Chapter 1

Wing Commander Ellington sighed and laid his pen on his desk. The accident report lay, almost complete, in front of him. He needed to visit P/O¹ Atkins in hospital. But, more importantly, he needed to deal with the underlying factors in this, the third accident in as many weeks. The Bristol Beaufighter with which his squadron was equipped was a fine aircraft. It had an excellent performance and an intimidating armament. However, in inexperienced hands it could be tricky. The twin-engined, heavy fighter, equipped with RDF (what we nowadays call radar) for night-fighting interception, had a tendency to ground-loop on landing if the pilot was not careful, and an engine failure at low level was likely to result in a vicious roll into the ground. The most recent accident was, indeed, a ground-loop and the aircraft was out of action for some time. The pilot, though, should not have been flying without his harness. The previous accident had been caused by an engine failure during a (proscribed) low-level ‘beat up’ of the airfield. The death of the pilot saved the trouble of a court-martial, but didn’t remove the sting of the loss of his radar operator, a good man. How ... how to deal with the fear engendered by the reputation of the aircraft? He picked up the telephone.

¹Pilot Officer. Second Lieutenant in Army terms.

Flight Captain (the ATA equivalent of an RAF Squadron Leader) Simpson sighed as his phone rang, and he picked it up. “Simpson,” he stated, brusquely.

“Hey, Squashy! How are the Ancient and Tattered?”

“Randy, you old sod. Still crashing Beaufighters?”

“Not personally, as you well know. But that’s the reason for my call. My boys are terrified of the things, and of course that’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. We’ve just had another ground-loop, and the idiot is in hospital because he landed without fastening his harness. You’ll be delivering another replacement in a few days, I expect. I was wondering if there was some way of shaming them out of their terror.”

“Hmm. Funny you should say that...” The ATA officer paused, but went on, “You know that we’re prohibited from aerobatics...”

“I sympathise, but it does make sense, I suppose.”

“Would you be willing to ‘not notice’ if one of my pilots were to put on a stunt for your people?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. But I’m not sure that’s going to help.”

“Ah, but you haven’t heard who I want to send to do it...”

“Do tell.”

“Did you ever encounter Emily Burkinshaw?”

“Not personally, no. She’s the girl who was stunting a Moth in Cobham’s Flying Circus?”

“That’s the one. She’s just passed for Class four plus. She’s our go-to for Mosquitoes and Beaufighters.”

“Five foot nothing and seven stone²? She’s flying Beaus?”

²A stone weight is fourteen pounds Imperial. Seven stone is a little under a hundred pounds Imperial measure.

“Certainly is. If I give her unofficial permission to chuck a stunt for you I suspect she’ll be delighted. Seriously, though, this must not come to the attention of anyone in authority.”

“I’ll see how I can keep that quiet. I suppose the Group Captain needs to know. I’ll go and see him. He’ll agree, I’m sure. Cheers, old boy.” The phone disconnected with a click and a buzz.

Flight Captain Simpson stood and limped out of his office. “Betty, ask First Officer Burkinshaw to come to see me when she returns, will you?”

“Yes, sir. Certainly.”

“Is the Station Commander available, Sally?” Will Ellington smiled at the rather homely, but very pleasant, woman behind the desk.

“I believe so, sir. Just a moment.” She pressed a button on her intercom. “Wing Commander Ellington to see you, sir.”

“Send him in, Sally, please.”

She smiled at the Wing Commander, younger than herself, handsome in his uniform. “Go in, sir.”

“Thank you, Sally.”

He entered the office and saluted the Group Captain station commander. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

“What can I do for you, Will?”

“Here’s the accident report, sir.” He handed the document over. “I wanted to have a word about our problem, so I brought it in person.”

“I hope you have a clue, because I’m clueless ... unless we threaten to put them back in Blenheims.”

The squadron commander chuckled. “I did consider that, but I really didn’t want to go back to that myself. No. I have a different suggestion. You know that the ATA aren’t supposed to do aerobatics...”

“Certainly. And I thoroughly approve.”

Ellington took a deep breath. “I thought, sir, if the next kite was delivered by a young woman, and she gave a brief demonstration before landing...” he hesitated at his senior’s expression. “Sir, I never met the woman, but I’ve seen her fly before the war. She was in Cobham’s Circus. She’s just qualified class four plus a few weeks ago, and has been delivering Mossies and Beaus.”

“Humph...” the station commander was frowning. “You want me to approve this?”

“Not exactly, sir. Really, the only issue is not reporting it to the ATA management. Dammit, if something goes wrong, and she prangs the thing, she’ll be dead and we’ll be down another kite, but it’ll be on her head, not ours or her Flight Captain ... who happens to be an old friend.”

“Very well. It goes against the grain, but I’ll turn a blind eye. You’d better pass the word, though, around the station.”

“Come in, Emily.”

The Flight Captain smiled at the petite, blonde woman who entered his office.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I did. How do you like the Beaufighter?”

“It’s a nice aeroplane, sir. I like it well enough. Be interesting to see how it flies when not in a straight line.”

“Well, I have an interesting task for you, if you’re interested. You may have heard that some RAF pilots are nervous of the machine?”

