#air transport auxiliary
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Jackie Moggridge joined the ATA at the age of 18 and later ferried 1,438 planes to waiting RAF pilots, flying 82 different types of aircraft. She later became the first female commercial airline captain.
"Normal Women: 900 Years of Making History" - Philippa Gregory
#book quotes#normal women#philippa gregory#nonfiction#jackie moggridge#ata#air transport auxiliary#ferried#raf#pilots#royal air force#planes#aircraft#commercial aircraft#captain#air force reserves#ww2#wwii#world war two
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Jackie Moggridge joined ATA at the age of 18 and ferried 1,438 planes to waiting RAF pilots, flying 82 different types of aircraft.
"Normal Women: 900 Years of Making History" - Philippa Gregory
#book quote#normal women#philippa gregory#nonfiction#jackie moggridge#ata#air transport auxiliary#ferried#planes#aircraft#raf pilots#royal air force
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Irene Arckles: Air Transport Auxiliary Pilot during WW2.
(DB colour from original unknown B&W image)
Irene Arckless was described as an ordinary working class girl determined to obtain her pilots licence who passed her flying test just before the start of the Second World War. During the war she was a pilot with the Air Transport Auxiliary delivering all types of aircraft from factories to operational RAF airfields throughout England.On Sunday 3 June…
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Still waiting on someone making a tv show or film about the women in the ATA
#like c'mon!#it could be so good#ATA#air transport auxiliary#ww2#yes i too am mostly sick of war movies but this would be different#read up on it#these ladies were having a fantastic time as well as flying broken planes better than the men were flying the working ones
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The Women's Airforce Service Pilots (WASP): Soaring Through Gender Barriers 🛩🐝
During World War II, while the world battled on various fronts, a quieter revolution took flight in the United States. The Women's Airforce Service Pilots, or WASP, were a pioneering group of female aviators who defied traditional gender norms, proving that women could excel in roles historically reserved for men.
Origins of the WASP
With many American men serving overseas, the country faced a need to tap into underutilized domestic resources. The WASP program, initiated in 1943, merged two existing women's flying programs: the Women's Flying Training Detachment (WFTD) and the Women's Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron (WAFS). These women, under the guidance of aviators like Jacqueline Cochran and Nancy Love, would play a critical role in the war effort.
Duties and Contributions
The WASPs were trained pilots who contributed in non-combat roles. They ferried military aircraft across the country, tested planes, instructed male pilots, and even towed targets for live anti-aircraft artillery practice. They fulfilled the non-combat roles formerly occupied by male pilots, so more male pilots were available for combat roles. Women were not allowed to fly combat missions until [many years later, in 1993.. By the end of the war, WASPs had flown every type of military aircraft, logged over 60 million miles, and transported nearly 12,650 aircraft of 78 different types.
Challenges and Gender Biases
Despite their significant contributions, WASPs constantly faced skepticism and discrimination. They weren’t considered members of the military but were seen as civil service employees. They had to pay for their own uniforms, lodging, and sometimes even their way home after the end of their service. If a WASP pilot died during service, her burial costs fell on her family or fellow pilots.
Recognition and Legacy
In 1977, after years of advocacy by WASP veterans, President Jimmy Carter signed legislation granting WASP pilots veteran status. Later, in 2009, they were awarded the Congressional Gold Medal for their service, sacrifice, and pioneering spirit. The legacy of the WASP program not only paved the way for women's integration into the U.S. Air Force but also demonstrated the capabilities of women in high-pressure, technical roles.
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True North - John "Bucky" Egan x Original Female Character
Summary: Struggling to defy expectations during the height of WWII, Captain Stella Frank is determined to prove her worth as an Air Transport Auxiliary Pilot in the male-dominated world of aviation. As she navigates the skies with skill and determination, she encounters a diverse array of characters, each with their own struggles and triumphs. Among them is John "Bucky" Egan, whose charm, bravery, and dedication to his fellow pilots catch Frank's attention amidst the chaos of war. Can they navigate not only the treacherous skies but also the complexities of love and loyalty in a time of uncertainty and sacrifice? Or are they doomed to go down in flames like the world around them?
