Free Spitfire Girl by Jackie Moggridge Page A

the bus from the aerodrome, vanish into the incognito of my fellow passengers and relive the contentment that the last flight has brought. Modesty, the modesty of one who loves not too wisely and knows that one is not entirely loved in return has overcome that earlier vanity and conceit.
    Deftly she weighed me up. Hours, types, qualifications, and the last significant question: ‘When did you last fly?’ My answer brought pursed lips and a ‘Hum’ that shattered my newly acquired confidence.
    We climbed into a Tiger Moth parked at the edge of the apron. I was clumsy and awkward. She slipped neatly into the front seat and sat patiently waiting as I fumbled frenziedly for the elusive straps and gadgetry. Her voice trilled absurdly through the speaking tube:
    ‘Carry on and do three circuits and landings. Keep a good look-out. There is an R.A.F. elementary training school here as well as de Havillands.’
    The first take-off, circuit of the aerodrome and landing was shocking. I taxied back to the take-off point grimly aware that none of the landings I had seen today at this ab initio training school was quite as putrid as my recent effort. I tried again; there was a decided improvement. I took off on the final circuit knowing that the score was even. A bad one and I was finished. Carefully I climbed the Tiger Moth to 1,000 feet and throttled smoothly back to cruising power. I watched the altimeter like a lynx and nursed the slippery Turn and Bank indicator that was eager to point waywardly to perdition. Turning again on to the cross-wind leg I knew I had a chance. Slowly I closed the throttle and trimmed for the glide. 60 m.p.h. 61, 59, 62. No! It must be 60. That’s it. Nicely. 60. 60; stay there! I had judged it perfectly. The aerodrome was set correctly beneath the nose. Easy, easy. Over the fence, level out. Slipstream sighing its swan-song. Back on the control column. Not too much! Back, back. This is it. I waited for a tortured second; the result now beyond my control. If I had judged it correctly we would sink gently and without a bounce on to the grass skimming beneath the wheels. Please, please, I begged, let it be a good landing.
    It was, and I was in the Air Transport Auxiliary.

14
    I returned triumphantly to Rye, my face wreathed in a fixed grin, to await further orders. Already I could imagine the gentle burden of gold stripes on my shoulders and wings on my breast. In the mirror my reflection was transformed from drab Waaf blue into a neat figure clad in trim navy blue, silk stockings and flattering forage cap. I made friends of enemies, gave things away and spent my last few pounds in the bank in anticipation of the fabulous salary I was to earn in the A.T.A. The airmen saluted my success in beer; the Waafs in chatter.
    A few days after my return we were paraded for formal inspection by a senior Waaf staff officer. Motionless but for our skirts flapping gently in the wind we stood in a thin blue line. In deference to the occasion our hair was severely correct, our buttons brilliant. The more timid wore official issue underwear though how these could be inspected defied the imagination.
    I glanced out of the corner of my eyes and saw that the inspecting party were still at the beginning of the file. My shoes were covered with a thin film of dust. Hurriedly I stood on one leg and rubbed the shoes against my calves. With mob psychology those surrounding me stood like cranes and repeated my example. There was a suppressed giggle and I felt an insane desire to laugh. A dirty look from our Commanding Officer brought self-control and immobility.
    The inspecting party walked along the line in spasmodic progress, stopping here and there to ask pompous questions and receive inaudible replies. To my dismay they ground to a halt in front of me. I stared vacantly into the past hoping my vacuous expression would deter questions. My officer smiled proudly. ‘This is A.C.W.2 Sorour, Ma’am. She is leaving us shortly to be