Heartwarming and emotional story of one girl's courage in WW2, Fenella Miller [best pdf ebook reader for android TXT] 📗

the board looked relatively pleased with her. ‘Good show. You will receive details of your posting in the next few days. Are you aware what the Official Secrets Act means?’

‘Yes, ma’am, I am.’

‘Then that’s all. You may go. Good morning.’

Ellie jumped to her feet, her heart thudding, and hastily smoothed down her skirt which had ridden up her thighs. This time her salute was perfect. She about-turned and marched out. The drill sergeant would have been proud of her.

The next day postings were on the board. She desperately wanted to tell her friends that she’d volunteered for something important but remembered the warning about official secrets.

‘Ellie, I’m so pleased you’re being posted with us,’ Mary said. ‘There’s only a few of us on this list. Isn’t it exciting?’

The following morning the select group were ferried to the station and told to get on the next train. They were accompanied by a less than friendly male sergeant. They steamed and rattled for the remainder of the day, stopping and starting, reversing and shunting until eventually they were told to disembark. She had no idea whereabouts they were. They could have been travelling in a circle for all she knew.

There was no transport waiting for them. They were expected to march through the countryside, down winding lanes with high hedges over which they couldn’t see. These new escorts were equally taciturn, and also male.

‘I can smell the sea, Ellie,’ Daisy whispered.

‘You’re right, I can too.’

After an hour’s brisk marching they arrived at a wooden jetty which stuck out into a silent estuary. Not the sea – but close. This was deserted apart from three rowing boats.

If anyone dared to speak they were immediately told to be quiet. In silence, they stowed their bags and scrambled in to the boats. Fortunately, they weren’t expected to do the rowing themselves, this was the job for their escorts.

A further thirty minutes was spent on the water. Night had fallen, but from the light of the full moon she could see they were travelling inland. The boat bumped against another wooden jetty, but this one was more dilapidated and much smaller.

It moved and swayed under their feet and she was glad to be on terra firma. They marched in the darkness until wrought iron gates appeared. They continued and there was the crunch of gravel under her feet. This was the drive to a large, stately home of some sort. It was impossible to see clearly exactly where they’d arrived.

There was no supper offered before they were directed to their accommodation. She fell asleep hungry and still not sure exactly what she’d volunteered for.

*

Jack had only to complete the navigational sections of the initial training as his log book made the basic training unnecessary. He found himself billeted with half a dozen blokes with similar experience and they were all destined to be fighter pilots.

They seemed a reasonable bunch although none of them had the flying hours that he did. He passed the exam with no difficulty and was shunted off to an Operational Training Unit – known as OTU – where he would learn how to fly a Spitfire or a Hurricane.

He’d become close pals with a fellow recruit. Ian was the same age as him, but there the resemblance ended. Whereas he was an inch under six foot, Ian was several inches shorter. He was best described as wiry, with thick black hair. His father was Chinese, which you could see in his slightly oriental features.

They were lounging about in the local pub when another member of the group burst in. ‘What’s up with Rollo? Never seen him so animated,’ Ian said as he slurped his warm beer.

Jack beckoned him over. ‘Bad news, mate? Has the missus run-off with the milkman?’

Rollo shook his head. ‘Worse than that. I’ve just heard there aren’t going to be any Spitfires to train on – we’ll have to make do with Hurricanes.’

‘Is that all? I thought Hitler had invaded. They can’t build them fast enough to let us loose on them in case we go for a Burton. I’m sure you’ll get to fly one eventually,’ Jack said unsympathetically.

‘I suppose you’re right, as usual. I need a couple of pints to cheer me up. Are you buying?’

‘Bugger off! It’s about time you stood us a round.’

The banter continued and became noisier when the remainder of their group arrived and joined in. He left them to it after three drinks and made his way through the inky streets with only the pinpoint of light from his pocket torch to stop him breaking his neck.

*

The instructor was a veteran from the previous war, but he’d flown Hurricanes and Spitfires often enough to be able to fulfil his job efficiently. Rollo had been right and they were to complete their training on Hurricanes.

The next few weeks were spent on night flying, navigation, cross country and all-weather practice. The final two weeks of the six-week course was devoted to flying mock battles. They were divided into two groups and took turns chasing each other around the sky. At the end of each day Jack’s neck was raw where the stiff collar of his shirt bit into him every time he turned his head.

Staying alive in a fighter plane was dependent on the pilot being able to see an enemy plane approaching. Firing blanks at each other wasn’t the same as using live ammo, but obviously a lot safer.

At the end of the training four of the blokes were commissioned and only he and Ian became flight sergeants. It hadn’t been suggested that he became an officer and he thought that was because of his association with Joe who was now languishing at His Majesty’s Pleasure in Wandsworth.

He was being sent to Croydon to join 17 Squadron and would be flying a Hurry as expected. He was pleased his friend Ian was coming with him. He began to regret that he hadn’t been commissioned when he discovered that the Officers’ Mess