As soon as they landed, Abby got the pilots together and told them that, instead of drinking themselves insensate that night, they would throw another huge party the next day after operations were finished, so that the entire squadron could share in their success. The Misfits never needed much of an excuse to have a party, but this time they had several; not only did they have their victory over the Barons to celebrate, but two birthdays as well - the 12th was Kitty’s birthday and the 15th was Gwen’s. The pilots readily agreed, but still trooped off to the mess; just because they were saving themselves for the party didn’t mean that they had to have a dry night.

The next day there were no raids reported over the Midlands, perhaps because the Fleas were afraid that the Misfits would be waiting for them again, but there were also less raids in the South as well and there was some hope that the Prussians were so shocked at their loss and the demonstration that the Barons weren’t invincible that they were reluctant to continue their attacks. Some pilots even wondered if the defeat would be enough to dissuade them from invading altogether, but those people were either told by the more logical pilots (Abby and Owen) that it undoubtedly wouldn’t, or to shut up and not jinx it by the more superstitious ones (Mac and Chalky). Whatever was going on with the Prussians, the Misfits and the RAC in general were extremely grateful for the respite and prayed that it would continue.

As soon as the decision to have a party had been made, Abby had gone to the radio room to invite Sky Commodore Campbell, as well as Gwen’s parents and a couple of the local squadrons who had been flying with them over the summer. In spite of the short notice they all accepted eagerly (a Misfit party was not to be missed) and started turning up just before dark the day of the party, the Hawkings arriving in their dual Harridan, the commodore in her personal Spitsteam and the RAC pilots ferried in by a couple of troop carriers.

Instead of using the hangar again, the briefing hall was restored to its original purpose as a ballroom for the night. It was bedecked with streamers and balloons and Kitty, who had been working in one of the empty workshop on a few pet projects whenever she had time off, wheeled out an device that continuously threw harmless multicoloured arcs of electricity into the air to spark and weave through the web-like structure overhead, giving the room a shimmering glow that was magical and otherworldly. The same men and women that had played the night that they had christened Devil and celebrated Kitty and Gwen’s promotion insisted on setting up on the stage and repeating their performance. They had so enjoyed themselves that they had formed a proper band and had been practising, naming themselves the “Individualists”. On prominent display in each of the four corner of the room were parts of the four Baron aircraft that had been shot down. They had arrived that morning in a wagon, accompanied by the remains of the four pilots and whatever serial numbers or inscriptions could be salvaged to identify the aircraft that they had flown. Abby had already sent a message to the Barons through official channels and those items would be sent to them at the earliest opportunity, as per their agreement. Unsurprisingly, the red trophies attracted a lot of attention, especially at the start of the evening before the drink started to flow, but as the night went on the people drifted away from them, gravitating towards the dance floor, wanting to forget the war for however long they could.

As before, the Misfits were popular dance partners, especially with the pilots from the other squadrons, who didn’t want to let the opportunity to get close to these “mythical creatures” as one inebriated Aviator Lieutenant put it and Gwen found herself with a full dance card in no time at all.

The band took a break at around ten and everybody flocked to the long bars that lined both sides of the room and set about emptying the Misfits’ alcohol reserves, only just replenished after the previous big party, as much as possible before they went back to dancing.

Gwen asked one of the waiters to pour her a pint of Best and while she was waiting she turned to look around and found herself face to face with a very drunk Jimmy.

‘Gwen!’

She smiled at him. ‘Jimmy. Are you having fun?’

‘Boy, am I!’ He nodded, swaying gently, a big grin plastered over his sweaty face. Gwen had seen him on the dance floor - he had been dancing up a storm, proving more and more dangerous to the people round him as the night went on and he consumed more beer. ‘I wanted to apologise.’

Gwen frowned at him. ‘For what?’

