Daphne Melling first called them Faith, Hope and Charity. Daphne had a talent for giving nicknames that stuck, had done since school, unsurprisingly maybe for someone with a given name so rich in comedy potential. It was not a trait that endeared her to others but then she had always been, as she termed it, self reliant. A quality that had carried her on solo flights to many far flung outposts of empire; not that were very many left unreached and Daphne’s exploits in foreign parts had brought her little of the fame that attached itself to other aviatrixes. Daphne had a choice nickname for Amy Johnson.

Polly Watson’s habit of prefixing requests with ‘I hope this isn’t an imposition…’ or ‘I had hoped we would…’ offered Daphne easy meat, and she was not alone in spotting Anthea’s Bible reading. With Faith and Hope taken care of Charity fell to Jemima; of course the name could be construed a dig at Jemima’s working class origins. Though she might deny that this was her intention Daphne little minded offending someone younger and prettier than her. Of course she had enough taste not to use the name directly

Jemima sloped away from the mess before Polly found her something to do (there was always something to do even though the squadron had no serviceable aeroplanes yet). She had discovered a spot at the edge of the dispersal area where she could pass time undisturbed few of her fellows caring to brave the wintery weather. She was not by nature a solitary person it was just that everyone else was older and a bit posh. Even when someone complimented her she felt as though she was being addressed along the length of their noses. So Jemima crept off and spent a few hours smoking and wondering what it all meant.

It was less than a year since that John Crabtree had begun his apprenticeship as a draughtsman in the same engineering firm where his father was a foreman. He had earned a scholarship for the local art school and his father’s staunch opposition to his youngest son’s airy ambitions. Draughtsman was a proper job; John would never want for work with a trade, it had been a very lean decade after all. He hated drawing straight lines; he hated his pens, the rules, the compasses and most of all the unending geometry. When he was accepted for aircrew training he had slipped away from the family home one morning leaving a note for his mother. He had not been back since.

In pilot training for the first time in John’s life he found himself rubbing shoulders with young men from all parts of the country, and all social classes. It could have been overwhelming if he had not displayed such natural flying ability; he soloed before any of his classmates, and barely paused until he had been posted to an operational training unit. By that time there was a desperate demand for pilots yet John, who had stepped in to tutor some of the others, had not been posted to an active squadron. As the weeks passed it became apparent that the commanding officer was reluctant to let a good instructor go, so when the call came for pilots no more than five feet five inches tall John jumped at the chance to volunteer.