Gwen spent the first few minutes of her allotted time standing staring after the wing commander, replaying her last words over and over and trying to get her mind around the implications of them.

Misfit Squadron.

The squadron was a legend, a myth almost, like Father Winter, or the Dark Scythesman. The stories that circulated about them in hushed tones were of reject pilots who had been thrown out of the regular RAC, carrying out impossible acts of derring-do in aircraft that they had built themselves - deeds of heroism and courage in defence of the Kingdom of Britain, all while finding the time to shoot down more enemy aircraft in France than the rest of the RAC combined, although the fact that they were supposedly so invincible and dominant, yet still hadn’t been able to do anything to prevent the British defeat on the continent had always troubled her personally and prevented her from entirely believing the stories.

She had assumed they were just propaganda, invented by Whitehall to raise the morale of troops facing defeat, certainly not real, like the Crimson Barons, the elite Prussian squadron that had rampage absolutely unchecked across the battlefields of Europe and terrorised the RAC in France, yet here she was on their secret base in the wilds of Kent, standing among their incredible machines.

However, not even the prospect of joining the most famous, or infamous, squadron in the RAC was enough to keep her from an aircraft for very long and she quickly turned her attention back to the task ahead. She had just enough time to do a quick assessment of the entire machine before she had to go.

Unlike the Harridan, which was very simply constructed by putting metal plates on a complete skeletal structure, this machine was more like a Spitsteam, more like the last aircraft she had built for herself, with what looked like a semi-monocoque design, which meant that its metal skin formed part of its load-bearing structure and was bolted to twenty or so “formers” or “frames” which were essentially cross-sections of the aircraft. It made the construction and repair process much more laborious and time-consuming, but in return it allowed the aircraft to have a much thinner and more aerodynamic wing, which was the reason why the Spitsteam was so fast and manoeuvrable while the Harridan was more of a workhorse. The frames she could see seemed to be mostly undamaged (except of course for the missing tail, which she would have to find from somewhere) and it looked like it would mostly be a case of shaping new Duralumin panels to replace the ones with holes in or twisted by the rough landing.

After looking at the wings and the fuselage, she reluctantly turned her attention to the cockpit.

When the wing commander had told her that the pilot hadn’t survived and she’d seen the state of the canopy she’d been afraid of what she would find, but she was relieved to see that somebody had cleaned away any blood that there might have been. The instrument panel was smashed, but she didn’t mind too much about that; she would have changed its configuration to suit her own preferences anyway.

Her mind was still working furiously while she walked back across the airfield and she had to force herself to relax and stop when she got to the door of the officer’s mess; it wouldn’t do to appear distracted in front of her new wingmates.

She knocked and entered the mess hesitantly; as a non-commissioned officer, an NCO, she wasn’t strictly allowed in - NCO’s had their own mess, just like the enlisted men had theirs. However, she had been invited by the base commander, so if anybody questioned her she would be able to give that as a reason for her presence.

The room she found herself in was fairly large with a bar along one wall and sofas everywhere. There was no sign of the Wing Commander anywhere, but Gwen barely noticed; she was too engrossed with taking in the trophies hanging on the walls.

Every base that housed RAC squadrons which had seen successful action had their trophies in their various messes. They were pieces of aircraft they had shot down, usually labelled with the date, place and the name of the pilot responsible for the kill, but no mess she had been in had quite so many as this one and the haul was even more incredible considering that the base housed only a single squadron, rather than the three or four that was more usual.

However, it was the sight of the four red-painted vertical stabilisers in various states of disrepair, hanging in pride of place over the bar, that was most shocking to her because they were something she had never seen before; only one enemy squadron painted their machines red - the Crimson Barons, the elite Fliegertruppe squadron comprising the best Prussian pilots and flying the best fighters that they could put in the air. To her knowledge nobody had ever shot down even a single one of them, yet here were four trophies.

She began to walk towards the nearest one, but was intercepted by a waiter dressed in an evening suit with sergeant’s stripes on his arm.

She tore her eyes away from the trophies and blinked at him. ‘Uh, I’m here to...’

He smiled at her awkwardness and just gave her a small bow, not much more than a nod. ‘This way, Aviator.’

She got a slightly better look at the trophies, but only very briefly in passing, as she followed him along the length of the burnished mahogany bar towards a door on the far side of the room, which he pulled open for her, gesturing for her to go in with another small bow.