He reached out to pat her on the arm in what was probably meant to be a consoling manner, but which would most likely leave a bruise. ‘It’s not going to happen between us, I’m afraid. Sorry. You see, I’m with Julianne...’ He turned and pointed to a young woman in a corporal’s uniform. He hesitated, squinting, then pointed at a different woman. ‘Julianne.’

This one was slightly older, about Gwen’s age and height with Aviator Sergeant’s stripes on her uniform along with the twin helix of the medical corps.

Jimmy smiled at her and waved. She noticed him waving and waved back, a big smile on her flushed face.

Jimmy turned back to Gwen. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry. I know we would have been good together, but... but...’ He blinked as he lost track of what he was saying. ‘I hope we can still be friends.’

Gwen reached out to put her hand on his shoulder, as much to keep him from falling over, as he tottered unsteadily, as to comfort him. ‘I understand, Jimmy, and of course we can be friends.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.’

Jimmy gave her an exaggerated shrug, then leaned in to peck her on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’

He turned and staggered away, heading to the wrong woman, hesitated, wobbled, looked around, spotted Julianne, adjusted course, then stumbled the last few steps to land in her arms.

Gwen winced as the pair nearly fell over, then grinned and shook her head. She turned back to the bar to pick up her drink and immediately swallowed half of it; she was very thirsty after having danced so much and was not nearly drunk enough to fully appreciate the absurdity of Jimmy’s apology.

‘Happy birthday, Gwenevere.’

She almost choked on the drink as her father’s voice sounded right in her ear.

‘Dad! You startled me!’ Gwen put her drink back on the bar before reaching out to fold her mother and father into a hug. ‘I’m glad you could come.’

‘We wouldn’t have missed it for the world, darling.’ Her mother beamed at her.

‘Why didn’t you come and say hello before?’

‘You were having too much fun, we didn’t want to interrupt.’

They smiled at her and Gwen pulled back, frowning, looking from one to the other; there was something wrong with their smiles, something preventing them from being entirely genuine. ‘What’s wrong?’

Her father quickly shook his head, waving away her concerns. ‘It’s nothing. Just war stuff.’

‘Yes, and not to be discussed tonight; tonight is about you and your friends and the marvellous things you’re doing.’

Sheridan nodded enthusiastically. ‘The whole country is talking about what you did yesterday. It’s in all of the newspapers and the KBC Global Service is busy shouting to the whole world that Britain is fighting back.’

‘Really? That was quick.’

‘Whitehall had journalists in vans ready to be taken to crash sights so that they could write their stories and take photos; they weren’t going to let an opportunity like this pass them by!’

‘And what if it hadn’t gone so well?’

Sheridan shrugged. ‘Then there would have been no story and it would have been just another day at war.’

Gwen looked at him. She had known that a victory like this would be used to bolster the morale of the British, especially with how Misfit Squadron had been built up in the eyes of the public over the past few weeks, but she hadn’t expected Whitehall’s propaganda machine to swing into action so efficiently; the way they had treated the day’s events really wasn’t “British” - it was more Prussian-like in its efficiency and callousness. The more she thought about it, the better she felt, though; it wasn’t as if Whitehall were making things up and the public had a right to know what the Misfits had done. And besides, if it gave the Prussians pause then so much the better.

She shrugged. ‘It’s just as well we got a few of them, then.’

‘Anyway, enough about that, we’re here to celebrate more important things,’ her mother said, reaching not very delicately under her skirts and pulling a small brown paper package out of one of the many pockets on her thigh - she was wearing one of her own creations, a flightsuit in white leather with built-in corset that had skirts which detached for flying. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

Gwen took the gift with a smile and untied the string holding the package together to reveal a highly-polished dark brown wooden box just over four inches square and two inches deep. Embedded behind a glass pane on the lid was a top view blueprint of an aircraft that she knew only too well - Bumblebee, the first aircraft she’d designed and built herself - picked out with incredibly thin gold wire.

‘No... It can’t be...’

The box was a one-off, a personalised presentation piece made to order for just one thing and Gwen opened the lid, knowing exactly what she was going to find, but not quite able to believe it.

