Spitfire Dawn

Third Officer Clara Cole’s air taxi, an Avro Anson, landed smoothly at Hamble, Hampshire. She was the only sprog to leave the plane. With bag and purse in hand, she made her way to the single-story administrative building just off the airfield. The roar of her taxi’s twin engines made her turn to watch it race down the runway and lift off, delivering the other young pilots to their respective fields.

October 3, 1941, was a partly cloudy Friday. Clara entered the obviously new building, smelling of fresh paint and plaster, at a quarter to noon. A lean brunette with the epaulettes of an administrative officer almost bumped into Clara. Clara dropped her luggage and saluted, “Good morning, Ma’am!”

The woman returned the salute, smirking, “Good morning, Third Officer… I’d say… ‘Cole’?

Shocked that Beatrice knew her name, Clara remained at attention.

Beatrice shifted to an empathetic visage. “At ease, Cole. I’m the AO here at Hamble … Beatrice Cane.” She extended her hand to welcome the anxious new arrival.

Clara responded, “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“My pleasure, Cole. I’m headed to lunch. Put your bag there, by Campbell’s desk, and join me.”

They stepped to the loo to wash their hands, then made their way back to the officers’ dining room next to the enlisted personnel’s mess room. Then got their plates of roast beef, potatoes, and peas and found a seat. An attendant brought them cups of tea. Stale rolls were on the table. Beatrice grumbled, “Uhh, no butter... ‘war... is hell’.”

Beatrice introduced Clara to a couple of other pilots at the table, and the women were courteous but cool.

Clara asked, “Is the commanding officer here today? Do I need to report to her after lunch?”

“Oh, yes … you’ll not slip by that little formality today,” Beatrice replied with a chuckle.

Beatrice said, “Don’t be nervous, love. Captain Smith is a fine officer … she’s firm but has a kind heart.

“Despite the butterflies, Clara ate her food. It was too dear to waste even a morsel, and she knew there would be nothing until supper, with several busy hours in between.”

A tall, slender redheaded Second Officer came over and asked, “Beatrice, is this our new pilot?”

“Yes… Clara Cole, meet Grace Goodly ... our American.”

“Nice to meet you, Second Officer Goodly,” said Clara.

“Uhm, Grace will do fine, Clara.”

“Oh,” Clara blushed.

Grace chimed in, “Girl, you’re in luck.” She was addressing Clara but winked at Beatrice.

Beatrice smiled. “Clara, I assigned Grace the task of finding you quarters.”

“Clara, the room next to me at the Royal Southern Yacht Club just opened up.”

Clara had to keep her jaw from dropping. “What?”

“Yes, dearie, you heard correctly … now polish off that tea and let’s go. The driver is free to take us over there, and I’ll show you your new digs.”

Clara glanced at Beatrice.

Beatrice gestured with her hands, “Runaway, little Cole … hey, Grace … no dilly-dallying, be back here sharp … Gwendolyn wants to meet her.”

“Of course, Beatrice … and I’m sure you have a chit for me.”

“I do … Eastleigh Vickers has three Spits ready.”

“Three? Who else is going with me?”

“We’ve not worked that out. If nothing else, you’ll taxi up alone and fly just one of them.”

“Okay … ready, Clara?”

Campbell had already put Clara’s bag in the airfield’s car, so they were off in a jiffy. It took only minutes for the driver, a large girl named Molly Slack with gorgeous brown curls and freckles, to navigate the winding village roads to Clara’s new abode. The room was small but clean and warm. It had a window with a spectacular view of the River Hamble.

Unpacking quickly with Grace’s expert help, they headed back in minutes. Grace smiled and commented, “I love flying Spitfires!”

Clara, caught up in it all, noticed that her butterflies were gone.

Stepping from the car, Clara recognised Gwendolyn without ever having met or seen her before. The striking blonde with Flight Captain epaulettes was chatting with a man by the door of the Meteorological Office.

Grace directed, “Come on, Clara, that’s Captain Smith… I’ll introduce you.”

They paused a few feet away from Gwendolyn to politely let her finish the conversation with the met office rep. Gwendolyn said, “Very well, thank you, Hemmings.” She turned without hesitation and said, “Hello, Grace… did you get Third Officer Cole housed?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” answered Grace.

Clara saluted Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn returned the salute, then asked Grace, “Good… the Yacht Club?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” replied Grace.

Gwendolyn remarked. “Lovely view over there, Cole… not that you’ll have much time to enjoy it.”

“I’m sure, Ma’am.”

Well, thank you, Grace, for handling that task. Now you go check in with Beatrice while I visit with our new pilot.

“Yes, Captain Smith… Clara, it was nice to meet you and welcome to Hamble.”

In Gwendolyn’s tiny office, Clara was asked to sit.

“I’ve read your file, Clara. You already had a private pilot’s license before joining the ATF, correct?”

“Yes, Ma’am. My dad was in the RAF in the Great War, and later flew for British Airways. He taught me to fly when I was fourteen.”

“And your mother?”

“She was born in Eastleigh. She was working in London after the war when Dad met her… they hit it off and married in 1920.”

“Eastleigh… just up the road?”

“That’s correct… after my father was killed in a boating accident in 1935, Mum moved back to Eastleigh. She works for a pair of solicitors in the village.”