She went through the door somewhat tentatively and came to an immediate halt when she found herself in a dining room like no other she’d ever seen.

Intricate wrought iron columns were set around the outside of the large square room. They were formed into tree trunks, as delicate as spun sugar, which divided high overhead, extending twisting metal branches out across the room. Thousands upon thousands of graceful iron deciduous leaves hung from these branches, completely concealing the ceiling, forming a marvellous woodland canopy and in among them were hundreds of tiny lights, animated by some ingenious clockwork mechanism hidden above the leaves, which made them spin and dance in and around the beautiful foliage as if they were fey or fireflies. The effect was truly magical and easily visible in the shadows high up in the eaves, despite the fact that the heavy-looking deep-blue velvet curtains on the windows were drawn back to let in the sunshine, but Gwen wondered how much light they would actually provide when night fell. That doubt was dispelled, though, when she noticed the iron globe resting against the wall to her left; it was attached to a delicate filigree arch that spanned the room from one side to the other and filled with lights that were currently unlit - a lunar orb that would march across a sky formed by a roof of leaves over the course of a night.

The large space underneath the “trees” was mostly filled by two long wooden tables, made to look like they were two rough planks that had been hewn from two fallen trunks. They were surrounded by chairs, which were delicate and asymmetrical, in keeping with the magical air created by the decor. They appeared far too fragile to be sat in, although the way that at least a couple of the pilots were tilting them back showed that they were much stronger than they looked. The tables could have easily sat two dozen or so people each, but there were only eleven people in the room, six men and five women, all sitting around the closest table to her, all wearing RAC day uniforms, all with angel’s wings over their hearts.

These were the pilots of Misfit Squadron.

Gwen was surprised to see that they all looked so very ordinary, not at all like what she’d expected ace pilots to look like, although every single one of them, even the youngest, a blonde woman who must have been barely out of her teens, had a look about them, a composure and an awareness, that spoke of an experience she knew that she herself sorely lacked. They were obviously a close-knit group as well, though, and they were lounging comfortably in their chairs, completely relaxed and not at all on edge like most of the pilots she knew.

One of the men was speaking to the group in a lilting Welsh voice that was rather fitting to the setting and the other pilots were smiling as they listened, but there was a strangely sorrowful tone to the scene, even as they laughed at his retelling.

Gwen stood quietly by the door, both because she didn’t want to interrupt and also because she quite wanted to hear the story the man was telling.

‘...eight of them, going around in that circle they like, chasing their tails, and we couldn’t get close to these blighters! You know how it is, when you get behind one, the one behind him has you in his sights - and you really don’t want to be in the sights of an MU10, right?’

There were chuckles and agreements at that, but the man continued on without pause.

‘So, anyway, we’d been circling around them for what must have been about five minutes, waiting for something to happen when Cece comes over the radio and says “bugger this for a game of soldiers!” and dives down at them.

‘Of course we all thought she was going to go straight at them and get a bellyful of lead, but she keeps going down until she’s underneath them, then pulls up sharply and only bloody pops up in the middle of them and starts circling - she’s going one way, they’re all going the other way and she shoots down three of the buggers before they even realised she was there which was when they panicked and broke in every direction. We bagged another two of them, but the rest got away. Still, five out of eight isn’t bad for a day’s work and they certainly didn’t try that trick again!’

The man finished his story to more laughter and as the pilots sought the next distraction they finally noticed Gwen. The looks they gave her were curious and wary, especially after they had had time to take in the wings sewn to her chest, identical to their own.

The wing commander had her back to Gwen but she saw their curious gazes and turned to smile at her. She stood and came to her side. ‘Everyone! This is Gwen Stone, she’s Cece’s replacement.’

There were uncertain looks from many of the pilots around the table, as if they hadn’t been expecting the news or if it weren’t entirely welcome, and Gwen shifted uncomfortably as a couple of them even frowned at her.

The man who had been telling the story smiled at her, though. ‘Stone... That’s a rather inauspicious name for a pilot.’

‘It was my husband’s name.’

‘Was?’

‘He was shot down over France in the first weeks of the war.’

The man’s smile immediately fell from his face and was replaced by a look of sympathy. He didn’t offer anything as trite as an apology, but simply lifted his glass silently, a gesture that was mirrored by the whole squadron.

Once they had all drank and placed their glasses back on the table, Gwen met the man’s eyes and deliberately smiled, nodding her thanks. ‘It could have been worse; I could have been in the Navy.’

