Bluebirds (59 page)

Towards the end of the course, they learned the starting procedure for all types of aircraft. And they practised how to swing a propeller on a small 'plane like a Tiger Moth,
and how to nip smartly out of the way before their arm was cut off, or their head bashed in.

‘He who swings and runs away, lives to swing another day,' their instructor chanted grimly. ‘He who swings and stands about gets his big fat head a clout.'

And they learned how to run-up an aircraft.

When it was Winnie's turn to climb into the Hurricane cockpit, her heart was thumping hard and her hands felt sweaty with nerves. They'd raised the bucket seat so that she could see out and put some old cushions on it in place of the parachute that the pilot would sit on. As she climbed in, the two airmen ready to tail-squat were looking as though they thought it was all a huge joke. She lowered herself into the seat and stared at the instrument panel in front of her. She remembered it well from the time Taffy had shown her, and since then she had carefully memorized everything. The mechanic standing by the trolly acc. was grinning up at her and, as she glanced at him, he gave her the all-clear. She stretched out her hand towards the panel and began reciting the notes that she had learned by heart, under her breath.

Set fuel cock to Main Tanks ON. Throttle half an inch open. Propeller control fully forward. Supercharger control – moderate. Radiator shutter – open.
Winnie licked her dry lips.
Work the Ki-gas priming pump until the fuel reaches the priming nozzles
. . .

She looked towards the mechanic again and shouted out as she put her hand the on the ignition switch: ‘Contact!' Her voice sounded high and squeaky to her ears. He was still grinning. Winnie drew a deep breath.

Switch ignition ON and press the starter button. Turning periods must not exceed twenty seconds, with a thirty-second wait between each. Work the priming pump as rapidly and vigorously as possible while the engine is being turned. With normal air temperature and normal fuel it should start after about four strokes . . .

The propeller blades jerked suddenly as the Merlin engine spluttered into life. Ch-ch-ch-ch it went as Winnie
held her breath. Then it exploded into a full-throated roar and the blades went from milling slowly into a spinning blur. The Hurricane, firing on all twelve cylinders, trembled and vibrated round her. Winnie released the starter button and screwed down the priming pump. She opened up slowly to one thousand revs. Black and acrid exhaust fumes were drifting back over the open cockpit, which meant that she'd over-primed.

Warm up to at least fifteen degrees centigrade oil temperature and sixty degrees centigrade coolant.

She tried the magnetos in turn and checked pressures and temperatures. Then she opened up steadily to twenty-eight hundred revs. The crescendo roar of the Merlin rose to an ear-splitting level and the fighter juddered and rocked, like a living thing straining to be free. Winnie forced herself to keep calm and think clearly. She checked the ammeter and the constant speed propeller – fine, coarse, fine.
Keep your eye on the revs, the oil pressure, coolant temperature and fuel pressure
 . . . Help! She'd nearly forgotten to read the boost pressure! She tested the mags in turn again, making sure there was not more than fifty revs drop with each, and then throttled back and allowed the engine to idle for a few minutes.

When she climbed down to earth again her legs felt wobbly.

The instructor nodded. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all.'

Their final exam was both written and oral. In the written paper, Winnie read the first question anxiously.

What is the function of a solenoid switch
?

She picked up her pen and began to write:
A solenoid switch enables light leads to be used to the cockpit switch. When the button is pressed the circuit is completed in the heavy duty leads and so to the electric starter. Winnie drew a diagram and labelled it neatly. She looked at the next question.

How does a propeller work
?

She wrote on steadly.

At the oral test her examiner had cold eyes and an even colder manner. He made no attempt to put her at her ease; quite the reverse. He picked up something from the bench and held it in front of her.

‘What's this?'

‘It's a condenser, sir.'

‘What is its purpose?'

‘To help the rapid collapse of the primary circuit, sir. And to minimize arcin' at the contact break points.'

He picked up something else. ‘What about this?'

‘A cylinder head, sir.'

‘How many cylinders does a Rolls Royce Merlin engine have?'

‘Twelve, sir. In two banks of six.'