“Secretary?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“No other siblings?”

“None, Ma’am. Mum lives with my grandmother. Gram has a nice little house blocks from Mum’s work.”

“That’s lovely, Clara.” Gwendolyn glanced through Clara’s file. “You did well at White Waltham… how did you like it?”

“It was fine for a training facility, Ma’am.”

“But…”

“I’m ready to go to work, Captain.”

“That’s good… we need you, Clara.”

Once again, the commander studied the file.

“Ah, Class 2… how much time in Spits and Hurricanes?”

“Two hours in Spitfires and three in Hurricanes?”

“Any problems?”

“None, Ma’am.”

“Clara, we are not very formal here… not much saluting and the like. But don’t confuse that for lack of discipline, respect for rank, or low expectations. We are in the fishbowl, Cole... all eyes are upon us. We are the first all-female ATA ferry pool, and we will be successful.”

“Understood, Captain Smith.”

Beatrice came up and knocked.

“Yes, Beatrice, come in.”

“Ma’am, Biggin Hill just called about those three Spits at Eastleigh, Vickers. They need all three today, if at all possible… all I have is Grace.”

“Well, you have your other two pilots right here, Beatrice.”

Clara’s butterflies returned. Not only would she have her first ferry pool flight, but she would also be flying in formation with her commander.

Beatrice laughed, “Very good. The air taxi is on approach. It should be landing in two.”

Gwendolyn commanded, “Well, Cole, do you have a flight suit?”

“No, Ma’am. That was a loaner at White Waltham; they told us we would be issued gear at our pools.”

“Well, no time for supply now; I have a spare you can use… a couple of stitches, but we’re not on parade, hmm, my dear?”

“Thank you, Ma’am!”

They were airborne fifteen minutes later in an Anson with chits in hand for three Spitfire Mk VB fighter planes. Clara had only flown models Mk I and II in training, so she was studying the V’s page in her “blue book”, the ATA’s Ferry Poll Notes.

Gwendolyn and Grace eyed the girl and then grinned at one another; they had been flying the Mk V Spitfires since the spring. Gwendolyn let Clara finish her review of the page, then spoke encouragingly, “Clara, you’re in for a treat. The Mk V handles like a dream, the landing gear are improved, and it has more power… you’ll love it.”

As the Anson descended to land, Gwendolyn observed Clara looking out her window at the ground. She asked, “Do you see your ‘Gram’s’ house, Clara?”

Clara nodded.

Grace commented, “I’ll never get over it; you Brits are literally fighting this war in your backyards.”

“Well, we’ve taken it to them over the summer. The fighter sweeps and bombing runs in France have been effective.”

Grace countered, “Yet costly.”

Clara agreed, “True enough, now our pilots that hit the silk don’t come home... and that hellish new Focke-Wulf 190… the boys say it is flying rings around the Mk V.”

A sombre moment followed. The taxi jostled them away to the dispersal area.

Clara performed the preflight of her assigned Mk V. A crew chief escorted her, ready for questions. Clara paused a moment to examine the long 20mm cannon barrels. The earlier Spits she had flown did not carry such fearsome armament, only machine guns.

Warm-ups and takeoffs went well for the three women. The Mk V’s rate of climb was impressive; the “Vic” was at 5,000 feet in no time, doing over 300 miles an hour. They made their way northeast. A half-hour later, they were landing at the massive fighter base.

Gwendolyn patted Clara on the back as they walked from their aircraft, saying, “Well done, Clara, you held formation impressively.

In American pilot slang, Grace added, “And that was a grease job of a landing, honey.”

Grace volunteered to check on a ride home. In the smoking area, Gwendolyn offered Clara a cigarette from her shiny silver cigarette case. Clara’s eyes lit up. “Are those American?”

Gwendolyn chuckled. “Yes, Grace’s mother sent her five cartons of Camels recently. She gave Beatrice and me a carton to split. We are cherishing them… I still miss my Craven ‘A’ though.”

“Oh, my… that was my Mum and Dad’s favourite as well.”

“So, I’m an oldie like your folks, Clara?”

Clara glanced at Gwendolyn’s piercing blue eyes and thought, You are not an oldie, my lovely creature. But she said, “No… I meant nothing of the kind.”

Gwendolyn smirked and broke the devilish gaze.

Grace returned a moment later to report, “We actually have a plane here; one of our Ansons was overheating this morning, and Linda had to leave it for repair. She caught a ride home with another pool.”

“So, our Anson is ready to go?”

“Yes, Ma’am… I’ll fly us home.”

“No, we’ll let Clara have the honour. Twin engines are no problem, are they, Clara?”

“No, Ma’am.” Clara loved how Gwendolyn tested her at every turn in such a non-threatening way.

Upon landing and parking back at Hamble, Clara was busy post-flighting the Anson. After a “job well done” to Clara, Grace and Gwendolyn exited the plane and headed to the ATA building.

As Clara made her way out of the aircraft, she saw Gwendolyn’s flight gloves on one of the seats. Without thinking, Clara snatched them up to carry along.

She could have left the gloves with one of the clerks outside Gwendolyn’s office, but Clara wanted to hand them to Gwendolyn. She wanted to look into those eyes again. Watch for a smile. See if the blonde reached for an errant curl and put it in place.