There was a moment’s silence as the pilots replayed the conversation in their heads, but then it was broken by guffaws and barks of laughter.

It had been a feeble joke, but it had broken the ice and warmed them to her.

The wing commander patted her on the shoulder and leaned in to speak softly in her ear. ‘Nicely done. I apologise for the cool reception, but you have to understand that you are replacing someone who was loved and had been with us for a long time. She was also the first pilot we ever lost, so you can understand that it’s not about who you are, but rather what you represent.’

Gwen nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ Abby smiled. ‘I think you’ll fit in very well here.’ She gestured at the gathered pilots who had returned to their conversations and drinks. ‘They are all talented pilots and most of them are brilliant engineers, but each has a streak of individuality and a restless mind that doesn’t exactly mix well with the rigid discipline of the regular squadrons of the Royal Aviator Corps. Remind you of anyone?’

Gwen blushed slightly and the woman laughed and gave her another hearty pat on the shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s sit down. We were just about to eat.’

Gwen frowned at her. ‘Shouldn’t I go to the NCO’s mess?’

‘No. We’re pilots, not officers and NCO’s, and in this squadron the pilots eat and drink together.’

The food was extremely good, as befitting an officer’s mess on an RAC base, and the company was pleasant, but Gwen found that she couldn’t quite relax or enjoy herself and she barely spoke.

She wasn’t shy and under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have hesitated to join in the conversations, especially as they mostly spoke about flying and mechanics and avoided anything even remotely personal, but she found herself surprisingly reticent in such august company. To make matters worse her thoughts kept drifting back to the wreck in the hangar, to the challenge it represented and the future she would have with it. She was already rebuilding it in her mind, imagining how it would fly with the modifications she would make and she found that she couldn’t wait to get started, just as if it were one of her own designs.

The other pilots seemed to notice her mood and once they had asked her the obligatory questions about where she had been based and what she had flown, the kind of things any pilot would immediately want to know about another, they left her mostly alone.

Groups of officers wandered in every so often as their shifts in various sections of the base ended. Invariably they would greet and be greeted in return by the pilots, but would then sit at a respectful distance to have their lunch, leaving the Misfits to their conversations.

When the meal was over, most of the pilots stood and began to troop into the bar area in order to keep drinking, the usual activity for overworked war pilots who found themselves suddenly with a welcome day off due to low cloud and intermittent rain, but Abby pulled Gwen to one side, along with the young blonde that Gwen had noticed earlier.

‘Gwen, this is Kitty Wright. She’ll show you to the barracks and get you sorted. Unpack your kitbag, wash your face, clean your teeth, whatever you need to do, but head down to the hangar as soon as you can.’ She smiled. ‘No rest for the wicked! And be assured, I want you to be wicked, after all we certainly are, aren’t we Kitty?’

The tall woman at her side grinned cheekily and winked at Gwen. ‘Oh, yes indeed! Very! Work hard, play hard and devil take the consequences!’

The wing commander laughed. ‘Quite right!’ She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Go on, skedaddle!’

‘Come on Gwen.’ The blonde slipped her hand under Gwen’s arm to pull her away and together they went through the bar and outside, turning to follow the cement path around the outside of the mess.

The woman was long-legged and lithe and a good six inches taller than Gwen’s squatter, more curvy, form and she had to hurry to keep up.

‘You’re American, right?’

‘Born and bred! Why, is my accent that bad?’

‘No! Not at all! And Kitty. Is that short for Katherine? Kathleen?’

‘No, it’s just Kitty. I was named after Kitty Hawk. You know, in North Carolina.’

‘Oh, right! Where the first...’ Gwen blinked and stared at her. ‘Wright... Don’t tell me you’re...’

The American grinned and nodded. ‘Orville Wright is my grandfather.’

‘Gosh...’

The concrete walkway beside the mess turned into a stone path when it drew level with the back of the building and it passed under an arch, like the entrance into a maze, cut into a long line of tall hedges that divided the main buildings from the accommodation section of the old holiday camp.

The change as they went through it was astonishing; all sign of the main buildings behind them completely disappeared and it was like they had stepped off of the airbase entirely to enter a forest.

The stone path branched off occasionally as it wended its way through thick vegetation, past tall oaks and carefully cultivated bushes, seemingly without a plan or a concrete destination and as they crunched along it Gwen caught glimpses of the barracks blocks, set back from the path and nestling in amongst trees that were tall enough to shade them from the summer sun. The overall effect was to make it feel as if each of the buildings were isolated from the world in the middle of a forest, beautifully continuing the woodland theme that Gwen had encountered in the mess, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the intention had been to make the well-off feel like they were “roughing it”.