‘And what's this?'

‘A carburettor, sir.'

‘What type?'

Winnie hesitated for a moment. The cold eyes watched her impatiently.

‘I think it's a Claudel Hobson, sir.'

‘You
think
? Aren't you sure?'

She swallowed. ‘Yes, I am sure, sir.'

‘And what engine, for example, do you
think
it might have come from?' His voice was sacrastic.

‘A Bristol Pegasus, sir.'

‘Hmm. If an engine overheats where would you look for trouble?'

‘In the coolin' system, sir. There might not be enough coolant. The pump could be defective, or there might be a restriction. Or the rad shutters might be closed.'

‘Or?'

‘Or I'd look at the cowling shutters, sir – on an air-cooled engine. They might be closed.'

‘Hmm. Suppose your engine's running irregularly – misfiring and losing power during normal running. What could be wrong then?'

‘Shortage of fuel, perhaps, sir? The air vent to the tank might be choked, or the pump defective. I'd check those.
Or there might be water in the fuel. Or it could be dirty jets, or plugs. I'd clean them.'

‘What else? If it's none of those things?'

Winnie thought hard. ‘Well, there might be an airleak in the system somewhere. Or a mag defect. Or the mixture control might be defective.'

Coldly. ‘What else?'

She searched her mind desperately.
What else could be wrong?
The examiner was frowning. He glanced at his watch. She remembered suddenly.

‘Oh, yes, there could be a valve stuck open, sir.'

The questions went on and on. What was this? What was that? What was it from? What was its function? How did it work? How would she fit this, clean that, test the other? Assemble these, please. The examiner gave no sign as to whether or not she had given him the right answers, or done the right thing in the right way. When he dismissed her without a word of encouragement or thanks, she was sure that she must have failed.

The results came through and she found that she had not only passed, but done so quite easily with sixty-five per cent marks. And with her success came reclassification to aircraftwoman first class. She had risen from Trade Group IV to Group II which meant an increase in pay to three shillings and fourpence a day.

She would have been completely happy but for her posting. She and two other newly-qualified WAAF flight mechanics – two Engines and one Airframes – were to go to an operational training unit near Dundee in Scotland. She looked it up on the map and it seemed a very long way away.

Hilda had been posted to an initial flying training school in Nottinghamshire. Winnie wished that she were coming to Scotland with her. They said goodbye and wished each other luck before they went home on leave – Hilda to Lancashire and Winnie to Suffolk.

As she walked into the farm kitchen, Gran said, as though she had never been away:

‘They be comin'.'

Winnie lowered her kitbag wearily. The journey had taken all day and she had had to walk the last two miles from the bus stop outside the Pig and Whistle.

‘Who, Gran?'

‘Them thare Amuricans. They be a-goin't' knock down trees an' hedges over at Josh Stannard's. 'Tis all flat thare. 'Twill be fur Amurican flyin' machines. Turrible mess, they'll be makin'. Thass what I've hared. I doan't hode wi' it.'

Gossip came to Gran. Sitting in her chair close by the range – even in summer – she somehow heard it all.

Winnie couldn't imagine Americans in Suffolk. Where they lived everything was so new and clean. In the films the sun was always shining, the sky blue and the colours so bright. The people all wore beautiful, glamorous clothes. They drove those big cars and lived in houses with big rooms and kept their food in huge refrigerators, and hung those starched, white, frilly curtains at the windows. What would they make of the grey skies, the rain and the mud, and everything being so small and old and shabby?

‘What'll they think of Elmbury, Gran? Whatever'll they think of us?'

Gran snorted. ‘Huh! 'Tis more like what're
we
goin't' think o'
them
?'

‘Münster,' Sunshine barked, glaring round the briefing room as though daring anybody to contradict him.

‘Christ, another bloody snorter!' Anne heard someone mutter behind her.

‘Vital rail junction between Germany's northern coastal ports and the heavy industries and munition plants of the Ruhr valley . . . marshalling yards . . . hundreds of tons of armaments and war materials . . . factories making Messerschmitt and Focke-Wulf parts . . . military garrison . . . strategic importance . . .'

