Spitfire Girl (5 page)

I visited London during the weeks of suspense and swam on the edges of its hushed expectancy. Though the city had a solemn air, its people seemed to reflect the procrastination of the times. Unconsciously I searched for those who knew the portent of that hour. Who knew what was to be fought and why it had to be fought. I returned to Witney knowing nothing.

My first personal contact with the flotsam thrown out by the tide of Europe’s insanity was with a Jewish refugee. A young girl, she had left her parents in a concentration camp. She worked as a servant in a large county house.

We were introduced by a common acquaintance. I listened and appraised her curiously. She spoke English haltingly and lapsed frequently into German. She was my age but a hundred years older.

I invited her to tea in Oxford. She was late and looked a lonely figure as she came into the restaurant and stood near the entrance searching for me. I waved to her, she nodded in return and, looking neither right nor left, walked to my table.

‘Tea and cakes?’

‘Please.’

We searched for a subject. I gushed a little; she was taciturn.

‘Joan told me about your parents. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you hear from them?’ ‘Not directly.’

‘I cannot understand... what have they done?’

‘They are Jews,’ she answered simply.

‘Have they done anything else?’ I asked stupidly.

‘Isn’t it enough?’ she answered coolly.

I fidgeted in embarrassment; ‘I didn’t mean...’

‘Not consciously, I know.’ She made me uncomfortable.

‘Look Helga, I like the Jews.’

‘That’s as bad as disliking them.’

She suddenly remembered an appointment. We shook hands and parted. I had tried to run before I could walk, and had hurt her.

During that brilliant summer of 1939 I received a stream of letters from my mother who had suddenly shown a remarkable interest in current affairs. Her analysis of the European situation was worthy of a foreign correspondent. Her letters invariably ended: ‘Therefore you must return to South Africa immediately.’ I replied evasively, countering her accurate prognostications with highly inaccurate optimism, and remained in England.

Nineteen-thirty-nine became for me a race between my ‘B’ licence and the outbreak of war. As the shadows lengthened over Europe I crammed both flying and studies. Until the early hours of the morning a solitary light glowed at the farmhouse as I became dissipated with study.

Various incidents at the college foreshadowed its eventual demise. The Chief Flying Instructor left for his fateful test pilot appointment. A few students of military age left suddenly. Instructions were issued that under no circumstances were students to land at Royal Air Force aerodromes. Service officers appeared, inspected augustly, took notes and departed, leaving a conspiratorial air that bred rumour and counter-rumour.

My sole achievement during the months preceding the outbreak of war was the acquisition of an Assistant Instructor’s endorsement on my original ‘A’ licence. This dubious accomplishment authorized me to pass on to unsuspecting pupils the undulating knowledge of flying that I had scraped together during a hundred and fifty hours in the air.

Owing to a shortage of instructors the college arranged for me to instruct the week-end students of the affiliated flying club. On week-days I was a meek pupil. On Sundays I was transformed into a swaggering veteran of the air and carried out manœuvres that would have terrified me on a Tuesday.

Early in September I was scheduled to take a pupil on his first cross-country flight. He was an Oxford undergraduate, so elegant and supercilious he managed to convey the impression that he was escorting me on this navigational exercise.

During that triangular flight, cruising smoothly at 3,000 feet, the backyards of poverty and the spacious grounds of affluence were strangely deserted. The roads, normally choked with cars heading for the sea, were empty. The entire nation were glued to their radio sets. We were alone in the sky; possibly the last aircraft to drone with peace, to pass by in the sky without terror for those beneath.

We flew steadily southwards until my pupil smiled at me in triumph as the golden sands of the south coast appeared sandwiched between the cool green of the Downs and the crystal blue of the English Channel. We were on course and on time. I ruefully recalled my first cross-country flight when I was neither on course nor on time. He turned through 90 degrees on to the new course and headed for the Isle of Wight that lay cradled in the caressing waves and sparkled brilliantly in the morning sun. The engine hummed unnoticed as a heart is unnoticed when it functions efficiently.