The buildings themselves turned out to be squat, single-storey buildings that were similar in size and shape to a normal military barracks, but that was where all similarity with the purely functional buildings ended - they had a curious aspect that was something between a Swiss chalet and a Viking Longhouse and had been constructed from a dark brown stone, which apparently hadn’t required defacing with green paint, that made them seem almost as if they were made of wood.

The only distinguishing feature that separated one dormitory from another were the names picked out in tall gold letters in the pediment above every door and clearly visible from the path. They passed Dickens and Tennyson before Kitty turned towards Wilde.

‘Here we are! Home sweet home!’

She held the door open for Gwen, then followed her through.

They stopped just inside, at the end of a long corridor that bisected the building. Stained glass skylights high overhead illuminated the corridor in patchy greens, as if by sunlight through a forest canopy and it had been furnished to look like a hallway in a townhouse of a stately manor, just much longer. However, the dark wooden panelled walls were bare, apart from the electric lights placed every ten feet and brass hooks showing where numerous paintings should have hung - the first sign Gwen had really seen of the reversal in fortunes that the holiday camp had experienced.

‘This is the squadron’s barracks. All of us are in here, regardless of rank or gender.’ She pointed at the solid-looking wooden doors on either side. ‘Abby is on your left and Owen, her second in command, the Welshman who gave you such a wonderful greeting, is in the room on your right which he shares with his wife, Wendy. He pilots Bloodhound, the radar and command aircraft and she pilots Dreadnought, the big bomber, and thankfully the rooms have thick walls.’

She grinned, then started walking down the corridor.

There were more doors on each side and she waved vaguely at them in passing. ‘These are individual rooms for the other senior officers.’

Roughly in the middle of the building she stopped and opened the door to her left. ‘This is the bathroom. There are toilets, showers, even a bath, although we’re not allowed to use it unless it’s been raining - water conservation, you know?’ She indicated the door opposite. ‘Ladies on the left, gentlemen on the right and never the twain shall meet. If you catch my drift.’

Gwen nodded with a smile which the woman returned before closing the bathroom door and continuing down the corridor. There were only two doors beyond the bathrooms, one on each side of the corridor, about twenty-five yards from the end. ‘And here, out of sight and out of mind, are the NCO rooms. One each for men and women.’ She opened the door to the left and went in. ‘You’re in here with me.’

The room proved to be much more like what she was used to; it was large with half a dozen metal-framed beds in a neat row, divided by standard issue metal wardrobes and each with a lockbox at the foot. However, while the furniture was standard RAC issue, the rest of the decor certainly wasn’t; the room was just as luxuriously appointed as the rest of the base, but in different shades of a very unmilitary pink. The large windows were leaded and hung with dark pink velvet curtains, there were several large brass radiators along the walls, picked out with pink lines, and there were two wash stands at the far end of the room made of pink ceramic and shaped like sea shells. There was a deep pink carpet on the floor which had seen far better days and a large organically shaped mirror near the door, with an ornate brass frame, designed to look like vines spreading across the wall, which had flowers blooming among them. Also pink.

‘The two rooms down this end were where the children were all lumped in together so that Mummy and Daddy could have some peace and quiet. The girls were in here, obviously, hence the horrible decoration.

‘I quite like it actually; pink’s my favourite colour.’

Kitty looked at Gwen in mock horror before continuing. ‘Anyway... I’ve been on my own since we got here; we’re a bit top-heavy as a squadron - too many generals, not enough cooks, but don’t get me wrong I’ll be glad of the company!’

Only the bed closest to the door was made and Gwen’s kitbag was on the bed next to it along with a bed pack - a pile of neatly folded sheets and blankets - and two pillows.

The American woman gestured at it. ‘Feel free to choose a bed further away if you want more privacy. I don’t know about you, though, but I could do with having someone a bit closer; it can get a bit lonely sometimes.’

‘I know what you mean...’ Gwen sighed. ‘I’ll take the bed next to you.’

‘Great!’ Kitty beamed, seeming to be genuinely happy. ‘Well, I guess you’ll want to get to the hangar as soon as possible and I don’t want to keep you from that, but don’t forget - we’re in this together. I’m sure you’ll get to know everyone much better over the next few days, but in the meantime, if there is anything you want, please don’t hesitate to ask me!’

