Bluebirds (6 page)

Susan Courtney-Bennet was asking something again – whether she knew some girl who had been at St Mary's. She really was a crashing snob and just the sort of type she'd hoped to get away from when she'd left that school. That bit in Kit's letter about him getting a chance to have a crack at the Hun had frightened her all over again. Supposing he were sent to France . . . supposing he ended up at the Front . . . supposing . . .

Squadron Leader ‘Robbie' Robinson was in charge of Administration at RAF Colston. Like its Station Commander, he had been in the Royal Flying Corps during the First World War and he had assumed an avuncular role among so many younger men. He had a reputation for solving all problems and it was he who immediately found an office for Felicity in Station Headquarters. Somehow he contrived to re-shuffle things so that she was able to move into a room immediately next door to his own.

‘So that you'll be under my antiquated wing, my dear. Somewhat moth-eaten and losing its feathers, but if you
need anything you can just pop your head round the door and ask.'

His kind voice, twinkling eyes and the homely pipe, almost permanently clenched between his teeth, gave her reassurance and encouragement, as did the massive copy of King's Regulations which he lent her ‘the RAF bible, my dear', which sat at her elbow on her desk. She referred to it constantly and feverishly, riffling through its many pages.

She had assigned her airwomen according to the requirements. It transpired that some could offer much more than the cooking, cleaning and clerical work supposed by the Station Commander. There were half a dozen trained shorthand typists among them, two teleprinter operators, a qualified nurse and a driver who could handle three-ton lorries. Even Gloria Gibbs, who had appeared so unpromising, turned out to be an experienced switchboard operator. She had interviewed each girl painstakingly in turn, and done her best for them with the limited opportunities. It was a great waste, she considered, that some should have to do waitressing and cleaning when they were clearly capable of more. Few, though, seemed to have very high expectations and she had not understood, at first, when Winifred Briggs, the country girl from Suffolk, had asked if she would be able to work with the aeroplanes.

‘You mean cleaning them? Something like that?'

The girl had gone very red and shaken her head. It had taken quite a while to persuade her to explain what she really meant.

‘I wanted to work on the engines, madam. Help look after them.'

‘The
engines
?' She had tried not to look surprised or sceptical.
A WAAF officer must cultivate understanding of, and sympathy with her airwomen
 . . . ‘Is that something that specially interests you?'

The girl had nodded mutely. She had a fresh country complexion and soft curly brown hair. A pretty girl, shy
and unworldly and unspoiled, with a lovely Suffolk way of speaking. She looked strong and capable but it was hard to imagine her working alongside RAF mechanics.

‘I see . . . well, Briggs, I'm sure you'd probably make a very good mechanic but unfortunately that trade just isn't open to us WAAFS. Of course, that doesn't mean to say that it never will be. I believe that as time goes by more and more RAF trades will begin to accept us – maybe even that one. We shall have to be patient.'

‘Yes, madam.'

‘
Ma'am
, Briggs, not madam. Try to remember. In the meantime, I think you would do very well as a General Duties clerk. It's not all that exciting but you'll learn a lot about how the RAF is run.'

A clerk. In General Duties – whatever that was. Filling in forms and such like, most probably. There were forms for everything in the RAF, she'd discovered that already. She'd much sooner have been waitressing or working in the kitchens like some of the others. This then was what she'd left home and Ken for . . . to be a clerk.
I want to do somethin' useful in the war, Ken
 . . . She felt like crying again, but what was the use in that? The only thing to do was to be patient, like the officer had told her, and to make the best of things. That, or give up now and go back home to Elmbury. Nobody could stop you leaving if you were a volunteer. One of the girls had gone already. Just packed her suitcase and left. She could take the train to London and then the one to Ipswich and the bus from there home. Mum and Dad would be pleased to have her back to help out, and Ken . . . well, Ken would be happy again and not have his sad face. But if she went back home it would be giving up, wouldn't it? Giving up before she'd even tried. And she didn't want to do that.
I want to do somethin' with my life first, before we settle down
. That was what she'd said to him and she wouldn't give up.