Inside, nestled on a cushion of purple velvet was a brass aviation chronograph, designed to attach to the sleeve of her flightsuit. It was the most sophisticated one that Gwen had ever seen, with not only a timepiece, but also an altimeter and a barometer, as well as a couple of other indicators that she didn’t recognise at first glance and would have to read the accompanying instructions to find out exactly what they measured. It looked remarkably delicate, but she knew that it was one of the most robust chronographs that had ever been made, designed specifically for use by pilots.

Normal chronographs, like the one she already had, were readily available to all and were manufactured in varying qualities to suit the depth of one’s pocket, but ones such as these were special. Hand-crafted, incredibly rare and unbelievably accurate, only a few people in the world had the skill and the patience to make such items and only one of them lived in the Kingdom of Britain.

‘Bloody hell...’ Gwen cursed under her breath. ‘It’s a Frobisher! How on Earth did you get a hold of this? And how the hell did you afford it?’

Wilfred Frobisher only made one such chronograph each year and understandably his work was incredibly expensive and sought-after.

Her father shrugged. ‘We’ve been on the waiting list for one of his chronographs since you started building your first aircraft. Even so, we thought we’d have to wait a good many years before we finally got one for you, but apparently Frobisher is a friend of John Dunne and when he heard what you’d been doing recently he got in touch and told us that he wanted us to have the next one, as long as it was intended for you. He even gave us a discount!’

She pulled the chronograph out of the box. It was light, so much lighter than her old one, and the back was engraved. She turned it back and forth, trying to read it in the dim light and felt tears prickling in the corners of her eyes when she finally managed.

For Gwen.
Pilot, mechanic, daughter.
With our love and immense pride.

‘Thank you so much! It’s magnificent! I... I don’t know what to say!’ Gwen hugged her parents again, this time one by one, but then the three of them looked up as there was frantic movement in the room behind them - the band, who had been drinking like there was no tomorrow, desperately trying to catch up with their colleagues, were hurrying back onto the stage.

To Gwen it looked like they were just keen to start playing again and most of the rest of the people seemed to think the same, because they streamed on to dance floor eager to continue having fun, but her mother knew better and she grinned gleefully up at her husband. ‘Here we go. Pay up, Sherry; you lose!’

‘Not yet you haven’t, Harry. Not until we actually see...’

He was interrupted by the band, who started to play the national anthem as soon as they were settled.

As Elgar’s stirring march filled the room, her father grumbled and handed her mother a golden sovereign, while every airman and woman in the room immediately came to attention. Most of them were frowning in puzzlement, looking at the band, wondering what they were doing, but understanding quickly spread when the doors swung open to admit King George VI, dressed in his RAC uniform, accompanied by Princess Elizabeth as well as a few other dignitaries and a contingent of Royal Guards.

The King made his way through the crowd as they opened up before him, nodding at the men and women, giving each of them a smile and pausing to shake hands with a few. When he reached the centre of the dance floor he stopped and turned in a slow circle to gaze around the room, his busy eyes taking in the red trophies spotlighted in each corner and his smile widening as he watched some of Kitty’s electrical arcs fizzling overhead.

As the last triumphal note of the national anthem faded, his eyes came down and absolute silence fell.

‘Fine work yesterday. Fine work indeed! Frankly I’d give the whole darned lot of you medals and promotions if I could, but Sir Douglas already told me that I can’t, so unfortunately I’m going to have to make do with this.’ He raised his voice. ‘Wing Commander Lennox! Front and centre, if you please!’

Abby made her way through the crowd to stand at attention in front of him. The Marshal that the Misfits had seen at the palace stepped forward and handed the King a sword before bending to place a red velvet cushion at Abby’s feet.

‘Kneel, Wing Commander.’

A gasp echoed through the room at the King’s words, but it quickly faded once more as everybody present all but held their breath, not wanting to make a sound, not wanting to miss or do anything to spoil such a momentous occasion, one that usually took place with the palace walls and that the vast majority of them were not likely to witness ever again.

