AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Thank you very much, Sir," she said.
"Have I your permission to withdraw? " "Good night, Captain," Canidy said. The captain stamped her foot, did an about-face, and marched militarily out of the room.
The captain had worn a wedding ring. Canidy wondered where her husband was-and whether the wedding ring would have an effect on Whittaker.
All things considered, he'd rather the captain were a man. He finished his drink, undressed, and went to bed.
FIVE Shannon Airfield Republic of Ireland August 14, 1942
One of the B-17Es in their flight had lost an engine over New Brunswick, left the formation, and turned around and landed safely at Presque Isle, Maine. A second experienced engine trouble over Cape Breton Island, but because of weather conditions at alternative airports, they decided to make the first scheduled stop at Gander Field, Newfoundland. Homer Wilson, who was convinced the B-17 pilot was probably going to get lost flying by himself, got on the radio and told the other pilot he was above and behind him.
"Suggest YOU go on oxygen, climb to one five thousand, and get on my tail," he said.
"I'll throttle back so you can." The B-17E pilot's voice, even clipped by the radio, was emotional with gratitude.
Slowing down caused them to reach Gander two hours after the other B-17Es. And they were on the ground there only long enough to refuel, even though many of the B-17Es "required attention," One of the lead pilots told them this was standard practice, The mechanics would in fact find very little wrong with engines or anything else, once they investigated the reported red Xs. But faced with flying a thirty-four-hundred-mile leg across the North Atlantic, pilots with only a couple of hundred hours could reasonably be expected to be a little nervous -I can't say I blame them. When I had as much time as most of these kids, I thought New York to Boston was a dangerously long hop."
They took off and headed east on the course the B- 17Es would fly en route to their destination in Scotland. Wilson made the takeoff, but before they had even reached cruising altitude, he got out of his seat and turned it over to Fine. He needed rest, and there was no sense sitting there watching the fuel gauge needles move. Twelve hours into the flight, after his second two-hour stint at the controls, Fine went aft, sat on the round, backless radio operator's stool, and began cranking the radio direction finder antenna, a circle of aluminum tubing mounted on top of the fuselage. A half hour later, the needles of the direction finder jumped into life. Although he could not yet make out the Morse code through the static, Fine went forward and suggested to Wilson that he change course and try to pick it up on his own separate RDF system. When he did, the needle jumped, but the little X flag on the dial, indicating a signal too weak to be reliable, remained in view, Fine returned to the radio operator's station and rotated the RDF antenna again. Before long the needle jumped, and he could hear the Shannon identifier, The plane immediately began to bank in that direction. Fine stood on the navigator's stand and watched through the plastic navigator's hemisphere on the top of the C-46 until the last of the B-17Es, on a course for Prest wick, had faded from sight, The Irish coastline appeared twenty minutes later, a black blur on the horizon that gradually came into focus. An hour later, they made contact with the Shannon tower on the communication radio. They touched down at Shannon with forty-five minutes' fuel remaining.
"On the post flight examination form, mechanical problems that would make further flight hazardous are marked with a red X.
"I have just had a profound thought," Fine said as he stood behind the pi, lots' seats while Wilson taxied the C -46 down a taxiway toward the terminal buildings.
"Mrs. Fine's little boy, Stanley, has just flown the ocean." Wilson laughed. "It may be routine to you," Fine said.
"But it's extremely exhilarating. If I weren't a happily married man, I would get drunk and chase immoral women. The Irish customs officials who met the plane were not the smiling, genial Irishmen of lore. There were four of them, pinch-faced and scowling, and they examined the C-46's papers and their passports suspiciously. Then they conducted a thorough search of the airplane itself, as if they had been tipped it was carrying contraband. Fortunately, they did not go so far as to strip-search the crew, for if they had, they would have learned that Fine was wearing a money belt that held one hundred thousand dollars' worth of assorted currency and a dozen Hamilton aviator's chronometers.
Possession of either the money or the wristwatches was not illegal, but it was unusual, and he would have been asked questions. Two of the customs officers stayed with them when they went through the paperwork at the terminal, and stayed with them when they went to the shabby, unpleasant restaurant for dry rolls, artificial strawberry preserves, and tea, but no coffee. The custom officials even followed them into the men's room, leaning impatiently against cracked and dirty washbasins until they had come out of the stalls.
They took off again after an hour and fifteen minutes on the ground.
First they flew west, but then turned on a southeasterly course that would carry them over the southern tip of Ireland and then over the Atlantic on a straight course toward Lisbon.
X I ONE I Whitby House Kent, England 0400 Hours August 15, 1942
Captain the Duchess St
an field, V@TAC, was not at all surprised when wakened by the sound of a whistle, and then a cheerful voice bellowing, "Aw right, aw right, drop your cocks and pick up your socks, it's that time, haul your ass out of the sack! " There had been an essentially identical announcement the night before at 10:00 Pm." shortly after she had gone to sleep on an American Army folding canvas cot in a nine-by-twenty-foot room that had been, she recalled, her downstairs housekeeper's broom closet. Similar whistle blowing and picaresque admonitions to the guard came at midnight and at 2:00 A.M. The racket lasted about five minutes. The whistle blowing and obscenities-some clever, some simply vulgar roused the thirty-odd men of the guard relief from their cots in tents erected close behind her window.
