Catherine Walton hung over the cockpit combing giving Pat a few last pointers on the Hurricane’s controls, and how the aircraft handled. She was a sweet girl, a typically blonde and cream skinned English rose whose enthusiasm seemed endless, and Pat thought a little guiltily, relentless. Still she was glad of the advice, it had been three years since she had flown a single-engined aeroplane and the Hind had been a relatively sedate two-seat light-bomber not a high speed, single-seat fighter.
‘Good luck’ said Catherine giving her a quick peck on the cheek and dropped off the aeroplane, ducking away from the wing’s leading edge. Pat started the aircraft down the field wondering at the noise and the power in her hands, the Blenheim’s engines were not all that much quieter than the Merlin but they had the advantage of being further away from the cockpit. Buffeted by the rough airstrip and shaken by engine vibration she gently lifted the Hurricane into the air retracting the undercarriage in the slow climb over Helton. For the first time in months she experienced the utter joy that had drawn Peter to the RAF, the thrill he had first experienced as a young boy tucked into the rear cockpit of a barnstormer’s Avro.
Officially this was meant to be a test flight of the squadron’s sole serviceable Hurricane; there had been some jealous glances from the earthbound when she had taken the flight upon herself. Selfishly perhaps but Pat felt after months away from flying she needed to blow away the cobwebs and climbed to 5000 feet plotting a course to take her over Lacksford.
The small market town drifted into view a huddle of buildings surrounding the medieval church and market square. Its thin ring of anti-aircraft defences were a hideous imposition on this traditional English scene but a very necessary one while the Luftwaffe still presented a threat. They seldom came by day now of course, that door had been closed to them in the hectic autumn months when the hard pressed RAF had risen to meet huge fleets of German aircraft, but they raided nightly now and while Lacksford had not suffered greatly at their hands it was still within range of French based aircraft. Not that it was a likely target, there was no industry here to speak of and the railway station lay on a sleepy branchline far removed from the main. Quite why they needed nightfighter cover had not been explained to 641 but when they had the aircraft they would mount cat’s eye patrols over the towns few searchlight batteries, probably keeping as many people awake as their presence reassured.
A summer spent scouring the channel for enemy shipping had improved Pat’s already keen eye and something tugged at her attention on the ground two or three miles east of Lacksford. Giving the town’s handful of barrage balloons a wide berth she reduced altitude to investigate. The Hurricane’s approach had sparked a flurry of activity in a large field, with tiny unseen figures hauling away at covers and hastily throwing up camouflage netting. Too late Pat thought whatever they’re doing down there they don’t want anyone to see and a little piqued turned the Hurricane’s nose around and headed back to Helton.
Her corselette was achieving the impossible, becoming even more uncomfortable as its bones dug into hers no matter how she tried to arrange herself. She almost missed the change in engine note and turned quickly to the control panel to find out what was happening. Its dials gave few clues other than a slight rise in engine temperature which she had little time to analyse before it sputtered out of life the propeller lazily windmilling in the slipstream. Peter has been in far worse scrapes she told herself trying not to add that he had never had to contend with corsetry cutting him in half at the same time. She calmly looked over the wing for somewhere to put down and was met by an unending vista of ploughed winter fields each no doubt as treacherous as any other. Pat thought briefly of baling out, but had visions of trigger happy home-guardsmen filled with stories of parachutists disguised as nuns. A small field came into view sparsely grassed hopefully it had been left fallow long enough for the soil to harden.