She shrugged. “I know there’s been a few accidents.”

“A night-fighter squadron south of London has had three accidents in as many weeks. Two were simple ground-loops, and the aircraft was repairable, though one pilot wasn’t strapped in and spent some time in hospital. The other was an engine failure, and the machine spun in. The pilot was killed. All were avoidable, in my opinion. Certainly the engine failure was understandable, but still...”

“So, what do you need me to do?”

“I want you ... unofficially and off the record ... to chuck a stunt with the next kite you ferry there. The squadron commander is an old friend, and the station commander is going to turn a blind eye. This isn’t blanket permission, Emily, it’s a one-off opportunity. You are free to refuse, of course. Just turning up there and landing safely will send a message when they see you climb down from the cockpit...”

“And if I get it wrong and crash?”

“I’ll deny all knowledge.”

She thought about that for a minute, then smiled. “I suppose that makes sense. It wouldn’t make any difference to me, would it? I’ll certainly give it some thought.”

“That’s all I’m asking. Check with me before you go if you decide to do it.”

Emily Burkinshaw, First Officer, ATA.

At the age of seventeen, I was already licenced, and flying for Alan Cobham’s Flying Circus. Making my aeroplane, a Gypsy Moth, do what I wanted, precisely, was a thrill and a joy. My only regret was that I was unable to join the RAF as a pilot. But I did get a few trophies for air races and aerobatics. At the beginning of the war, no-one wanted to employ a woman pilot, but I did test-fly Tiger Moths for De Havilland. Then I heard through the grapevine that Pauline Gower, whom I knew slightly, was recruiting experienced women pilots for a civilian ferry organisation, the Air Transport Auxiliary, and I contacted her. In due course, I was recruited, and, basically, was flying Tiger Moths again until we broke into the male preserve of performance aircraft. I rose through the ranks, Third Officer, Second Officer, First Officer, and through the class qualifications up to and including class four plus. Class four meant high performance twin-engined aircraft, and the plus covered specific twins which represented challenges in some way – the de Havilland Mosquito, Bristol Beaufighter, and some American aircraft with the ‘tricycle’ undercarriage, which was revolutionary at the time.

When Flight Captain Simpson explained what he wanted me to do, I was torn. The opportunity to try the limits of a powerful fighter was tempting, but on the other hand I wouldn’t have much time to experiment and try things out. But I couldn’t resist, and spoke to Flight Captain Simpson. The arrangements required a little care.

I collected the Beau from Filton – the type was built both there and at a couple of shadow factories – and did my usual thorough pre-flight check. Occasionally I got comments of the ‘don’t you trust me?’ nature, but I always ignored them. The motors ran up perfectly with only the expected mag drop, and, given permission, I got the kite off the ground.

I broke several rules during that flight, but I wasn’t going to take chances, not more than I had to, anyway. I flew above a cloud layer, and as soon as I thought I was out of sight, ran up to full power and skimmed the top of the clouds. Good enough. Two ‘upward charlies’ – climbing rolls – followed by an Immelmann, pleased me, and I then performed a slow roll followed by a barrel roll. By that time I felt comfortable enough with the machine to try a stall-turn, which, well, I was glad that the cloud wasn’t solid ground. A couple more tries, and I was happy. Soon enough, I was overhead Manston airfield, my destination, and got the expected green flare.

Here goes...

Wing Commander Ellington.

I didn’t know what to expect, except that she would try to time her arrival mid-afternoon, when the crews on night duty would be up and about. I did suggest that the new machine was being delivered by a particularly skilled pilot, and they might be interested to watch.

She flew over at about a thousand feet, and got a green flare, but continued for several minutes past the pattern before banking and diving steeply, the motors screaming.

She might have been ten feet up as she crossed the airfield at full power. It certainly was not more. At the boundary she pulled up into a steep climb, rolling twice before continuing into an Immelmann. Over the centre of the field, she performed a perfect slow roll, cut one engine – without rolling out of control – spiralled down as she crossed the boundary, shut down the remaining engine, dropped the flaps as she crossed the threshold, and touched down in a perfect three-pointer. I don’t mind telling you, my heart was in my mouth.

She taxied into dispersal, and the guys all headed for the aircraft to meet this paragon of airmanship...

I didn’t get to see their faces as she dropped out of the machine, pulled off her helmet, and shook out her golden curls. By the time I got there, they were crowding round her and she was barely visible through the throng. I did hear her voice, though.

“Thank you, gentlemen! You won’t tell anyone, though, will you? We’re really not supposed to do what I just did. But it’s such a nice aeroplane.” Then after a pause and some male voices, “I could murder a beer, or failing that, a mug of tea.”

I raised my voice. “Gentlemen! I think we might open the bar for our guest, don’t you?”

That precipitated a rush to the Mess. I was happy to see that the officers who had the duty that night were moderating their intake. It was quite a party. Group Captain Howard came in and collected a pint of beer before approaching me.

“Well, Ellington, do you think the objective is achieved?”

“Time will tell, sir. Time will tell. But if not, it’s not for want of trying. Impressive, though, I think.”