‘Laydeez! Laydeez!’ Madame D’Hibard appeared increasingly agitated ‘must I remind you zat you are not on ze parade ground. Pay attenti-on to your deportement pliss’. Anthea, Polly and Jemima grinned at each other, after six weeks they knew Madame’s rages were seldom meant and the movements which she had so patiently taught them had become almost second nature.

Despite throwing in the odd mistake for entertainment’s sake they knew the ancient matron was far kindlier than she let on, and had been a tower of strength in the early days while they adapted to the change of uniform. Now completely at ease they sashayed around the room as Madame directed. Their clothes were somewhat at odds with the finishing school elegance with which they moved, the heavy woollen garments often seemed to be fighting back at such overt displays of femininity and the substitutions Madame had insisted upon – grey woollen stockings had been replaced with silk, and the flat service issue shoes with heeled pumps so that they might better learn to move as women. In fact only one thing continued to upset them – they had as yet not been allowed to sew their wings to their tunics.

If Madame D’Hibard was an endearing, elderly aunt then Miss Gordonstoun was their confidante, even conspirator. It was her task to teach the three how to dress, look after their hair (fabulously expensive pieces from London’s finest maker they were told) and how to discreetly apply those indispensable touches of femininity at odds with uniform regulations.

Miss Gordonstoun’s archenemy was Flight-Sergeant Morris, a veritable battleaxe of a WAAF who had been installed to ensure the RAF’s highest standards were maintained. It became a game to see who could carry off the most contraband items under the statuesque Flight-Sergeant’s beady eye, a game which was inevitably won by Jessica Crabtree. Displaying a bravery almost equal to that which would carry her into battle Jess would rouge her lips or dab a little scent behind her ears and brazenly flaunt herself before Sergeant Morris. Needless to say she was often caught and dragged by her ear to the washroom for a sturdy application of carbolic soap.

Not that it put her off at all, of the three Jess was the most convincingly feminine both in appearance and movement, her only failing was her Yorkshire accent – a thorn in Dr Higgins’ side from their very first session.

A woman who delighted in the airs of a bluestocking, and armed with a rapier tongue that could cut even Sergeant Morris to the quick Honoria Higgins had taken charge of the trio’s vocal training. A public school education had given Pat and Mandy an accent that needed only minor modifications in pitch and phrasing to pass easily as a woman’s but grammar school had failed Jess in this respect. While nowhere near as broad as the doctor intimated her accent stubbornly refused to subside no matter how long the pair practiced into the small hours.

For all her fierce aspect however Honoria was delighted with Jess, at last she had a project to rival her father’s greatest feats and how she would enjoy telling him of her success… after the war of course. Their breakthrough moment occurred as the clock was striking midnight when Jess, broken down by hours of incessant exercises, wrestled her flat, drawling vowels into the open clipped tones the doctor demanded. In the flush of success Honoria whisked Jess to her feet, waltzed around the room and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her pupil’s lips. It won’t do she told herself while straightening her hair no matter how irresistible she is and despatched the bemused Jess to bed.

Two months had gone by before their instructors had pronounced them ready for the world’s attentions, and while all three had become firm friends in the face of adversity they had not yet fully abandoned the insularity that maintained a strict reserve between men, even men who appeared to be women to all but the most discerning eye. It had been a long journey however and the walls were beginning to crumble, they did not speak to each other but did exchange looks from time to time. Otherwise they sat in silence lost to their thoughts and innermost feelings.

Mandy crossed her legs (in the approved manner) almost regretting the loss of the silk stockings now consigned with her other meagre female possessions to the small card suitcase at her feet. The months of training had imposed new preoccupations and she struggled to bring to mind the faces of lost friends, no matter how hard she tried. What would they think of Arnold Carstairs now she wondered (it had become increasingly difficult to think of herself as anything other than ‘herself’), would they laugh, or pour scorn on someone who had escaped by dressing up as a woman? No matter what they thought Flying-Officer Carstairs was determined to fullfil her duty to the very best of her abilities, no whatever would be demanded of her. Still she had to fight back the desire to bite her nails, Miss Gordonstoun would never forgive it