‘Thank you.’ Gwen returned her smile. Somehow she felt closer to Kitty after only a few minutes than she had to the women in her previous squadron after having gone through basic and flight training with them. Perhaps it was because they were closer in age, the women in her old squadron had tended to be older, or maybe it was because the American was just so open, wearing her heart on her sleeve.

‘You’re welcome, hon.’

Gwen was surprised when the tall woman folded her into a hug and didn’t react in time to return it. Kitty didn’t seem to notice, though and she was still beaming when she pulled back a couple of seconds later.

‘We’ll all be in the bar for a good few more hours if you fancy a drink later - there’s nothing else to do on this god-forsaken base! Hope to see you there!’

She turned and all but skipped from the room, closing the door after her, leaving Gwen slightly bemused; her treatment by the squadron so far had been a far cry from usual RAC discipline, but she couldn’t say that she wasn’t happy about the change.

She didn’t have any intention of going to the bar that evening and she suspected that Kitty had known that; she had too much work to do to and she would have plenty of time to worry about socialising and getting to know her fellow pilots when it was done.

As soon as the American woman had gone, Gwen pulled open her kitbag and threw its contents onto her bed. She tore off her uniform and put on her work coveralls, covered her hair with a regulation blue headscarf, then raced out of the room, heading back to the hangar, pausing only to visit the bathroom on her way past.

However, when she got to the hangar she found that the aircraft had gone.

There were clear signs of where it had been - the canopy was still there, as were a few broken Duralumin panels that had been torn off, but the rest of the machine was conspicuous in its absence. Puzzled, she walked back outside, thinking to go over to the mess to ask Abby what was happening, but before she could do that she heard the sounds of heavy work being done somewhere close by. She followed the noise, which quickly resolved into the distinctive chuffing of a steam engine and the whine of pneumatic tools, and found that it was coming from the smaller building next to the hangar.

The doors to the building were rolled back, revealing a workshop with the missing aircraft within. There were six men and women swarming over it, already dismantling it.

‘You must be the new girl.’

Gwen looked around for the source of the voice and found a boy, sitting on the floor against one of the doors about ten yards away and eating an apple while he watched the work going on. He pushed himself to his feet and sauntered over to her, finishing off the apple and looking her up and down as he came. He stuffed the core into a pocket of his coveralls, then wiped his hands on his front before offering one of them to her.

‘I’m Jimmy, an apprentice mechanic.’

Gwen left the hand handing and eyed his coveralls - there was no sign of insignia on them, beyond the RAC crest on his breast, no sign of rank or assignment. He looked a lot younger than her, perhaps fifteen or sixteen.

‘Girl?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Why aren’t you in school?’

He grunted and shrugged, but left the hand out. ‘Left school last year. Can’t say it was doing much for me anyway.’

Gwen finally took his hand, more because it felt awkward not to, than out of any real desire to shake it. It was warm and surprisingly dry for a teenage boy.

The boy grinned and shook her hand enthusiastically. ‘As well as being an apprentice I’m kind of the dogsbody around her - if you need it, I’ll get it.’

‘I’m Gwen - Aviator Sergeant Stone.’

She put emphasis on her rank and surname and looked at him pointedly, but he just grinned at her, oblivious to what she was trying to say.

He jerked his thumb towards the machine. ‘I’ve got your fitters working already; didn’t think you’d mind if we made a start on strippin’ ’er down without you.’

‘No, I don’t mind one bit.’

Gwen finally smiled; if the boy had organised a work crew for her and got them to start, then she could forgive him for calling her “girl”. This once.

‘So, what do you want to do?’

Gwen eyed the work going on. The fitters were having trouble removing a few of the panels because the rivets and bolts had twisted out of shape when they’d been damaged, necessitating careful persuasion if they weren’t going to damage the frame underneath. It looked like it was going to be at least a few hours before they got it completely stripped down and ready for her to inspect the monocoque frame.

‘Are there any blueprints?’

‘Officially, no. But I know that Cece had some that she drew up herself. I’m pretty sure Abby has them. I can go ask her for them, if you want?’

‘Abby?’

The boy rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Alright, Wing Commander Abigail Lennox has them, Aviator Sergeant Stone, ma’am.’

Gwen huffed, amused despite herself and quoted the old maxim. ‘Don’t call me ma’am; I work for a living.’