As Abby settled on the cushion, the King lifted the sword to his side, describing an elegant circle. The blade flashed as it reached its height, bisecting one of the electrical arcs and sending rainbows flaring briefly around the room, before settling gently onto the woman’s shoulder.

‘For services rendered in the defence of the Kingdom of Britain, for continued gallantry and bravery in the face of overwhelming odds and for making this squadron into something that has far exceeded any hopes or expectations that I or my ministers had of it, I confer upon you the rank of Knight of the Order of Darwin.’

The King lifted the sword over Abby’s head, lowered it to briefly touch her other shoulder then turned it with a flourish to hand it back to the Marshal, who gave him what looked like a folded cloth.

‘Stand.’ The Marshal leaned in to whisper to Abby and while she struggled to her feet, slightly awestruck, he whipped the cushion away.

Abby watched as the King carefully unfolded the cloth, revealing it to be a brown silk sash, attached to which was a large gold oval-shaped medallion with the tree of life engraved on it, picked out in bright silver iron. He stepped forward and Abby bowed her head as he looped it over her and settled it in place with the medallion on her chest.

‘Congratulations, Dame Lennox.’

The King held out his hand and Abby grinned and shook it as deafening applause filled the hall.

The Order of Darwin was the lowest of the chivalric orders of the Kingdom of Britain, but nobody cared; it was enough for them that one of their own was receiving recognition for what the squadron had been doing.

The King stepped back and gave Abby a small bow, which she returned before retreating at the Marshal’s order to rejoin the crowd, where her fellow pilots were gathered, waiting to inspect the sash and thump her on the back.

However, the King hadn’t finished and he held his hands up for silence. ‘Where’s my favourite Aviation Lieutenant? Scarlet! Step forward!’

Scarlet pushed her way through the pilots and strutted over to the King, who stood grinning, waiting for her.

She came to a halt in front of him and jerked her thumb over her shoulder at Abby. ‘If you’re going to give me one of those things can you at least make it a decent colour? I suggest red.’

The King laughed; as everybody knew, red was the colour of the highest order that could be bestowed - the Imperial Order of Victoria.

‘While I’m certain that one day you will earn “one of those things” and who knows, it might indeed be red, especially if you continue carrying out missions like your latest one, that’s not why I’ve called for you.’

He glanced sideways at where the dignitaries that had accompanied him were standing, among them Commander of the Royal Aviator Corps Sir Douglas Pewtall, who apparently knew what was coming and turned as red as the sash that Scarlet had requested.

‘Sir Douglas can’t stop speaking about you and I don’t want him moping all the way home because I might have to order my guards to throw him out of the aircraft. Will you put him out of his misery and grant him a dance? Please?

Scarlet looked at the poor man out of the corner of her eye before smiling at the King. ‘It would be my pleasure, sir.’

She gave him a bow then flounced over to Sir Douglas and grabbed his arm.

The King gave a laugh. ‘One last thing before we get back to the festivities. Dame Lennox, my daughter has requested a tour of your hangar, may I suggest Aerial Officers Stone and Wright accompany her? If, that is, they can be persuaded to leave their own birthday party for a short time?’

Abby nodded. ‘I’m sure my officers would be delighted, sir.’

‘Excellent!’ The King turned to the band. ‘Music, please! And make it something slow so that Sir Douglas can feel that it’s been worth his embarrassment!’

Laughter greeted the King’s pronouncement and as he made his way off the floor the music began, the space that he had occupied almost instantly filled with dancers.

Abby motioned to Kitty and Gwen. ‘Do you two mind missing some of the party and showing Princess Elizabeth around?’

Kitty shook her head and gave her a wry smile. ‘Actually, I’d quite enjoy a breath of fresh air and a rest; my feet hurt.’

Gwen also shook her head. ‘And I’d quite enjoy the chance to speak to her; she might have some fresh ideas that we can use.’