‘You're not seriously trying to tell me that it's a
good
thing having these females here, Robbie?'

Squadron Leader Robinson had known David Palmer far too long to try to tell him any such thing. At least, not directly. He said soothingly:

‘I don't think it will be quite as bad as you think. Company Assistant Newman strikes me as a very sensible and efficient young lady.'

‘
She
may be, I grant you, but what about the rest of them? I mean what sort of women would join the Services? Remember the reputation most of them got in the last show?'

‘Oh, rather unfounded, sir, surely? The girls I came across in the WRAF were jolly good types. Put their hand to anything to help win the war. Did a marvellous job. That's why they got the vote, isn't it, not for chaining themselves to railings?'

Palmer said irritably: ‘I know, I know. And it's gone to their heads. They want to get in on everything these days just because they're allowed to vote too. But it still doesn't mean they're going to be any use to us, does it? Any fool can put a cross on a piece of paper and stick it in a box. They'll cause trouble with the men, mark my words, upset everything and be nothing but a confounded nuisance. God almighty, Robbie, we've got a bloody war to fight. It's a serious business and we don't need them causing us difficulties and distractions.'

‘Are you so sure they will, sir?'

‘Yes, I'm damned sure they will. Where there are women there are always problems, in my experience.'

Robinson thought of the CO's wife. Caroline Palmer could certainly be described as causing plenty of difficulties and distractions among some of the young officers on the station. He was not sure whether Palmer had this also in mind.

He said carefully: ‘Once we get everything properly organized, sir, I really think –'

His CO cut across him. ‘We can't accommodate them
here satisfactorily, Robbie. We've no proper facilities for females.'

‘It'll take a while to sort out, I agree –'

‘And they haven't even got any uniform – except those first two. The rest are running round in frocks and high heels and God knows what. Mind you, I don't know which is worse, women
in
uniform, or out of it. All I
do
know is that I don't want them cluttering up my station, whatever they're wearing.' Palmer shuffled some papers crossly on his desk. ‘This war's going to be different from the last one. The Front's not going to stay conveniently over there, at a safe distance. An operational station is a target for the enemy and the Hun might take it into his head some day to come and drop a lot of bombs on us. What'll happen with these women then? They'll panic all over the place, having hysterics, and then the men will worry about
them
instead of thinking about what
they
ought to be doing. It's a recipe for disaster.'

The squadron leader cleared his throat. His seniority in years, if not in rank, gave him some authority to speak his mind.

‘Personally, I think you're doing them rather an injustice, sir. I don't believe they would
panic.
Women can be extraordinarily calm and brave in a crisis. They're by no means all prone to hysteria – in my opinion, that's a fallacy. Look at the nurses in the WRAF – they carried on with the job no matter what the danger . . .'

‘Different breed, Robbie. Totally different. Nurses have a vocation. They're dedicated to caring for the sick and wounded. They're nurses because they're that type of person. But these women . . . this lot we're landed with, they're all kinds and from what I've seen, none of them are likely to be a blind bit of use to us.'

‘I think you'll find that's far from the case. They all seem keen to do their best, and surely we're going to need all the help we can get.'

‘You'll be telling me next that I ought to be grateful to them for coming here?'

‘You may even be that – one day, sir.'

Palmer grunted. ‘Trouble with you, Robbie, is that you're prejudiced. You're on their side. It's having two daughters that does it, I suppose.'

The squadron leader thought fondly of his two girls, Heather and Jean. The CO was childless, but whether from choice or misfortune he had never liked to enquire. Meg's looks weren't a patch on Caroline Palmer's. Her hair was turning grey and her waist had thickened, but he wouldn't have traded wives with his commanding officer for all the money in the world. There were times when he felt very sorry for David Palmer. The man had been a superb pilot – still was, for that matter, though these days he mostly flew a desk – and he clearly loved the RAF. But he had married a woman who made no secret of the fact that Service life and Service people bored her stiff – unless the people happened to be young, good-looking and well-connected young officers, in which case her interest far exceeded anything expected of a Station Commander's wife. It was well known. Robinson was not surprised that Palmer apparently expected the worst of women.