‘OK. OK.' The voice muttered again. ‘No need to go on about it.'

Anne glanced over her shoulder from her seat in the front row. She couldn't identify the voice but all the faces she saw looked drained and weary. Two scrubs in succession had taken a toll on nerves, and last night's op had been a shaky do, to say the least. Three Wimpeys lost, complete with crews.

When the Group Captain had finished, people came and went on the stage. The Met man, when it came to his turn, spoke vaguely of low stratocumulus over the North Sea and uncertainty about the weather over the target.

The same voice grumbled behind her. ‘Bloody useless wanker! Don't know why they don't just ring up the bloody Huns and ask them what the weather's like over there . . .'

The crews filed out of the briefing room collecting their rice-paper flimsies, their escape kits and their orange juice, chewing gum, barley sugar and wakey-wakey pills.

‘Can I have your egg if you don't come back?' she heard one of them say to another.

Latimer's crew passed her and she smiled at them all; the spry little rear gunner gave her a huge wink. Latimer looked back as he went out and raised his hand with a smile. Eighteen done. Only twelve more to go.

She went down to stand by the beginning of the main runway. It was dusk and she watched the procession of laden Wimpeys trundling round the peri track towards her. One by one they swung round onto the run-way, the most senior first. B-Baker, T-Tommy, K-King, D-Dog, S-Sugar, E-Easy thundered off in turn and staggered away into the darkening sky. She waved to them all, along with the rest of the faithful little band of personnel and ground crew. A-Apple was next and she watched the Wimpey lift and climb away.
Good luck, Digger
. . .

Latimer's, C-Charlie, swung round into position, waiting for the signal from the Watch Tower. She stood on tiptoe and waved as hard as she could.
I hope he's seen me
.

The green signal flashed out and C-Charlie began its
take-off run with a howling shriek of engines, and a thumbs-up from the rear gunner as the bomber gathered speed away from her. She followed it with her eyes as it tore on towards the far end of the runway and then sighed with relief as it began to rise at last, wallowing a little, and to clamber upwards slowly and painfully, like an old lady climbing very steep stairs. Hannibal would be there, up in his front row seat, watching what was going on; seeing the concrete and grass slip away beneath him.

Beside her, one of the ground crew said suddenly: ‘Crikey, I don't like the sound of that bloody engine . . .'

She strained after the bomber. Its left wing dropped suddenly and the Wimpey seemed to fall sideways out of the sky. The wing hit the ground first and the bomber cartwheeled over on its back and burst into flames.

She stood frozen in horror, her hand still lifted in farewell. The fire-engines and a bloodwagon were tearing pointlessly towards the terrible inferno.

Very slowly, her hand sank to her side.

THE STATION WARRANT
Officer at RAF Kirkton, near Dundee, happened to be looking out of a window as three girls walked by. He stared, and went on staring. They were dressed in RAF blue battle dress blouses and slacks and wore black berets on their heads. He had never seen anything like it. He opened the window and leaned out.

‘Ooh the 'ell are you lot?'

They stopped dead. The one nearest to him, a pretty girl with short, curly hair, went scarlet.

‘We're flight mechs, sir. We've just arrived.'

He looked at them incredulously and clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘God 'elp us all!' he said, and slammed the window shut.

Winnie gulped. The other two, Irene and Phyllis, laughed. Irene tossed her head.

‘I'm not going to let them bother me. We've been sent here and they'll just have to put up with us.'

The Chief Technical Officer appeared as astonished as the SWO. He scratched his head as they stood before his
desk.

‘I don't know what I'm going to do with you three. We've never had WAAF flight mechs here before.'

They waited patiently while he went on scratching his head. At last, he made up his mind.

‘Well, I'll give you a chance to prove yourselves. But if any of you aren't up to scratch you'll find yourselves sent back where you came from.'

They were split up and sent to different places on the aerodrome.

‘Diluting us,' Phyllis said scornfully. ‘Afraid we'll contaminate them, or something.'