CHAPTER IWORRALS TAKES A TRIP
Flight Officer Joan Worralson, W.A.A.F., better known to her personal friends as “Worrals”, sat chin in hand on an empty oil-drum and gazed moodily across a deserted aerodrome at the rolling cloudscape beyond.
“The fact is, Frecks,” she told her friend and comrade, Betty Lovell, who sat in a similar attitude on an adjacent drum, “there is a limit to the number of times one can take up a light plane and fly it to the same place without getting bored. Four or five times a week for three months I’ve been doing just that, taking battered Tiger-Moths back to the makers for reconditioning. It’s about as exciting as pedalling a push bike along an arterial road; less, in fact, because on the road there are at least hogs who try to push you off. Men can go off and fi