Below us liners cut their wake and swung in perfect parabolas into the docks; their smoke drifting idly towards us.

Feeling the necessity of behaving like an instructor I introduced a note of discord and commented sharply on our height:

‘What height should we be?’

‘Three thousand,’ he answered.

‘Well?’ He opened the throttle and gained the necessary 200 feet. His face, reflected in the mirror, looked hurt. ‘It’s all right,’ I weakened. ‘You are doing very well.’

We circled the deserted beaches and set course for Reading.

Punctually Reading appeared. Overcoming my pique, he was making it appear much too easy, I congratulated him on his accuracy before we turned for home and war. We landed with a series of kangaroo bumps that restored my ego and taxied to the hangar where there was unusual activity. The aircraft were parked neatly in front of the operations hut. Familiar faces had an unfamiliarly grave countenance. We had returned to a different world. Had taken off in peace at nine-thirty and landed in war at noon.

We set off feeling very brave,
To blaze a Spitfire trail,
Across the sky o’er half the world,
With ne’er a thought of fail.

1940

The following day the college closed. In an end-of-term
atmosphere of excitement and bustle the others packed their bags and departed for fitting and adventurous destinations. The instructors for Royal Air Force squadrons; the late pupils for R.A.F. training schools. All flowed into tailored situations, except me. I wept with envy and jealousy as they left in taxis and private cars. I despised my body, my breasts, all the things that pronounced me woman and left me behind as solitary and desolate as a discarded mistress.

I was the last to depart, my destination commonplace Downhill Farm, a mile or two away. I looked angrily at the sky as I walked home. It had become distant and aloof. A stage of valour for a male cast only. No female actress would tread those boards. Bitterness and gall brought on biliousness. An errand boy passed innocently by, one hand in his pocket and whistling cheerfully. You little fool, I thought bitterly, envying him the cross-bar, that symbol of freedom, of which he was so oblivious. I kicked a stone at him and his infuriating cheerfulness but he sailed by unharmed, intent on his next delivery. I arrived at the farm, ran past the astonished Mrs Hirons, threw myself on the bed and sobbed.

That evening in bed I thought of the Amazonian women who were alleged to have cut off their breasts to enable them to sight their bows and arrows accurately. I looked malignantly at my breasts, symbols of weakness, rooted firmly on my chest and remembered Mr Hirons’ cut-throat razor in the bathroom. Further speculation was interrupted by Mrs Hirons’ call from the foot of the staircase: ‘Phone-call, Jackie.’

It was a cable from my mother:

P
retoria, 3.9.39

Return home immediately. Have contacted Union Castle Line here and made provisional reservation for soonest berth Southampton-Cape Town. Contact head office London immediately and confirm reservation. Acknowledge. Love Mother.

I was furious and cabled accordingly:

N
ot returning South Africa. Cancel booking. Letter following. Jackie
.

and returned wrathfully to bed, potent with ambition and, though uncomfortably aware of who was paying the piper, determined not to return weakly to South Africa.

I awoke with my ambition a weak parody of the flame of the night before and sat down moodily to breakfast.

‘Morning,’ said Mrs Hirons, ‘there’s a letter for you in the hall.’

I got it, looked at its official envelope and skipped hurriedly back to the table to read it.

T
he Director-General of Civil Aviation

London, W.C.2

4th September, 1939

Miss D. T. Sorour,

Downhill Farm,

Bailey,

Oxfordshire

Dear Madam,

I am requested to enquire whether, in the present State of Emergency, you are prepared to offer your services in a civilian capacity as an ambulance or ferry pilot.

Would you kindly communicate your decision to the above office at your earliest convenience.

Yours faithfully, etc.

My affirmative reply was in the post within half an hour. I also fulfilled my promise and wrote:

D
ear Mother,

Thank you for your cable. Did you get my reply? I have decided not to return to South Africa until the war is over. I have just received a letter asking me to stand by as a ferry or ambulance pilot. I can’t let them down now.