Abby nodded. ‘That’s what I was thinking and it’s just as well the King requested that our best aircraft designer show her around. Why don’t you go see whether she wants a drink and a dance first?’

The Princess didn’t want to dance, but she did want a drink and five minutes later the three women made their way across the airstrip towards the hangar, escorted by a pair of Royal Guards and carrying pint glasses in their hands, although the Princess’ drink was not nearly as alcoholic as theirs was.

Gwen opened the small door in the side of the building and Kitty went through the blackout curtains first so that she could turn on the lights.

At her request, the two pilots gave the Princess, who insisted on them calling her Liz, a quick tour and rundown of all the aircraft first, explaining to her the difference in function between A and B flight and the purpose of each of C flight’s machines. Kitty then took her for a closer look at Hawk and the Princess listened carefully as Kitty explained how her twin-tailed design gave her a large area of control surfaces meaning that Hawk could turn almost as quickly as anything that the Prussians could put in the air, but that the aircraft’s true advantage was in her acceleration and sheer speed which allowed her to gain distance and height from any danger so that she could turn safely before going back into the fight. The aircraft’s unique twin-boomed design also allowed for the installation of guns in its nose, directly underneath the cockpit in order to very accurately concentrate firepower in a small area. Until recently Kitty had had four of her eight 0.5 inch machine guns there, but Wendy had found the time to swap two of them for 0.79 inch cannon, which meant that she could now rip through even the thickest armour, something she’d demonstrated just the day before by taking down five enemy bombers.

The Princess exclaimed at the amount of firepower available to Kitty, sparking, quite literally, a conversation about the weapon that Kitty was trying to develop, similar to the arc thrower that was providing so much entertainment at the party and that she hoped would one day replace conventional machine guns.

As the discussion progressed, Gwen was quickly completely lost; her mind was much more mechanically orientated; her realm was the application of physics as it applied to flight, not something so ethereal as electricity.

Despite her young age, the Princess was a good diplomat, highly trained in the social graces and she very quickly noticed that Gwen was being left out. She brought the conversation to a close as soon as she could, promising to send Kitty her notes on similar lines of research that she was pursuing, then turned her attention to Gwen and her aircraft.

Wasp was a very conventionally-designed machine, not much different to a Spitsteam or a Harridan or any other single-spring monoplane aircraft, so the tour didn’t take very long, but then Gwen asked the Princess if she would like to sit in the cockpit and her eyes lit up at the suggestion. After handing her empty glass to one of her guards she clambered over the wing and climbed agilely into the cockpit, quickly taking in the layout and commenting on how it differed from the aircraft that she had designed. She ran her finger over the frame that Gwen had attached to hold her husband’s photo and was obviously going to ask about it, but saw Gwen’s look and decided against it, instead she asked about the modifications that had made to Wasp’s original design, which started a discussion between the three of them of the merits of varying thicknesses of wings and the trade that had to be made between lift and drag, especially in multiple-winged aircraft like the A flight biplanes or Gruber’s triplane, Flamme, the model of which had caused a sensation in Hamleys when it had been unveiled and which the Princess had gone to see.

The conversation could have gone on all night, and indeed the three of them would have been more than happy for it to have done so, but again the Princess showed diplomacy and suggested that they went back to the party, not wanting to keep them from the fun for too long. However, as they walked her back to the briefing room she invited the two of them to join her at the Palace whenever they had a chance, saying that she would love to continue their conversations as well as return the favour and show them her own workshops in the Brunel Tower. The two aviators readily accepted and bade her farewell at the doors, shaking her hand and receiving her thanks, both for the tour and for doing so much for the war effort. They stammered, not knowing how to answer, but she saved them the embarrassment of trying by nodding and disappearing into the briefing hall with her guards, leaving them alone in the night.

The two aviators looked at each other, speechless for long moments before Kitty squealed and grabbed Gwen by the shoulders. ‘We just spent an hour talking about aircraft with a real live princess!’