The boy grinned. ‘Righto, Gwen!’

She sighed and shook her head; there didn’t seem to be a happy medium with the boy. ‘Just see if you can borrow those plans, please, and I’ll need a drawing board somewhere.’

The boy pointed to the back of the building where there was an office with a glass front that she hadn’t noticed before. ‘There’s a whole room full of them over there.’

Gwen nodded, happy; everything was in place and it actually reminded her of her workshop back home, it was comforting. However, she frowned as her eyes took in the machine again. ‘Why hasn’t anybody done any repairs before?’ She looked at the blocks that were under the fuselage, holding it off the ground. ‘I mean, someone could have at least repaired the undercarriage.’

‘Abby refused to let anyone touch it; she kept it as it was as a reminder of her sister, I guess.’

‘Her sister? The pilot was her sister?’

The boy nodded. ‘Squadron Leader Cecily Lennox, Cece for short. Abby’s younger sister.’ He frowned up at her. ‘Didn’t she tell you? Her sister got shot up bad, but still managed to land before buying the farm.’

‘Oh god...’ Lennox had brought her in to fly her own sister’s aircraft - as if she wasn’t under enough pressure to get the machine repaired correctly before...

The boy shrugged again - it seemed to be a gesture that served him for most things, sympathy this time. ‘I’ll go see about those blueprints.’

The boy ran out, heading across the airstrip towards the mess building.

Gwen watched him go for a second, wondering who he was exactly, but then dismissed him from her mind and looked at the aircraft. Her aircraft.

She couldn’t help, but smile as she looked at it, reacquainting herself with its lines. The fitters clambering over it barely looked up as she wandered over, except to give her a brief nod, so focussed were they on their work. She didn’t care; she would rather have them continue to work than break off to give some meaningless signal of acknowledgement of her rank.

She scanned their uniforms quickly, picking out the most senior among them, a sergeant with grey hair poking out from under his hat, and made her way over to him. She watched the men work while she waited patiently for him to finish and notice her - they were efficient and practised and obviously very experienced.

‘Grab it, Geoff. You got it? Good.’ The sergeant wiped his hands on a cloth then turned to face Gwen. He looked her up and down with a very critical eye and she wasn’t sure that he liked what he was seeing. ‘Aviator Sergeant Stone?’ He didn’t wait for her confirmation. ‘Abby told me you were taking over Wasp.’

Gwen glanced at the nose of the machine and winced; now that he mentioned it she could just about make out the name of the aircraft there. It was completely understandable that she hadn’t seen it before, though; it had been all but obliterated by a cannon round that must have penetrated the cockpit after its small act of vandalism.

‘Is that going to be a problem Sergeant...?’

‘Jenkins, Aviator. And no, it’s not going to be a problem. Not at all.’ The man’s face softened considerably and he sighed. ‘If you ask me it’s about bloody time someone did something with her. No disrespect meant to the Wing Commander, or Cece for that matter, but a machine like this has to fly, and the best way for Abby to honour her sister’s memory is for Wasp to be up in the sky, like what Cece designed her for. Now, having said that, she’s your machine now and what you say goes. If you want to make any modifications you just have to give us the say so - Wasp’ll stand it, she’s a good girl.’

Gwen nodded in understanding - many of the pilots, mechanics and fitters that she had known over the years, ones that had built their own aircraft or spent a lot of time servicing them, swore that their machines had a personality all of their own. They insisted that they somehow gained a measure of sentience, with their own quirks, foibles and preferences and began calling them her instead of it. Gwen didn’t believe any of that, though; she’d constructed three aircraft while she’d been growing up and couldn’t say that any of them had gained any kind of character or temperament - they had merely worked how they should have and every time they’d broken or something had gone wrong it had been because she’d done something wrong, not because they were showing their disapproval or throwing a tantrum. She hadn’t even given her first aircraft a name until her mother had insisted that every aircraft had to have one.

Gwen shivered when she remembered what name she’d given it - Bumblebee; that was far too close to Wasp for her liking and a coincidence like that might start making her believing in the superstitions that most pilots subscribed to.

Jenkins saw her gesture and brought himself up in indignation, thinking that she was expressing her disapproval of the aircraft. ‘Don’t look at her like that, young lady! She’s a fine machine and you should be happy to have her.’

‘I am! It’s just that...’

Before she could explain any further, the boy, Jimmy, came running up to them, out of breath and clutching a few rolls of paper in his arms. ‘Got ’em!’

