A Sister’s Courage. Molly Green

Raine thought grimly. Neville Chamberlain and Herr Hitler had signed an agreement to say the two countries would never go to war with one another again, when now, almost exactly a year later, Chamberlain had told the nation that war had been declared on Germany. It was too terrible to imagine. And yet she understood how Ronnie was feeling. At least we know for sure, she told herself, aware of a frisson of excitement. Surely now she’d be able to put her pilot’s licence to good use.

      Raine quietly left the room. She needed to get some air and think what to do next.

      Mr Gray, the village air-raid warden, came to the house a few days later to announce that gas masks were being sent to the village hall, and families should come to be fitted and collect theirs the following week.

      ‘I will not wear anything so ugly,’ Simone declared when she saw the masks lined up on the trestle tables in the village hall next to a pile of cardboard boxes for each one to be carried in.

      ‘It might save your life, Maman,’ Raine said grimly, trying hers on.

      Ugh. The rubber stank and there was a strong smell of disinfectant.

      Simone wasn’t the only one muttering. Most of the men seemed to accept that they were a sensible precaution, but several of their wives decided they didn’t like the look of them at all.

      ‘Keep it on for a few minutes, dear,’ one of the ladies who was helping people with their size said to Raine. ‘It’ll get you used to it.’

      Raine didn’t think she could last that long. It was difficult to breathe and the smell was making her feel queasy. After a long minute, she pulled it off and went to the door, drawing in deep gulps of air.

      Simone refused even to try it on. She simply took the size the woman recommended her and put it in its cardboard box.

      ‘I will look at it when I am home,’ she said, but Raine knew she would do nothing of the kind.

      ‘How are you two getting on?’ Raine asked her sisters.

      There were muffled replies and both of them removed theirs.

      ‘They’re hateful,’ Ronnie said. ‘It’d take a catastrophe for me to wear mine.’

      ‘That’s the idea,’ Raine said.

      Suzanne promptly rushed to the cloakroom and came back white-faced.

      ‘That was horrible,’ she said. ‘I felt I was suffocating.’

      ‘Let’s just hope we never have to use them,’ Raine said.

      When several weeks went by and still nothing happened, people began to call it a phoney war. They became more casual about keeping their gas masks with them at all times. But as far as Raine was concerned, there was one big difference. There were no more civilian pilots, no more flying clubs. Anyone who was a pilot was serving their country – and that, of course, didn’t include female pilots. She gritted her teeth. Maybe she should join the WAAFs, after all. At least she’d be amongst people she respected and admired. But still something held her back.

      She’d finally heard from Doug. He sent her a private letter care of Biggin Hill aerodrome.

       28th October 1939

       Dear Raine,

       I’m so sorry I left so abruptly. You must have wondered what had happened to me. I had a crisis at home and then when I’d got myself back together again there was a war on!

       I heard you got your pilot’s licence so my heartiest congratulations. You see I do know a bit of what’s going on even though I’m quite a long way from you at the moment – can’t say where. You’ve probably left Biggin Hill by now and joined the WAAFs. That’s what I wanted to tell you – that I’ve joined up – RAF, of course.

      Raine chewed her lip. So Doug was a fighter pilot doing his bit for his country. She prayed he hadn’t been called on to do anything too dangerous. He’d become like a brother to her over the months he’d taught her to fly and she’d been hurt, then worried, when she hadn’t heard anything from him for such a long time. She read on:

       I think very fondly of you and I’m so proud of you. We’re bound to meet sooner or later, particularly if you’ve joined the WAAFs as at least you’ll be close to the action.

       However I do have something interesting to tell you. A civilian organisation called the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA for short) has just been formed and its function is to ferry aircraft to airfields around the country for the RAF. They’re taking pilots who are too old this time around, or injured from the last war, so not fit for combat but they can still deliver a plane safely. And this is the real news – apparently they’re planning to form a women’s section of experienced pilots. I’ll let you know when I hear anything more.

       Write to me if you get the opportunity. Address at top and it will be forwarded to me.

       With much affection,

       Doug x

      Raine read the last part of the letter about the ATA again, her heart practically leaping out of her chest. Here was the reason she hadn’t joined the WAAFs. This ATA was going to admit women pilots! She’d try to find out more about it at work tomorrow. Because if she didn’t get some regular air miles in her log book soon, she wouldn’t stand a chance. She swallowed hard. All she had worked for, all she had dreamed, would be shattered. There had to be a way for this ATA organisation to take her. There simply had to.

       Chapter Seven

       October 1940

      ‘Miss Linfoot, please come to my office right away.’

      Raine jumped as her desk extension rang. She’d been in her usual reverie, looking out of the window watching planes landing and taking off, longing to be up there with them. At first it had been exciting peering up at the dogfights going on right over her head at Biggin Hill, seeing the RAF boys shooting down the Luftwaffe in what Winston Churchill called the Battle of Britain. But when she’d witnessed her first sight of a Spitfire spiralling down in flames, the pilot having had no chance of baling out, or surviving a ball of fire on impact, she’d immediately thought of Doug. He’d be up there somewhere. If it wasn’t today, it would be tomorrow.

      At least she and the family were far enough away not to have suffered like Londoners who had gone through night after night being bombed. Thankfully, Hitler now seemed to have turned his attention elsewhere. Heaven knew in what condition the Luftwaffe had left their beloved capital. And knowing what constant danger Londoners were living in, if anything, made her even more resolute to be part of the action.

      Raine had been in the pay section for a year and had become more and more frustrated stuck in an office. Although she’d taken over the role of a fully-fledged pay clerk, she wished for the hundredth time that she’d been born a man. Then she would have been welcomed with open arms as a pilot. It was all so ridiculous. Women were every bit as good as the men. But even the ATA was cautious, it seemed. Doug told her they’d only taken eight very experienced female pilots a few months ago – all of them with several hundred flying hours or more. There was no point yet in applying with her few. He’d suggested she seriously think about joining the WAAFs, but she didn’t want to. She’d have to sign up with them. Commit herself to however many years the war was going to last in a non-flying position and perhaps lose the opportunity of flying with the ATA – what she’d set her heart on. No, she wouldn’t risk it.

      But she’d go mad if something didn’t turn up soon. Even Maman had joined the Women’s Voluntary Service and was busy collecting aluminium utensils from friends and neighbours for the war effort. ‘We will turn your pots and pans into Spitfires and Hurricanes, Blenheims and Wellingtons,’ Lord Beaverbrook had recently announced on the wireless, and Maman had jumped