She started jumping up and down and Gwen laughed and joined her, then when the American finally got tired, she folded her into a hug. ‘Happy birthday, Kitty. Thank you for making me feel so welcome when I got here - I wasn’t in a very good place and you really helped me.’

‘You’re more than welcome.’

They fell silent and just stood there in the darkness, listening to the music coming from the hall and the laughter of the people.

Gwen found that she was very comfortable in the woman’s arms. She hadn’t been held by anybody, been hardly touched by anybody, except for dance partners, since Richard had died and she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed simple physical contact with another human being until that moment.

She pulled back, suddenly feeling quite confused for some reason. ‘I... I think I need a drink.’

Kitty didn’t seem to have noticed Gwen’s discomfort and her smile widened. ‘And a dance! Let’s dance!’ Without waiting for an answer, the American grabbed Gwen by the hand and pulled her through the doors and into the noise within.

Kitty and Gwen stumbled down the forest path to the barracks a couple of hours later, just after midnight. Despite the briefing hall being right next to their destination it took them an inordinately long time, both because neither of them seemed capable of walking in a straight line and also because at one point they had started humming one of the tunes the band had been playing and had begun dancing, only stopping when their laughter made them so out of breath that they couldn’t continue.

They eventually made it to the right building and tiptoed along the corridor, trying not to disturb the older more boring pilots, most of whom had retired much earlier to rest before the next day’s flying. They didn’t do a very good job of staying quiet, though and bounced off the walls at regular intervals, drawing a few muttered comments and swearwords from the people they disturbed.

Their room, when they finally reached it, was dark and quiet, empty; Scarlet had hit it off like a house on fire with the commander and they had spent the entire evening together to the annoyance of the many men and some women who had requested dances with her. They were still in the briefing hall, still drinking and laughing together.

Most of the other guests had gone long ago.

The King had left shortly after the Princess had gone back to the party. His incredibly fast two-seater aircraft, piloted by the Princess herself, had been waved off by almost all of the men and women on the base; King George was well loved by all of his people and especially the military, who saw how much he did for them and how much he appreciated them.

Gwen’s parents had taken off at the same time in order for the airfield lights to be on as little as possible. They had made their farewells to Gwen and the pilots, most of whom were still rather awestruck of them in spite of their insisting on just being considered as the parents of one of their number, and promised to come back to visit, bringing the prototype of the next model of Harridan with them for their inspection.

The pilots from the other squadrons had left soon after; they, like the Misfits, were flying the next day and had to make their way by road back to their airfields - a long and torturous journey, especially in the dark.

Despite so many people leaving, the party had continued just as enthusiastically and had still been in full swing when Gwen and Kitty had left.

Kitty put the light on and staggered backwards as she threw her arm up to protect her eyes, bumping into Gwen, who grabbed her and only just managed to stop them both from falling over.

Once they were on balance again, the American twisted around in Gwen’s arms to face her then bent forwards to kiss her full on the mouth, holding it for long seconds, before finally pulling back. She reached up to caress Gwen’s cheek with a smile before stumbling away to fall face first onto her bed and immediately starting to snore.

Gwen stared at her in shock, suddenly feeling quite sober. When she finally managed to pull herself together she removed the American’s shoes and covered her with a blanket, then stood for some time, gazing down at her, trying to work out exactly what was going through a head that was already spinning with drink.

Thank you so much for reading. ‘The Battle Over Britain’ is Simon Brading's first novel in his ‘Misfit Squadron’ series. More information on where to obtain the book as well as other information about Simon and the series can be found on his website. Also, Simon would love to hear from you about this, or any of his work — please get in touch on Bluesky. We invite you to read Chapter Seventeen by clicking the right-arrow down there on the right. If you missed out on Chapter Fifteen you can go back and read it now by clicking the left-arrow below. Alternatively, you can go back to the beginning, the Prologue, with the beginning-arrow also over on the left.