Gwen smiled her thanks. ‘Put them in the office please, I’ll be right there.’ He hurried off and she turned back to Jenkins, who still had a sour look on his face. ‘Sergeant, believe me, I am very happy to be piloting Wasp and I will do all I can to honour it... her, and the memory of her creator.’

She looked at him expectantly and after a few seconds he nodded in acceptance. ‘Very well, Aviator. May you have every joy of her.’

‘Thank you.’ She returned his nod with a smile, then gestured at the aircraft. ‘Now, before I go take a look at the plans, is there anything I should know? Any damage that will require special attention?’

He shook his head. ‘Aside from the missing tail, the frame appears intact. It should be a simple matter of getting everything sorted. Say, five days’ work?’

‘We have three, Sergeant Jenkins. Can we do it?’

He frowned. ‘Three is cutting it fine...’ He nodded reluctantly. ‘We’ll get it done.’

‘Thank you. I’ll leave you to it, then.’

‘Right you are, Aviator.’ He nodded to her, then without any more ceremony he went back to work.

Jimmy already had the blueprints pinned out on the large drawing board nearest the door by the time she joined him in the office.

‘Thanks, Jimmy.’

‘You’re welcome, Gwen!’ He gave her a cheeky grin and a wink, then sauntered out to join the fitters.

Gwen shook her head in exasperation, but then put the boy firmly from her mind and turned her full attention to the blueprints. She found that they weren’t actually blueprints, but rather rough drawings, not at all like the sleek and uncluttered production designs she was used to working with. However, once she managed to see past the clutter of hand-written notes that covered the page they were easy enough to understand and she found that was impressed; the design was simpler than most self-built aircraft she’d seen, but undoubtedly elegant and definitely efficient. Her initial impression that she could improve on it was still correct, though, but it was easy to see that, even if she left it exactly as it was, it would still be much better than a stock Harridan or a Spitsteam.

There was blank paper on the next drawing board over so she moved across to it and began to draw, starting with the current design of Wasp. She drew it in detail from memory, her draughtsman’s pencil moving swiftly across the paper with a precision learnt over many years. She barely needed the protractors, compasses and triangles that were at her disposal; the angles and shapes came naturally to her as she merely put on the page what was already in her mind’s eye. In fairly short order she had a proper blueprint drawn out, clean and without any extraneous marks or notes, good enough for a factory to use, although no factory could hope to mass-produce an aircraft like this; it was only possible to make by hand, through hours and hours of painstaking, loving work.

She took a moment to appreciating the design, then covered it with a sheet of tracing paper and started detailing her modifications, limiting herself to what was possible with the current frame and achievable in very little time, knowing that the adjustments she really wanted to make were impossible to implement in only three days. She went through several sheets of tracing paper, changing minute details each time until she had exactly what she wanted, then moved to the desk next to it where a clean sheet of paper was waiting for her and started creating a proper blueprint that the fitters could work from, once again working from the image that had coalesced in her mind without any need to refer to her drawings.

‘Excuse me, Aviator.’

Gwen looked up from her almost-completed design to find Jenkins in the doorway, his hat in his hand.

‘Yes, Sergeant?’

‘Me and the lads was wondering if we could go get a spot of dinner.’

Gwen looked up at the clock over the desk and blinked in shock; it was past seven, she had been working for almost four hours. ‘Of course. Please do!’

‘Thank you.’ He nodded and started backing from the room.

‘Sergeant!’

He turned back. ‘Yes, Aviator?’

‘How’s it going? How is Wasp?’

The man smiled. ‘She’ll be fine, Aviator. She’ll be fine.’

With a last nod he walked away and left the shed, taking his men with him.

Gwen put the finishing touches to her design, checked it over quickly, then placed the pencil to one side, satisfied.

Her back had cramped slightly from being hunched over the board for so long and she straightened, groaning as her muscles protested.

‘Dinner, Gwen?’

She looked up to find that Jimmy had taken Jenkins’ place in the doorway.

‘Do you think they’ll let me into the mess dressed like this?’

He looked her up and down. When he lingered too long on her breasts, she glared at him, but he just grinned cheekily and shrugged. ‘Of course they will; they’re Misfit Squadron.’

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 Three by clicking the right-arrow down there on the right. If you missed out on Chapter One you can go back and read in now by clicking the left-arrow below. Alternatively, you can go back to the beginning of the book with the beginning-arrow also over on the left.