Chapter I
Excerpt:
Planes dotted the landscape, the tower looming in the background. Most of the planes would find homes on other bases or airfields, another tool for the boys to use in their battles. For a while it felt like production was stalling, they had so few to ferry around, but it seemed in the last year or so it had definitely picked up, so many different classes of aircraft ready to be delivered to the Allies. Frank hadn’t yet flown into Thorpe Abbotts, the Royal Air Force station just a handful of miles to the east of Diss, Norfolk. It was fairly new, having been built the previous year, but once the United States Army Air Forces took possession of the airfield, it seemed like activity was picking up.
The boys at Thorpe Abbotts seemed to be going through planes like candy, and Frank was pretty sure this was their fifth ferry to the airfield in less than two weeks. Typically they flew to the smaller satellite bases once a month, maybe twice if there were mechanical issues, but five timesin two weeks? Something was definitely going on in East Anglia. She’d heard low rumblings of the amount of planes that went down during their missions from the British pilots—the men criticizing the Americans for bombing during the day rather than waiting until evening. One conversation she overheard at dinner a few weeks ago seemed to be about the recently arrived 100th Bombardment Group and how they kept losing men to dumb tactical decisions. “It’s war,” one of the heavier accented men had said, slumped backwards in his chair as he rested a beer on the table, “you do what you need to survive.”
“...are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
Frank’s eyes snapped back to those of Commander Dorothy Skylar’s, the three gold stripes she wore on the shoulder strap of her jacket seeming to catch in what little sunlight they had today, making Frank’s two stripes seem even less important than they already felt. “Yes, sorry,” Frank shook her head and the memories away, forcing herself back into the present, “I was just thinking about Thorpe Abbotts and some of the conversations that I’ve heard in passing about it.”
“They’re losing men and planes at a rapid rate of speed,” Dorothy nodded, glancing down at the folder of papers Frank just realized the woman was carrying, “I don’t think this will be your last ferry there.”
“No,” Frank turned her head as she watched the massive Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress come into view, eyes slowly taking in the matte green of the plane, white lettering and stars decorating the wings and body, “no, I don’t think it will be either.”
#masters of the air fanfiction#john egan fanfiction#john bucky egan fanfiction#john bucky egan x oc#John Bucky Egan Fluff#John Bucky Egan Smut#bucky egan smut#Bucky Egan Fanfiction#mota fanfic#John Bucky Egan x reader#John Egan x ATA!Pilot
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Adventuresses We Love – Amy Johnson
Adventuress Amy Johnson started taking flying lessons at the London Aeroplane Club in 1928. Typical chauvinistic attitudes of the day meant she had to spend twice as much time in training as her male colleagues, but she did finally earn her pilot’s license in 1929. Later that year, she became the first British woman to qualify as an aircraft ground engineer. She then set her eyes on another goal – Australia.
On May 5, 1930, with only 75 hours flying time under her belt, Johnson took off from Croydon in her deHavilland Gipsy Moth she’d named Jason. The flight would not be an easy one. Along the way, she’d battle sandstorms, monsoons, and blistering heat. As she sheltered from a sandstorm, packs of wild dogs got a little too close for comfort. Low on fuel, she made an emergency landing on a military parade ground in Pakistan, scattering the soldiers assembled there in the process. Finally, on May 24, she landed in Darwin, Northern Territory, becoming the first woman to fly solo from England to Australia. For this feat, she was awarded the Harmon Trophy, and a CBE by King George V.
This was the first of several long-distance record flights for Johnson. In 1932 she flew from London to Cape Town, South Africa, beating the previous record (set by her husband,) by 11 hours.
During World War II Johnson flew for the Air Transport Auxiliary, ferrying aircraft around England. On January 5, 1941, Adventuress Amy Johnson disappeared when the plane she was ferrying crashed into the Thames estuary. She was 37 years old; her body was never recovered.
Jason is on permanent display at the Science Museum of London. Photo of Jason courtesy of the Science Museum of London, shared under the creative commons license.
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Profiles in Villainy
Rick Sanchez
The smartest man in the multiverse, Rick Sanchez created a portal gun that allows instant transport to any and all of the countless alternate universes. The sheer scope of the multiverse instilled a deep sense of nihilism in Rick as he came to see actions, decisions and life in general to be entirely inconsequential.
Unburdened by a sense of conscious, Rick embarked on an endless string of violent, debaucherous and action-filled adventures. With his unparalleled intellect, Rick came to see himself as akin to an uncaring god and he left in his wake a cavalcade of destroyed worlds and ruined civilizations. He began to recruit alternate versions of himself from parallel universes. He provided these alternate versions of himself with portal guns and encouraged them to explore the multiverse, all as part of his twisted need to spread his self-proclaimed godhood.
This changed when he encountered the alternate version of himself in Dimension C-137. This version was not interested in such matters and turned Rick down. Enraged, Rick created and detonated a device that not only killed this Rick’s wife, but also killed every version of his wife throughout the multiverse.
Broken of spirit, Rick C-137 vowed vengeance. He created his own portal gun and began his own exploration of the multiverse, continuously searching for the version of himself that had killed his wife. And yet his alcoholism, his bitterness and his own nihilistic attitudes led Rick C-137 to gradually become nearly as destructive and villainous as the foe he hunted.
Later in his life, Rick began to share his adventures with his grandson, Morty, who became his sidekick as well as something of an auxiliary sense of consciousness. The two explored the multiverse and continued to leave a string of devastated realities in their wake.
Actors Justin Roiland and Ian Cardoni provide the voice for Rick Sanchez with the diabolical genius first appearing in the premier episode of Rick and Morty, airing on December 2nd, 2013.
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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Seven
Tom Bennett x OFC
[Masterlist]
Warnings: Language, World On Fire Spoilers
Word Count: 3.7K
Note: I like to imagine the banner is of Tom writing letters in his bunk. Can't wait for Chapter Eight!
November 1939
Dear Tom,
Another letter, I am impressed.
This one almost slipped me by – Dot opened the door when Dennis Warley came by with the post. I wanted to make some new trousers and ordered a pattern from the haberdashers, and it came with your letter. Apparently he said it’s good men don’t want me because dadda has someone to look after him when he’s old. You know what Dot’s like. Cora said she launched herself at Dennis and the post almost wasn’t delivered.
Her and Cora are still at the factory, though missing your Lois and Connie enormously. We had a letter from Albie yesterday. He’s in France now, helping with the refugees from Poland. Luckily he’s not been in too much danger. With them and Albie off in Europe, and you at sea, our world has become a little lonelier.
There was a dance the other night at The Palais, though the women outranked the men by about four to one. Makes a change. There is a great deal less drunkenness and wandering hands, but we do miss you all. And I’d happily exchange Walter Watson. I don’t suppose you’ll have heard about that? Was in France for two weeks and got invalided out. Not shot by the enemy like he told us, worst luck. Albie said in his letter that Walter was having it off with a Polish girl when her father found them. Well, he’s come back with his arm in a sling and is somehow as handsy as ever. Tried to put his hand up my skirt. Even Queenie Warren told him where to go. She’s been ever so down in the mouth since you all left, men were her sole source of entertainment, though I heard her and Frank Smith have been writing.
Cora is blue as well. Her Roger has been training every hour God sends. They’re expecting the RAF to start regular flights, though what, we’re not allowed to know. I suppose, that’s my main news – Roger got me a job at the Air Transport Auxiliary. I’m making planes, constructing the wings mostly. I love the smell of the metal and the oil, and working with my hands. Roberta is here too, though she’s driving the goods vans. Hattie and Jude have left to help the Land Army prepare for spring. They’re not too far away but they work round the clock.
I was listening to the wireless when I got your letter. There have been rumours that the government will ask most women to do war work next year. There goes the hope we’d be down Belle Vue in the spring. I’m glad, though, that the government has realised we are capable of lifting more than a hairbrush and lipstick, even if it has come at the cost of war. We’re more than just objects to colour men’s lives. Perhaps with all this war work, more of us will start wearing trousers and Dennis Warley can piss off. They mentioned rationing, too. Think it’ll affect the likes of Robina Chase more than us, but I don’t think Dadda will manage without sugar in his tea. Heaven forbid they cut eggs and bacon. Of course, that’ll mean no new clothes for a long while. I don’t mind but Dot will be distraught.
Dadda’s been spending a lot of time with yours. They go out on these long walks round the dockyard. Sometimes they even stay up later than me. I can see them in your kitchen, just talking. It did make me laugh the other day – sat there in their chairs by the fire, they look just like Mrs O’Connell and Mrs Flaherty down the road. But then I suppose, they have each other because they lost their husbands. Now, our dads’ have each other because you and Albie have gone.
What is it like there? I want to hear everything. How are the other lads? I hope you’re getting along. There’s a map on the wall at the factory and when I look at all that ocean, I imagine you in a little paper boat skittering across is. There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think of Albie, and of you. Do you think His Majesty will let you home for Christmas? Good for morale to let his soldiers come home. We’re hoping Albie will.
I had the thought that I should speak in letters from now on. Everyone is always telling me how quiet I am, yet here I’ve been writing pages and pages to you. I know I’m not good at talking, not like the others, but I can say it here – I miss you. Please, for me and for your dad, keep yourself safe. And write again soon.
Your friend,
Bess.
P.S. Make sure you write to Douglas, he’s suffering from missing you both.
Bess placed the finished letter in its envelope and wrote the address.
Tom Bennett
HMS Exeter
c/o Royal Navy Auxiliary
Portsmouth
Once the ink was dry and she had traced her finger over his name once or twice, Bess ate the remaining crust of her toast, drew on her blue jumper and cycled to the Air Transport Auxiliary factory. Straddling the cool metal of the planes as she drove nuts and bolts into their wings, Bess thought of her mother. She and Douglas had been courting during the Great War, but unlike Bess and her sisters, all she had to do with her time was wait. Wait for Douglas to come home with nothing else to occupy her thoughts. Bess was sick with worry, so much so that when she woke in the mornings without the churning of her stomach, she felt something was wrong. It wasn’t until sleep had faded and she remembered the war that the feeling returned, and she felt normal again. These few hours of respite at the factory, while they didn’t sway her fear, certainly calmed her. And who knows where these planes might go? Over the heads of Albie, or Tom, defending them from above? Into sun-kissed clouds, skirting heaven? And here she was, one of the girls making them fly.
By the time Bess finished her shift, grey clouds were low over Manchester and night was descending.
“Do you want a lift honey? Looks like it’s gonna chuck it down.” Roberta asked as they left the hangar. Bess declined, and they went their separate ways. Along with the other women, all covered in dirt and sweat, she meandered towards the factory gate, where a group of jeering men stood in a circle. At their feet, someone was on the floor, scrabbling to reach paper that was blowing away in the wind. As she got closer, Bess saw that they were boys, not yet eighteen perhaps. Except for one. Walter Watson.
“You’re a fucking disgrace,” he was saying to the man on the floor. “Handing out that horse shit.” The boys around Walter laughed. As they did so, the man on the ground stood. He was taller and broader than them, his face craggy with woe and as he turned, Bess saw the weary eyes of Douglas Bennett. She continued walking forward as passers-by ignored the altercation.
“Fucking coward,” one of the boys said. “Stood here selling your fucking peace paper when our lads are out fighting for their lives. For your life!” The youth jabbed bony his finger into Douglas’ chest. Bess was feet from them now, and still Douglas did nothing. It made her proud not to see him back down.
It was easy to infiltrate the circle; she was the smallest of this beastly party and each man was too focused on their abuse of Douglas to notice.
“You know Walter got shot!?”
“That’s not what I heard.”
They froze, and every face turned slowly towards her. Grease streaked her face and she reeked of metal and oil. The hands that had been folded across her chest slipped into her pockets and she leant slightly on one leg, hip jutting just enough to remind them of her womanhood. Some of the younger boys, who knew Bess only by her reputation, swallowed. Walter, who had known Bess long enough to watch her grow from witchy little girl to one of the most bewitching women in Longsight, looked ready to combust. Caught somewhere between anger and fear.
“Our Albert said a Polish fella broke your arm when he caught you balls deep in his daughter.”
Walter spluttered and his gang of underlings remained silent, shocked by the coarseness of her language. Douglas laughed.
“Did he really?” His smile was broad as he looked at Bess and she beamed back. She snatched the papers that Walter held in his hand and passed them to Douglas. Neither spoke and the argument was won; one by one, the boys shuffled home.
When the last of them had disappeared from sight, Douglas spoke. “Thanks, love.” Bess merely shrugged and began walking away. “If you’re heading home I’ll give you a lift.”
“Free bus ticket?” Bess said.
“No,” Douglas laughed quietly, and walked towards the bike resting against the factory wall. “Hop on.” He held the bike still as she perched on the handlebars and leant back against his shoulder. Bess shrieked at the first few wobbly turns of the pedal as Douglas adjusted to both of their weight, but soon, they were racing along the streets of Manchester towards home. “Used to take Lois home like this if she’d had a long shift.”
They were silent for the rest of the journey. Occasionally, they saw someone they knew and Bess would wave. From behind her, Douglas touched his cap. When she hopped of the bike outside her house, she turned to Douglas. “How is Lois getting on?”
“They’re working her hard. It’s an awful lot of toing and froing between camps. But she said she gets a thrill from singing for everyone. Nice to be doing her bit, you know.” He looked at the ground as he spoke, and Bess hummed.
“And Tom?” Bess tried to keep her voice measured.
“Barely hear from him. Last letter said he was on shore leave for a day or two, enjoying himself too much, no doubt”.
“I’m sure they’re fine, they can look after themselves.” He nodded solemnly. “Goodnight, Douglas.”
✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼ ✼
Over the next few weeks Bess developed a routine that, while unable to ease her worry, made the time go faster. It went thus; each morning she arose before her family, as always, and began breakfast. Cora would join her, and together they fed the family before each parting ways to their various jobs. Between nine and five, she worked at the factory. Lunchtimes were taken at the dockyard with Fergal. At five o’clock she helped Douglas Bennett hand out Peace News, and at six he cycled them home. The evenings she wasn’t with Roberta, Hattie and Jude, or repairing clothes (she had taken the task to make a little more money), she spent at the Bennett house. Be it cooking dinners, listening to Douglas’ opinions on the government and the war, or simply sitting in amicable silence, Bess found she increasingly enjoyed his company.
She had always liked Douglas. When the children were little Fergal, Etta, Douglas and Marie had taken them on picnics to Blackpool or Southport. Tom and Albie always ran into the surf and terrorised Cora and Lois. Dot was still small, making sandcastles while Etta and Marie talked the day away. Inevitably, Bess found herself trailing Douglas as he pointed out patterns in the clouds or interesting shells. Even now, Bess was drawn in by the gentle eyes set in his stoic face. The small smiles he offered when something had pleased him. The unshakable sense that maybe, just maybe, Douglas Bennett was the best of men.
Tonight was no different. Bess sat in a chair opposite Douglas, finishing some silk stockings for Queenie Warren. How she had been able to afford them, God only knew, but Bess enjoyed the feel of them slipping over her skin like water. Douglas was reading the newspaper. Every now and then, when Bess paused to rest her eyes, she caught Douglas glancing into the middle distance.
“Memories or visions?” she asked him softly. He sighed and removed his glasses.
“These days, they all blur into one horrible nightmare.” The silence resumed. Bess cast aside the stockings and took Douglas’ hand in hers, gently rubbing it with her thumb. He studied her a moment.
“You’re an odd lass,”
“So people say,”
“And a kind one.” She paused her movements and looked at him. “You should be spending time with people your own age, not barmy old men like me.”
“You’re not old. And I like spending time with you.” It wasn’t a lie. Douglas was a quiet, calm realist much like herself. Perhaps, if she had been born fifty, even thirty years ago, she would have liked him more. A thought occurred to her.
“I think you and Tom are more alike than either of you care to admit.”
Douglas huffed by way of a reply, then spoke. “He’s more like his mother than me. They both are. I don’t suppose you remember our Marie too much?”
“I remember her laugh, and that mam loved her.”
“Yeah,” he smiled and looked at Bess’ hand stroking his own. “Everyone did.” He paused once more before continuing. “What if Tom ends up like me, Bess?”
“What do you me-”
“What if he comes back from this God-awful war a shadow of himself? He’s so bright and full of life, like his mother, what if it disappears? If he comes back at all-”
Bess thought about her next words carefully. “We can’t know if they’ll come back. Tom, Lois or Albie. But we can live in the knowledge that death won’t diminish our devotion to them. You and I may not agree with war, but they’ve gone not because they blindly followed everyone else, but because they want to defend those who can’t defend themselves. And I am so proud of them. My Albie, and Lois and Tom.”
They were silent for a while as Douglas considered her words. Then, quite unexpectedly, he kissed her hand and placed his own on her cheek. The image of his son flashed across his face and Bess blushed.
“Off you go, Bess. Your family will be missing you.” The abruptness of their evening’s end took Bess by surprise, but she gathered her sewing, kissed Douglas’ cheek and left.
Dot was warming her feet by the fire when she opened the door. Cora was reading next to her.
“Dadda’s down the pub,” Dot spoke without looking up. “But you’ve stolen his drinking partner.” Cora pushed Dot’s leg with her foot, not looking up from her book.
“What do you mean, Dot?” Bess was in no mood to argue. Dot looked her sister dead in the eye.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Douglas.”
“Yes?”
“It’s not proper,”
“For God’s sake,”
“All these men on the go,”
“Me and Douglas are not ‘on the go’. And which men!?”
“There’s a letter on the bed for you.”
Bess’ heart stopped. “A letter?”
“Yes. Another letter.” Dot tried to sound aloof but her need for gossip got the better of her and she sat up in the chair. “Who’s writing to you, Bess? That man Tom punched?” She received no answer, for Bess was racing up the stairs to their bedroom. The letter was set against her pillow, and at seeing the familiar scrawl of her name, her heart leapt. Bess ripped open the envelope and found her seat in the window.
Dear Bess,
Thanks for your letter. Your writing is doing wonders for my reputation – the other boys don’t get half as many as I do, and most of them are from their mams. We’ve got a wall full of pictures that girls have sent the lads. Fancy sending one to add? Maybe you all oiled up at the factory. Lot of lonely sailors in need of entertainment, and God knows ENSA won’t be sent out here.
I wish I could be down The Palais. Not because I miss the dancing mind. We’ve not seen a woman for weeks and the thought of them all dancing together makes me weak in a way that has nothing to do with my sea legs. Tell us about it in your next letter, with all the details. Which reminds me, lay off Queenie Warren. I know she’s annoying but she means well. I don’t think you know how intimidating The Vaughn Sisters are!
I’m writing this as we come into dock. Can’t tell you where exactly we are, for obvious reasons, but I’m looking forward to putting my feet on solid ground for a few days. Resupply means shore leave. I know you’d spend it looking in museums, walking and hunting down fabric, but for sailors it’s a different game altogether. It’ll be straight to the pub for rum and beer, before hitting the town. All hands on deck there, if you see what I mean.
I’m getting along with the other lads just fine, thank you for your confidence. I’ve got plans to spend shore leave with Vic and Norman. Vic’s Mancunian too, reminds me a bit of your Albie. Head screwed on proper and he’d have your back in a fight. You’d like him. Norman’s a little green, but Vic and I will put him right. Said we’d bring him to Longsight when we’re home, I have a feeling Dot would eat him up. He’d love it. She likes a fella she can boss around doesn’t she, your Dot? Norman will probably bring Terry along – he’s the wireless operator. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose, which is unfortunate considering he’s in the navy.
You’ll be glad to hear I’ve kept out of trouble, though Campbell and Ginger have me contemplating the many uses of hawser every now and again. Campbell’s First Officer, decent enough bloke but he’s a posh twat. Doesn’t know how to speak to us but God, he does try. Ginger’s actually called Henry. From the East End and thinks he’s a real geezer. Always bossing Norman around and lording it over the rest of us – he was an Able Seaman before the war so even though we’re all the same rank he thinks he can give us orders. No-one would care if I pushed him off the dock so I might give it a go. Burn this letter in case they catch me, it’s evidence.
Sounds like Walter has had all hands on deck too. Surprised he managed to pull a girl, didn’t think the bloke could kick his way out of a wet paper bag. I have half a mind to kill him before the Jerries do. If his arm hasn’t healed by the time I get back, you’d better tell him to watch out. Dennis Warley too. Don’t think he’s one to comment on what people look like when the rat-faced pillock hasn’t touched a woman since he came out the womb. I wouldn’t change you for the world, Bess, and anyone would be lucky to have you by their side whether that’s your dad or your husband.
Look after yourself, and give a kiss to Cora and Dot for me.
Tom.
p.s. I’ve written to dad.
Bess reread the letter, trying to hunt out any details she might have missed. She couldn’t help but be disappointed by Tom’s letters. They were never as long as hers, and he refrained from telling her anything of substance, just the goings on of the ship. It wasn’t like their evenings in the kitchen, when he’d tell her everything. Perhaps, he needed the silence and Bess supposed he couldn’t send her a blank page to signal his internal thoughts. She tucked the letter in a book, kissed the picture of Tom she kept in its pages, ignored her visions of Tom in the arms of a strange woman while on shore leave, and wandered downstairs.
“So? Who’s your fancy man?” Cora looked up at Dot’s question.
“Who says it’s a man?” Dot looked annoyed at her sister’s answer but said nothing, switching on the wireless to fill the silence.
“Warsaw now lies in ruins, while Germany and Russia continue to carve out Poland between them. At sea, the Royal Navy are focusing their efforts on scouring the South Atlantic in search of the notorious German pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spee. Rumoured to be somewhere off the coast of Argentina, the deadliest of Hitler’s Kriegsmarine has been involved in a number of skirmishes with merchant ships. There is a feeling that the Allied Forces are simply hoping that the inevitable will never come to pass-”
“Tom’s out that way, isn’t he?” Cora said softly.
Bess nodded. “Somewhere, yes.” The three sisters were silent, portraits of Albie and Etta looking down at them from the mantel as they waited for Fergal to arrive home. Across the road, Douglas switched off his own wireless, donned his cap and made his way to the pub. Bess watched him through the window as he made his way down the street, and her stomach gave a lurch. All these lonely souls left at home, severed from their loved ones with no knowing if or when they’d see them again. The horrors of war were unimaginable, but nobody talks about the living dead left behind.
Note: Happy Easter everyone! Sorry this chapter has taken a while, I’ve been so busy! I know some people reading this haven’t seen WoF (you should) – Douglas is a bus conductor. We’re with Tom A LOT for the next chapter 😊 While my paternal grandmother made munitions, my maternal grandmother (a seamstress) made planes – glad to have given the girls the same jobs as my grandmas’. The Palais, where Bess goes dancing, was where my Grandma used to go too. World on Fire is so intertwined with my family due to where it is set, it makes my heart sing! Here is my maternal grandmother looking fantastic.
Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @beiigegalx
#ewan mitchell#tom bennett#tom bennett x ofc#ewan mitchell x reader#world on fire#the seamstress & the sailor
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James Allan Mollison was born on April 19th 1905 in Glasgow.
