The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,40
the British Royal Naval College Dartmouth and waved him off at the start of, what Charles and Pa Lanyon believed, would be a sparkling military career. I did not for one second find difficulty saying goodbye. Despite trying to force the memory of Edward out of my mind, he lingered on – in replayed conversations, in a remembered smile, a walk or a song.
But with Charles gone, I had no intention of returning to live at Lanyon, as was expected, because I did not want to risk seeing Edward in the village – so desperate, in fact, that immediately after the wedding I had insisted we begin our married life in a rented house near my old family home in Oxfordshire.
By the Autumn of 1940 I was living alone at an absolute loss as to what to do to pass the time. Helping the war effort was paramount in my thoughts, but in what capacity? I was qualified to do one thing – fly. But the War Office remained insistent that women would not be allowed to fly in combat, or in any capacity within the RAF or the Fleet Air Arm. I could join the WAAFs in a non-flying capacity, but to sit at an air station and watch all the men fly while I polished their shoes? Never!
I had lunch in Southampton with an old friend from the flying club my father patronised. I chomped my gums throughout the meal, moaning with venom about my utter frustration at not being allowed to fly in the RAF, despite being more qualified and a better pilot than most of the men. Janie, whose father was in the War Office and was well up on opportunities for women, offered solutions, and they didn’t include polishing shoes.
There were many opportunities open to women, she explained, but if I was determined to fly, then the options were limited – limited, but not none existent. For a start, I could volunteer to fly a target-towing aircraft over the Solent.
‘It can be a bit hairy,’ Janie said, ‘what with the aim of the trainee gunners being a bit off-centre to start with, and you’d need to fly your own aircraft, but the pay’s jolly good and at least you get to fly. Have you still got that darling yellow Tiger Moth?’
I did. It was in the barn at Lanyon.
‘Next?’
Janie scratched her chin.
‘Well, you could always join the Free French. The French are more like the Poles and the Russians – you know, not sniffy about women pilots – but it’s a bit radical, Juliet. Better off as a target tower if you ask me. But the absolute best thing you could do …’ Janie paused to scrape the frothy milk out of the bottom of her coffee cup, ‘is what I’m thinking of doing …’ Janie paused again to add just the right amount of dramatic effect.
‘Go on …’
‘Join the ATA,’
‘The ATA?’
‘Air Transport Auxiliary. They deliver aircraft from the factories to all the air bases – move aircraft around the country for maintenance, that kind of thing. They’re letting a few women in as pilots now – I suppose they’ve got to, there simply aren’t enough chaps around to meet demand, these days.’
Janie grabbed her clutch bag, snapped open the fasteners, took out a newspaper clipping and rested it on the table in front of me.
‘There you go.’
Wanted
Women pilots to fly for Air Transport Auxiliary
Salary £400 per year
Further details write to: PO Box 410
I sat up straight.
‘But … this is incredible, Janie! Where are they based? When do you think I can start? Oh, Janie.’
‘Steady on, old girl. They haven’t let you in yet.’
I thought of something – the excitement of which I could barely contain. ‘Oh, my God! Are we going to be allowed to fly the Spitfire? Because honestly, Janie. I would do anything – anything – to fly one of those.’
‘I’m not sure, maybe,’ Janie answered, pouring the last of the coffee. ‘The first tranche of women have only just joined – they’re at Hatfield. There’s around, oh, I don’t know, a thousand or so men dotted about the different delivery pools – they’re all the chaps who are either too crock or too old to join the RAF. I’ll bet the women get stuck delivering the old Tiger Moths – the RAF use it as their training aircraft. I know yours is a little beauty, but in the winter, they really are cold, breezy old things.’