I really cannot return at this moment. The war will be over in a few months, then I can return to Witney College and resume my studies for the ‘B’ licence. It’s silly to pay the fare for my return to South Africa and then do it all over again in a few months’ time.

It isn’t dangerous, Mother. In fact, apart from the blackout and uniforms, you wouldn’t know there is a war on. Mrs Hirons has kindly offered for me to stay here for the duration of the war and to stay here during my leave and week-ends. So don’t worry, I am all right.

What about my allowance? I have £30 left in the bank.

Your loving daughter,
Jackie.

I waited confidently for the letter from the Ministry. The birds twittered with my joy, the sun beamed a glow of welcome in the sky. Too impatient to walk I ran everywhere and leaped up stairs in twos and threes. I forgave everybody. Grace and charity abounded. The world was full of hope and promise.

The letter arrived.

1
4th September, 1939

Dear Madam,

With reference to our letter dated the 4th of September and your reply of the 5th, I am requested to thank you for your offer but to inform you that the services of women pilots are not now required.

It is suggested that you may find a suitable position in the Women’s Royal Auxiliary Air Force.

Yours faithfully,

etc., etc.

You beasts! You rotten horrid beasts. This was the strongest epithet I could muster. Cads and beasts. Rotters. Inhuman fiends. In a passion of hatred and revolt against the tyranny of man I swore, like Lysistrata, to withhold my love until they should repent. I had not yet, nor never would, bestow my favours on these miserable creatures.

A
fter my fury and mortification had subsided to
manageable proportions I decided to find a ‘suitable position in the Waafs.’ The nearest recruiting station was at Oxford. They got to know me very well.

Within ten days I became a
de facto
member of the Waafs. The partial recognition was a result of my insistence in being enlisted before the Royal Air Force were quite ready for me. In harassed desperation the recruiting officer suggested that, if it were really quite impossible for me to wait until the next draft was prepared, perhaps I would like to help out temporarily as an orderly for Waaf officers stationed at a nearby aerodrome.

Reflecting ruefully on my present lowly state I reported, unsworn, undisciplined and improperly dressed, to the aerodrome. The recruiting officer had been unable to provide a complete uniform. As the bus approached the gates and the hangars and panorama of aviation unfolded dimly in the driving rain I felt a patriotic surge of emotion. Eagerly I lifted my bag, clutched my pass and swept imperiously through the gates.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’ boomed a voice.

‘To the Waaf officer in charge, please,’ I answered, cowed by the formidable figure with legs apart that stood by the guard-room eyeing me with extreme disfavour.

‘Authority?’ he barked.

‘Pardon, sir?’ I stuttered, meekly.

‘Where’s your authority?’ he repeated. ‘And you call me sergeant, not sir.’

Completely unnerved I offered my pass. He glanced at it cursorily. ‘Corporal,’ he called, ‘escort A.C.W.2 Sorour to the Adjutant. Not,’ he added mincingly, ‘to the Waaf officer in charge.’

Blushing crimson and glancing yearningly at the bus that was departing with a crash of gears I was escorted to the Adjutant. The corporal was taciturn and intent on flinging his arm violently in salute to distant figures. Determined to impress I threw a handful of fingers towards my right ear as an important-looking personage approached.

‘Come here, you!’ ordered the personage, in the rain.

Proudly I came.

‘What am I?’ he asked. I resisted the impulse to be facetious and looked carefully at the medals on his tunic and the badge on his sleeve. The rain dripped persistently on to both. I had not the remotest idea what he was.

‘Don’t know, sergeant sir,’ I admitted apologetically.

‘Don’t know!’ he bellowed.

‘No, sir,’ I answered contritely.

Heavily he brought up his right sleeve until it was within an inch of my shiny nose. ‘That! young lady, is the badge of a warrant officer.’ Irrelevantly I admired the richly embroidered badge. ‘It’s lovely,’ I blurted out. The corporal grinned. The warrant officer did not.

‘What’s your name and number?’ he asked ominously.

‘Dolores Teresa Sorour. I haven’t got a number,’ I answered.