After they were up, the guards were formed in ranks and loaded aboard two large trucks. The trucks were then driven off with loud clashes of gears and roaring whines of transmissions. Ten minutes or so later-just long enough for her to begin to fall asleep-the trucks returned with the just-relieved guard, who, following another picaresque announcement 264
N W.K.R. ariffin from the sergeant, entered the tents, exchanged colorful obscenities as they removed their boots, then slept. The difference between the British Army and the American Army, she concluded afterward, is that the British Tommy suffers the obscene exhortations of his sergeant in silence, while the American GI, to the delight of his peers, is quick to exchange obscenity for obscenity, and he apparently does it with impunity, She could scarcely imagine a British sergeant accepting a suggestion shouted from the ranks that he "knock off the fucking bullshit!"
Captain the Duchess Stan field, WRAC, whose Christian names were Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, knew by now she would probably not get back to sleep. She usually was a sound sleeper. But once woken it was hard for her to get back to sleep. This was the third time she had been awakened.
She was naked between the American Army sheets. It had either been that or sleep in her underwear. She did not like to sleep in a brassiere, and her slip was standard issue, which meant it was skimpy and abrasive. One of the supplemental benefits of her new assignment would be access to her own linen, presuming she could find it. When Whitby House had been requisitioned, the staff had of course carefully packed away all her personal things. But the staff was now gone, and she had not a notion where in the house her trunks had been stored.
And because I wasn't able to go looking for them last night, she thought, I was forced to sleep naked in the broom closet while a young and distinctly unpleasant American major slept in my husband's bed.
But then she came to realize that there was no reason why she could not turn her wakefulness to her own advantage. She would start looking for her things right now. In seconds she was standing on the balls of her feet on the cold, gritty stone floor and reaching for her discarded underwear. Then she decided to ignore the soiled undergarments. In five or ten minutes she would have her own fresh, clean, soft underwear. In the meantime, all she had to do was pass the officer of the guard in the adjacent room and head down the corridor to the rear stairs. It was entirely likely that he would not even come out of his little office. She slipped her bare feet into her oxfords and tucked her shirt into the waistband of her khaki skirt. She was reminded of what she thought of as the "bloody sexual injustice in women officers' uniforms." Despite the shortages, prewar-quality material was somehow made available to gentlemen's tailors. Male officers had at least several uniforms of prewar quality, while officers' uniforms of the Women's Royal Army Corps came from the same manufacturer who made uniforms for enlisted men, and were of much lower quality and fit. It had been possible for a seamstress to tighten her uniform skirts where they bagged over her rear end, but there had not been enough material to let out her shirts and tunics to make room for her bosom. Unless she wore a tight brassiere, she strained buttons.
She looked down at her shirt now. The buttons looked about ready to pop. now that I'm assigned to Whitby House. That's something else I can do, I can go into the village and find some seamstress who could take care my uniforms for me. Somewhere in the house-and I will find them if it takes me two weeks-are a half dozen or more of Edward's uniforms. I'll have them cut down for me, even if every stitch has to be taken out of them and the uniform started from scratch. With her nakedness now more or les's covered, she carefully opened the door, found no one in the foyer, and slipped out, walking quickly down the corridor toward the kitchen.
From there stairs led upstairs. With no one in it, the kitchen seemed enormous. The six huge black stoves-now cold-were larger than she remembered them. The Americans apparently were not going to trouble themselves with coal stoves, as there were now two stainless-steel field ranges where the butcher blocks had been. And still in a crate addressed to Quartermaster ETO-European Theater of Operations-was a huge, restaurant-size refrigerator. Beside it, the Whitby House refrigerator looked incongruously small. to see if there was something to eat in She gave in to the temptation before, and she the old refrigerator. She had missed supper the night would be damned if she would ask Major Canidy for a meal. inside she found an almost unbelievable cornucopia of foodstuffs. There were, for starters, at least six dozen fresh eggs. The British ration was one fresh egg per week-when available. There were two-gallon containers of milk marked "Container Property US Army Quartermaster Corps." Only children under four, pregnant women, and nursing women were given a milk ration. hams, pound There were steaks, chickens, two enormous tinned blocks of fresh butter "[Butter, 1 lb Block, Grade AAA, Schmalz's Dairy, Oshkosh, Wisc. USAV' and, the most incredible thing of all, a wooden crate marked "Sun kist Florida Oranges."
My God, there must be eight, ten, twelve dozen oranges! Captain the Duchess Stan field could not remember the last time she had had an orange. They were rationed out to British children even more strictly than eggs and milk. No wonder, she thought as she slammed the door angrily, our refrigerator is inadequate for their needs. When she was in the stairwell she began to consider the most likely place the staff would have put her clothing. The answer was immediately obvious.
There were two small rooms just above what had been her own apartment where her personal maid-now a Leading Aircraftswornan, Royal Air Force-had lived. just as she had hoped, a neatly lettered sign was thumbtacked to her personal maid's door:
