The little Spitfire raced over the German countryside, casting elongated, faint shadows in the dim twilight on the hills and valleys far below, the two slim figures squeezed into its single-seat cockpit shouting to be heard over the noise of the engine.
"Gosh, what a lark!" the older girl said, her dark eyes dancing. "One was so very dull out at W------."
"Yes, Lillibet, but won't daddy be frightfully crorss?" the younger girl drawled, dragging out the last word to a full two syllables. "I think he and mummy would be very surprised if they could see us now!"
Lillibet looked at her sister in her stolen RAF uniform. "Don't use slang like 'frightfully', Margaret." she scolded. "That would make daddy crosser! Besides, I should think that poor old Air Marshall Dowding might be the one who's cross at us for borrowing this kite."
Lillibet bit her lip, thinking of the stern looking man with the funny mustache who was commander of the RAF's Fighter Command. Then a more happy thought occurred to her:
"Anyway, they might be surprised, but I say, these uniforms are ever so much nicer than the WAAF girls' outfits." she said, cheering the younger girl up. The stolen uniforms fit surprisingly well with the arms and the legs rolled up.
"It was marvelously clever the way you shot down all those Huns." Margaret said. She was having such a jolly time with her sister.
"It serves them right for bombing the old pile. Wasn't daddy furious after the last raid!" Lillibet said. She looked anxiously at the fuel gauge. "Oh, Margaret!" she exclaimed. "I seem to have made a bit of a blunder. I'm afraid I'm going to have to set her down!"
"But Lillibet!" the younger girl protested, "Aren't the Huns going to be very angry at us?"
"Oh, it will be all right." Lillibet replied airily. "It's a bit of a scrape, but we'll just have to make someone give us some petrol." She looked for somewhere flat to land the fighter plane.
Ten minutes later the two girls walked away from a perfect landing. The girls walked through the countryside with confident strides until they found themselves approaching a compound surrounded by wire fences and brightly lit by searchlights.
"What do you suppose that is?" Margaret asked.
"Some sort of health camp, I shouldn't wonder." Lillibet answered vaguely. "Oh dear, Margaret, there are a lot of guards about. I wonder if there is a secret tunnel or passage way or something in to the camp."
The plucky younger girl ferreted around in the bushes until she came across the entrance to a tunnel, hidden within a tree stump.
"Golly, Lillibet!" she said. "You're so clever. Landing the plane, and thinking of the tunnel and everything!"
Her older sister looked modest. "One does what one can." she said. Sometimes being four years older and the responsible one could be such a bore.
The two slim girls slipped into the tunnel.
"Oh, Lillibet! It's so nasty and dusty in here." Margaret said, wrinkling her small but perfectly formed nose.
"Margaret!" her sister chided her. "Personal remarks are impolite. Now remember, we must be incognito, so whoever we find to help us, you should tell them your name is," she pondered, "Mary, and I'll be Susan. All right?"
Margaret nodded. She didn't want to be Mary, but it was no use arguing with the superior and slightly bossy Lillibet.
They walked the length of the dark tunnel until they came to a ladder and a trapdoor. Pushing the trapdoor open, Lillibet found herself in a room full of bunks, currently occupied by men in worn looking uniforms. Her sharp eyes identified them as Allied uniforms, although an odd assortment.
"Hullo, boys!" she said, taking in the startled faces around her. Although Lillibet was raised to the highest standards of courtesy, she had read in the news magazines that the troops appreciated being addressed informally by their social superiors.
A lean, muscular man in an American officer's uniform pushed himself to his feet. While he was naturally enraptured by Lillibet's overwhelming charisma, it was his job to protect the security of his men and his operation, and the appearance of any interloper, even a very attractive one in a RAF uniform several sizes too big for her, required immediate attention.
"Just who are you?" Colonel Robert Hogan demanded of the strange young woman. He saw that she was being followed out of the trapdoor by an even younger looking girl who bore a family resemblance. "And what are you doing in Stalag 13?"
