That evening in the dining hall she voiced her outrage to her friends. ‘And if he thinks I’m going to stop wearing my lipstick, he’s another think coming.’
‘Oh, Fitz, you’re going to get yourself in trouble,’ said Elsie. ‘Are you always this rebellious?’
Fitz shrugged. ‘Why is it a woman is rebellious but a man is a maverick?’
‘Because it’s a man’s world, my dear,’ said Marjorie.
‘Well, it’s wrong,’ said Fitz. ‘I mean, look how many women are doing men’s jobs now there’s a war. It just goes to prove we’re as good as them.’
‘It’s a shame women don’t get paid as much as men,’ said Marjorie. ‘Us women get ten shillings a week less for doing the same work. It’s outrageous, but what can we do?’
‘Complain, for a start,’ said Fitz. ‘We wouldn’t be here training to be ferry pilots if we weren’t essential. The ATA was only formed to ferry mail, medical supplies and personnel about but look at it now, we’re moving planes about the country.’
‘It’s going to take more than a war to change the attitude of generations,’ said Elsie.
‘It doesn’t mean we have to accept it, simply because that’s the status quo,’ said Fitz. ‘Things are changing and people’s attitudes will need to change. By people, I mean men in particular.’
‘And you’re going to change it, one lipstick at a time,’ said Marjorie, taking a packet of cigarettes from her pocket.
The other girls laughed and Fitz found herself smiling, even though she was still determined to make her point and push back against the patriarchy.
The rest of the week passed and Fitz soon found herself in the rhythm of CFS: up early for breakfast, dressed in her flight gear and out on the runway by nine o’clock.
There were several hours of flying throughout the day, with and without instructors, aeroplane type permitting. She found some of the exercises rather tedious but they had been told underno circumstances were they to perform any type of aerobatic manoeuvre or travel at any excessive speed. Their job was simply to fly the aircraft at the most efficient speed and height so as not to cause any undue stress or damage to it when it was delivered to the RAF.
It was with ease that, at the end of their first month’s training, Fitz and the rest of her class all officially qualified as ferry pilots for the de Havilland Tiger Moths and were moving onto Magisters and Proctors next.
Most of the women were already at home in the Tiger Moths. During their evening conversations, Fitz learned that both Marjorie and Betty belonged to the Biggin Hill flying school while Elsie was part of the Brooklands club. Although Fitz hadn’t been part of any of the prestigious flying clubs nearer to London, she didn’t feel in the slightest bit intimidated. In fact, she revelled in her rather innocuous passage into the world of flying, albeit because her father was wealthy enough to support her passion. She was well aware that it was a privilege.
‘I’d love for every girl, whatever her background, to be able to have the opportunity to fly,’ she mused one night when they were sitting in the mess room, drinking their late-night cocoa. They had been at flying school for six weeks now and already halfway through their training ‘How fantastic would that be?’
‘The way this war is going, it might not be long before every girl can have the opportunity,’ said Marjorie.
‘Really? What have you heard?’ asked Betty. ‘I mean, I want the war to be over, of course I do. But selfishly, that means our flying days will be rather humdrum after all this.’
‘I overheard one of the instructors talking to someone and saying there is going to be a big push to get people to join the ATA.’ She looked over at Fitz. ‘So, Fitz, darling, your dream of every girl in the sky might be closer than you think.’
‘Did you hear that chap who was in the canteen earlier?’ asked Marjorie. ‘Complaining loud enough for me to hear about how women should stick to planting vegetables and making bread.’
‘Anyway, enough of all this talk,’ said Elsie. ‘We should all get to sleep. We’ve got to be up early tomorrow for dawn flying.’
The following morning the women all reported to Hangar 202 at 0600 hours, kitted out in their flying gear, having had a very early breakfast.
‘I could do with another coffee,’ said Marjorie, as they waited for the instructor to appear.
‘Me, too,’ said Fitz. ‘To think before I came here, I was a strictly tea and toast girl in the mornings. Now I’m coffee and ciggy.’
‘Morning, ladies,’ came the instructor’s voice as he entered the hangar. ‘Nice to see you all bright eyed and bushy tailed.’ He stood in front of them, casting his eyes down the piece of paper attached to his clipboard. ‘So, who fancies taking a Spitfire out for a spin?’
Fitz stood a little straighter. She loved flying the Spits.
‘Right,’ continued the instructor. ‘Fitz-Herbert, you take the Spitfire out and familiarise yourself with the south of England. You, too, Anderson.’ He took two sheets of paper and handed one each to the women. ‘There are your stop-off points. Be back in time for tea.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Fitz, feeling absolutely giddy with excitement.
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Betty.
As they made their way over to the Spitfires, Fitz slipped her arm through Betty’s. ‘We’re in the Spits!’
