s airstrip, once she had the road in her view, Lou had stuck with it, holding her breath when they had run into some unexpectedly low cloud.
Technically she was not allowed to fly above it but if she dropped down too low to get under it she could end up dangerously close to the ground. In the end she decided to keep to a steady course and fly through it in the hope that it was only an odd patch. To her relief her guess had been right, and they were soon out of the cloud. Even better, she had been able to maintain a steady course.
It was her longest and most complex cross-country so far, and she was thrilled when, once they were both outside the aircraft, Margery told her approvingly, ‘Very nice, Campion. Well done.’
Just seeing those gleaming Spitfires all lined up awaiting transportation had filled Lou with excitement. It had been a wonderful day, she acknowledged happily to herself, removing her flying helmet and shaking her head to free her tangled curls.
She had allowed June to persuade her into going to a dance this evening at a nearby American bomber base. A whole crowd of them were going, thanks to an invitation passed on to them via a male American ATA pilot. Several American male pilots had joined ATA in its early days, before America had joined the war.
Although ATA had now opened its doors to girls from ordinary backgrounds, the ethos put in place by the original eight pilots, all young women from privileged and well-to-do backgrounds, still prevailed. ATA pilots were not subject to any of the rules and regulations imposed by the Armed Forces: there was no parading, no drill, no hierarchy, no jankers, no rules about wearing uniform instead of civvies. Instead what there was were a set of unspoken ‘rules’ accepted and adhered to as a matter of principle and honour.
These included such practical aspects of their work as upholding the reputation of ATA for delivering planes to their destinations safely and efficiently; but, equally importantly, unwritten rules such as always presenting a feminine appearance, wearing lipstick, and nail polish, not getting out of one’s plane at an RAF base until one had removed the ugly flying helmet and replaced it with a pretty silk scarf.
The newer intake of ATA pilots might not be in a position to take off in their cars for London to have dinner at places like the Savoy and the Ritz, and go to exclusive clubs like the 400, but when the opportunity came to attend social events ATA girls were on their honour to look good, which was why Lou blessed the insight and the generosity of her aunt Fran as she changed into her outfit for the evening.
The arrival, for her birthday earlier in the year, of a large parcel that had contained several stunningly pretty dresses from her aunt had truly delighted Lou.
In the note that had accompanied them, Francine had written that she hoped that Lou might be able to make use of the dresses, which she no longer needed.
Luckily, all the females of their family seemed to share the same neat waist and slender figure, and the dresses were a perfect fit. Lou had later learned that their aunt’s birthday gift to her twin had been some beautiful Egyptian cotton bed linen for the bottom drawer Sasha had started now that she was engaged.
Tonight Lou had decided to wear the dress that was her favourite. In a shade of soft green silk printed with large white polkadots, which somehow deepened her summer tan whilst emphasising the way the sun had bleached the ends of her hair, the dress was halter-necked, with a neat-fitting bodice, which fastened with pretty white buttons and a white belt that fitted round Lou’s small waist, whilst the semicircular skirt floated prettily against her legs. To complete the outfit there was a little short white jacket lined in the same fabric as the dress.
Lou and June were being given a lift in her car by Hilary Stanton, one of the more senior girls, who was standing beside her car smoking a cigarette as they went to join her.
‘Good choice of frock, Campion,’ she praised Lou. ‘I’ve heard that several of the American pilots based at Ratcliffe, who’ve joined ATA, will be there tonight, so we’ll definitely want to put on a good show.’
‘Of course, we all know why Hilary disapproves of the Ratcliffe pilots,’ June had commented to Lou earlier. ‘It’s because of all the talk going round about the American pilots being real dare devils. Like I said before, there are all sorts of stories going round about them buzz-diving the general public for fun, flying under low bridges, flying above the cloud cover, and showing off.’ June had pulled a face and added, ‘They like to think of themselves as dead-end kids who are up for anything and everything, and who can fly planes when the weather is so bad that even the birds are walking.’
‘That’s all very well for them,’ Lou had answered, ‘but we’ve got a job to do that matters more than showing off and partying.’
Now, as she and June piled into Hilary’s car along with two other girls, Lou acknowledged that she wasn’t all that keen to go to the dance. However, she had promised June that she would, having had to refuse to go to London with her at the weekend, and then of course there was the added lure of the fact that the music would be provided by none other than Glenn Miller’s band.
It didn’t take them long to reach the American airbase, driving down narrow winding country lanes that lay almost hidden between high hedgerows, heavy now with blackberries and wild rosehips, and through picture-perfect villages, drowsing in the fading September sunlight.
As soon as they got close to the base, though, the scenery changed. Barbed wire replaced the hedgerows, and the gently undulating landscape was ironed flat, and pinned down with all the paraphernalia of an air force base: hangars, searchlights, wind socks, landing strips and the obligatory guard house by the entrance, through which they were allowed to pass once they had given the American ATA pilot’s name.
As they drove past the airfield they could see the long line of bombers outside the hangars.
The base was a large one and, of course, relatively new, the area outside the mess where the dance was being held busy with American airmen in immaculately smart uniforms.
Not that the girls needed to be in the least bit ashamed of their appearance, Lou decided, proud to champion her own colleagues as, once the car was parked and they had all climbed out, she and June went to join the small crowd of ATA pilots who had already arrived.
‘It’s not going to be Glenn Miller after all,’ one of the girls warned Lou, obviously disappointed herself. ‘They’ve got another band playing instead.’
They all went into the mess together, exchanging greetings with the Americans who came forward to welcome them.
The American airmen’s mess was far smarter than any mess she had ever been in before, Lou felt obliged to admit, trying not to look too impressed as she strained to listen to what the young American airman standing next to her was saying to her above the noise of other conversations around them. He was pleasant enough, with good teeth and a nice smile.
‘Look over there,’ June suddenly hissed directing Lou’s attention to where a diminutive blonde with a mass of curls was sitting on a table, holding court to the group of men pressing round her. Unlike the other women in the room, who were all wearing frocks, she was wearing a pair of American jeans rolled up to reveal her enviably tanned and slender ankles and calves, a leather belt drawing the fabric in at her waist to show off its narrowness. She was chewing gum, and drinking beer from a bottle, and generally acting as though it was her right to be the centre of attention. For no reason that Lou could rationalise she felt a sharp stab of hostility towards her.
‘Joyce Botham has just told me that she’s one of the American ATA pilots. Her name’s Frankie Truebrooke.’
Lou nodded and was about to turn away when the sight of an RAF uniform amongst the American pinks and greens caught her eye.
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