"Dear me, how terribly rude of me." Lillibet said. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Susan, and this is my sis- er, my cousin, Mary." She held out her hand regally as if expecting Hogan to kiss it.
Margaret, who was not the center of attention, a fact to which she was all too accustomed, looked around the room with dark eyes drinking in the sight of all the handsome, if world-weary, prisoners.
The men were all on their feet now. Hogan's eyes were clouded with apprehension and anger as he barked a repeat of his question.
"What are you doing here?"
Lillibet stiffened. "That's no way to talk to a lady." she said. "Haven't you any manners? We were just out on a rather cunning little adventure when our bird dog ran out of petrol. It would be jolly good of you if you could let us have some."
Corporal Peter Newkirk eyed the young lady with interest. There was something that seemed very familiar about her, apart from the accent redolent of England's landed classes. He wished he could place it. He scratched his head. It was all very odd. But she certainly had a commanding presence.
"You were up in a fighter plane?" Hogan demanded. He shoved his hands in his pockets and paced the small room. "But you're-"
Lillibet sighed. "Please don't say that I'm just a slip of a girl. One wouldn't like to tell daddy that one's allies were being impolite."
"And just who is your daddy?" Hogan asked, his voice losing none of its tension.
"That is of no importance." Lillibet said. She realized that she had nearly given away her secret identity. Changing tactics, she giggled. "I'm terribly sorry. We seem to have got off to a rather bad start. Do you happen to have any petrol you could spare? It would be dreadfully inconvenient if we were to be late for breakfast. Questions would be asked."
Louis LeBeau, the gallant little Frenchman, spoke up. "Oui, we have got off to a bad start." His eyes twinkled at the two pretty girls. "Let us have some coffee and then we shall see about this whole situation."
Hogan felt that he should rebuke LeBeau for usurping his authority, but in the face of the combined stunning charm of the girls and the Frenchman, he found himself conceding with a shrug. After all, the one who said her name was Susan had a certain spark, a pluckiness to her that was irresistible. Something about the adjective, "plucky", once it found itself attached in his mind to a female of a certain age, had an almost hypnotic effect on the poor man.
Conversation over coffee sparkled, and by the time Hogan had agreed to have Carter siphon fuel from one of the cars in the German motor pool, he found himself entranced by Lillibet. Her wavy hair, the aristocratic weakness of her chin, it was all fuel to the fire of his sudden romantic passion. As Carter returned to the barracks with the jerry can of fuel, Hogan stood up and said, "If you don't mind, I'll escort you both back to your plane."
Walking ahead of Margaret in the tunnel, Robert Hogan stopped and reverently bent over Lillibet, his eyes locked with hers. "Will I see you again, after the war?" he asked.
"Oh, Robert." Lillibet said. "It cannot be, alas. You and I, we are from two different worlds. My father-"
Hogan's spine stiffened. "I understand." he said with quiet dignity. "I will always remember you, Susan."
On the flight back across the channel, Margaret shouted over the engine noise, "I say, Lillibet, I think I really rather like a man in uniform."
Author's Note:
My grandmother lived in London throughout the blitz. Although, as a colonial, I reserve the right to take the mick out of the British Royal Family, she spoke with nothing but respect for their actions during those terrible times. My Mary-Sueization of Margaret and Lillibet is not meant to be in any way mean-spirited. I just felt that we were running out of General's daughters, and the only way to go was up. My notions of how girls on a ridiculous adventure might behave is lifted wholesale from the thrilling sailing novels of Arthur Ransome. "Better drowned than duffers, if not duffers, won't drown!"
Any anachronisms, accidental or intentional, belong to me. Any historical details that happen to be remotely accurate are no doubt a coincidence. I did just enough research to mess things up completely. Yes, I know the Spitfire a single seater and it runs on high octane fuel, but really, at the level of implausibility I'd already achieved, I decided to just handwave all that. It was better than having the two of them fly a bomber meant to have a crew of seven!