The Station Commander had got up from his desk and was looking moodily out of the window behind it, his hands in his pockets.

‘That one in charge of them . . . Newley, or whatever her name is –'

‘Newman, sir.' Robinson fiddled with his pipe, poking a matchstick round the bowl. ‘As I said, she's very sensible and efficient. Rather intelligent, too, I'd say. I gather she was up at Cambridge before she joined.'

‘A bloody blue-stocking! That's just what we
don't
need. Well, she may be intelligent, but she's too damned young.'

‘She's twenty-two. A lot of our chaps are younger.'

‘Nothing to do with it. This one's supposed to be able to control a pack of silly, giggling girls. They should have sent some old battleaxe to cope.'

‘I think I'd sooner have Company Assistant Newman any day, sir, if you don't mind.'

Palmer smiled, and the smile transformed his face momentarily, softening the stem features. ‘Perhaps you're right about that, Robbie. We don't want any more like that Sergeant Whatsername. God, what a hideous woman! If you can call her one at all. She's got one advantage, though –
she
won't be distracting any of the men from their duties.' He turned away from the window. ‘I wish this damn war would get cracking properly. All this hanging around waiting for it to get going. Nothing but practice attacks. The bomber boys have had all the luck so far.'

‘Dropping leaflets, sir? Taking a few pot shots at German naval bases? Nothing much to write home about.'

‘But at least they're doing
something
. Christ, I wish I were twenty years younger, Robbie.'

‘I wish I were too, sir. But I'm afraid there's not much we can do about it.'

‘I popped up in a Hurry the other day with Ross's lot. Made me feel about nineteen again. Bloody fine kite. Steady as a rock. Fast as hell. Climbs like a rocket. Turns on a sixpence. I tell you, our young chaps are lucky blighters. I'd give ten years of my life to be in their shoes . . .'

‘That sounds as though it would rather defeat the object, sir.'

Palmer gave a short laugh. ‘Suppose it would. Do you know, Robbie, sometimes I hate this job of mine. Tied to this desk, missing all the real fun. Being nice to bloody civilians like that woman who wrote to me today complaining about the noise our fighters make. She swears they use her house as a turning point . . . says they're frightening her hunters. And someone else rang to say the low-flying's stopped their chickens laying. God give me patience! They'd be quick enough to complain if we weren't trained and ready for action to defend their
blasted horses and chickens when the Huns come. What do they expect us to do? Practise flying on the ground?'

Palmer shook his head in disgust. From outside the window behind him came the sound of high-pitched giggling. He turned round slowly, as though unable to believe his ears, taking his hands from his pockets. He rubbed at the glass between the criss-crossed brown paper strips with the side of one hand. In the roadway outside there was a small group of airmen and two of the WAAF airwomen. He watched in disbelief as one of the girls tweaked off an airman's cap, put it on her own head and ran off shrieking as its owner tried to retrieve it. Louder shrieks reached the two senior officers clearly as the airman caught up with her. Palmer drew a deep breath.

‘Now, Robbie, do you see what I mean?'

When Felicity entered the Station Commander's office he was standing with his back to her, staring out of the window by his desk. She stood waiting until he turned, unsmiling, and sat down, gesturing to her to do the same. He clasped both hands together on the desk top in front of him.

‘When you arrived here, Company Assistant Newman, I believe I told you my views on having women serving on my station?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And I believe I made them quite plain?'

‘Perfectly, sir.'

‘They remain unchanged. In fact they have been reinforced a short while ago by the sight of two of your airwomen distracting a group of my men from their duties.'