The truck bumped along the narrow road, its canvas sides flapping in the wind. Emily sat on the wooden bench, her kit bag between her feet, watching the countryside roll past through the gap in the canvas. The other three goblins from her group huddled together on the opposite bench, talking in low voices. She couldn't hear what they were saying over the engine noise, but she didn't try to join them anyway. They'd barely spoken to her during the long train ride from London.

The truck slowed and turned through a gate. RAF Biggin Hill spread out before them - rows of hangars painted in camouflage colors, the control tower rising above them like a lighthouse. Emily's stomach tightened. This was it. After months of training, after everything she'd worked for, this was supposed to be her chance to prove herself.

The truck pulled up outside a low brick building. A sergeant with a clipboard waited by the door, looking bored. As they climbed down, he checked off their names without really looking at them.

"Right," he said, pointing at the other three. "Transport pool, hangar seven. Report to Sergeant Moore." Then he looked at Emily. "You. Fighter squadron. Administrative building."

Emily blinked. "Sir? I thought we were all going to transport."

The sergeant shrugged. "Not my problem. Paperwork says fighter squadron for you. Building's over there." He pointed vaguely toward the control tower and turned away.

Emily watched the other three walk off together, their boots crunching on the gravel. She felt suddenly small and alone, standing there with her kit bag. Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her cap and marched toward the administrative building.

The building smelled of coffee and cigarette smoke. Inside, a corporal looked up from his desk. "Can I help you?"

"Flight Officer Emily Ironjaw, reporting for duty with fighter squadron," Emily said, keeping her voice steady.

The corporal frowned and checked his papers. "Ironjaw... right. Squadron Leader Whitmore's expecting you. Second floor, first door on the left."

Emily climbed the stairs, her boots echoing on the metal steps. She knocked once and entered.

Squadron Leader Whitmore sat behind a desk covered in papers, a cigarette burning in an overflowing ashtray. He was younger than she'd expected - maybe thirty-five - with cold blue eyes and a thin mustache. He didn't stand up.

"You're the goblin," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Flight Officer Emily Ironjaw, sir. Reporting for duty."

Whitmore picked up a folder and flipped through it. "Says here you've got experience on American aircraft. P-26, P-39, P-40. That right?"

"Yes, sir. I was a test pilot for Curtiss before the war."

"Before the war." He said it like it was some kind of joke. "Well, that's interesting. We don't fly American aircraft here. We fly British aircraft. Different animals entirely."

"I understand, sir. I'm a quick learner."

"I'm sure you are." He closed the folder and looked at her directly. "Let me be clear about something. Your assignment here is temporary. Pending proper evaluation. We have certain... standards... in this squadron. Standards that might be difficult for you to meet."

Emily felt her ears flatten against her skull. She forced them upright. "I believe I can meet any standard you set, sir."

"Perhaps. We'll see. The others aren't exactly thrilled about having you here. Pilots are traditionalists. They like things a certain way." He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "Mess hall's in building three. You'll find your quarters there too. Report to Flight Lieutenant Morrison at 0600 tomorrow. Dismissed."

Emily saluted and left. In the hallway, she paused to take a breath. Temporary. Proper evaluation. Difficult standards. The words echoed in her head like a drumbeat.

She found the mess hall easily enough - a low building that smelled of boiled cabbage and tobacco. Inside, pilots sat around tables, eating and smoking and talking. The conversation died as she entered.

Emily walked to the counter where a cook ladled stew into tin plates. She took her plate and looked for an empty seat. Every table was full except one in the corner, where a single pilot sat alone. She walked over.

"Mind if I sit here?" she asked.

The pilot looked up - a young man, maybe twenty-five, with sandy hair and freckles. He looked startled for a moment, then shrugged. "It's a free country."

Emily sat down and started eating. The stew was thin and flavorless, but she was too hungry to care. She could feel eyes on her from every direction.

"You're the new pilot, then?" the young man said after a minute. "The goblin?"

"Emily Ironjaw. And yes, I'm a goblin." She kept her voice level.

"Tom Morrison." He held out his hand. After a moment's hesitation, she shook it. "Don't mind them," he said quietly, nodding toward the other tables. "They're just not used to... well, to anything different."

"Different how?"

"Different anything. They're good lads, mostly. Just set in their ways. Give them time." He smiled, a little awkwardly. "You've flown American aircraft, then?"

"Test pilot for Curtiss. P-40 mostly, some P-39. You?"

"Spitfires. Beautiful aircraft. Handles like a dream once you get used to it." He hesitated. "Look, if you need help with anything... orientation flights, local procedures... I'm around."

"Thanks. I might take you up on that."

The conversation died. Emily finished her stew and stood up. "See you around, then."

"See you, Ironjaw."

Emily found her quarters - a small room in a converted barracks block. There were four bunks, but she was the only occupant. She unpacked her few belongings with practiced efficiency, hanging her uniforms in the small wardrobe, placing her books on the shelf above the desk.

When everything was arranged, she sat at the desk and pulled out her writing paper. The letter began easily enough:

Dear Chief Ironjaw,

I arrived at RAF Biggin Hill today. The base is smaller than I expected, but busy - aircraft taking off and landing every few minutes, the sound of engines never stopping. There are four of us from the recruitment group, but I've been assigned to the fighter squadron while the others are going to transport. I'm not sure if this is good news or bad.

The squadron leader made it clear my assignment is "temporary pending proper evaluation." His exact words. I know what that means - they don't think I belong here. The other pilots... well, they looked at me like I'd grown a second head when I walked into the mess hall. One pilot, Tom Morrison, was decent enough. The rest just stared.

I keep telling myself it doesn't matter. That once I'm in the air, none of this matters. That they'll judge me by how I fly, not by my face. But sitting here alone in this empty room, it's harder to believe that.

She paused, looking at the words. They seemed small and weak on the page. She continued:

I've been thinking about what you said before I left - about how we have to be twice as good to be considered half as worthy. I'm starting to understand what you meant. But I also remember what Grandmother said - that the mountain doesn't care about your face, only about your feet. One step at a time, she always said.

So tomorrow I report at 0600. Tomorrow I start climbing this mountain. One step at a time.

I'll write again when I know more.

Your granddaughter,
Emily

She folded the letter carefully and sealed it in an envelope. Outside, the sound of aircraft continued into the evening. She lay on her bunk, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

Fileclerk: The Battle of Britain. — Chapter 8

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