Graeme Obree, Chris Hoy and a certain steam train have all bee called The Flying Scotsman in their time, but the original title goes to a man who actually did fly, Jim Mollison.
Jim would go on to become a pioneering aviator, breaking records for long distance flights. His marriage to fellow aviator Amy Johnson also saw them lauded as the golden couple during their time together.
Born the only child of Hector Alexander Mollison, a consultant engineer, and Thomasina Macnee Addie. He was educated at The Glasgow Academy and Edinburgh Academy and took an early interest in flying and obtaining his Royal Air Force (RAF) Short Service Commission at 18, he was the youngest officer in the service, and upon completion of training was posted to India, flying on active service in Waziristan.
At the age of 22, Mollison became a flying instructor at Central Flying School (CFS), again setting the record for being the youngest in this role. Shortly after, he transferred to the RAF Reserve and devoted his time to civil aviation.
In 1928-29, he served as an instructor with the South Australian Aero Club in Adelaide, leaving that position to become a pilot with Eyre Peninsular Airways and Australian National Airways.
In July-August 1931, Mollison set a record time of eight days, 19 hours for a flight from Australia to England, and in March 1932, a record for flying from England to South Africa in 4 days, 17 hours flying a de Havilland Puss Moth.
Mollison eventually served in the ATA Air Transport Auxiliary in the Second World War. In June 1941 Mollison and an ATA crew delivered Cunliffe-Owen OA-1 G-AFMB to Fort Lamy, Chad. The aircraft was fitted out as a personal transport for General De Gaulle.
Mollison was feted in London and New York, and could lead the life he had always wanted. “I am a night bird,” he once said. “Life and enjoyment begin when daylight fades. Cocktail bars and clubs, music, beautiful women— that’s living. Daylight comes to me as an interval for sleeping until an afternoon drink helps to bring on another evening.” His autobiography was called “Playboy of the Air”.
When Mollison and Amy Jonson married in 1932 the press were delighted, they were dubbed The Flying Sweethearts by the press and public. . The match was was perfect for the publicity machine, and the two of them set about devising new aviation records: in 1933 they flew together from Wales to New York and had a ticker-tape reception in Wall Street. But marriage did not last long or end well. It has sometimes been assumed that the match was a simple career move on Mollison's part: certainly he did not halt his relationships with other women. Nor did it limit his drinking. As I said earlier, he got the tag “ the Flying Scotsman” but those close to him called him “Brandy Jim”.
As well as his Playboy lifestyle and heavy drinking Jim Mollison was also quick with his fists, and a manager from the Grosvenor House Hotel was reported as saying ” We've had the most awful night here. Jim Mollison and Amy Johnson had a fearful row and he's beaten her up. The bathroom looks like a slaughterhouse.” The marriage officially ended in 1938.
Mollison kept flying, and – like Johnson – flew in a non-combat role in WWII. Both of them flew in the Air Transport Auxiliary. Johnson died in 1941 after baling out of aircraft. Mollison had at least one close escape, when his plane was shot up, but survived the war.
Mollison later settled in London and ran a public house. He married Maria Clasina E. Kamphuis in 1949 at the Maidenhead Register Office. Mollison continued to abused alcohol and in 1953, the Civil Aviation Authority Medical Board revoked his pilot's licence. The couple separated but Maria bought the Carisbrooke Hotel in Surbiton for him – a temperance hotel.
Suffering from acute alcoholism, he was admitted to The Priory, Roehampton, southwest London, where he died on 30 October 1959, the official cause of death was pneumonia, but unofficially it was thought to be alcoholic epilepsy.
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Ούτοι γυναικός εστιν ιμείρειν μάχης.**
- Aeschylus
Surely it is not for a woman to long for battle.**
Maureen Dunlop flew far faster planes than any of her peers, including Amelia Earhart. She flew Spitfires, Lancasters, Hurricanes and Mosquitos, and proved the dream of Picture Post's photographer when, on emerging from the cockpit of a Fairey Barracuda, the sun on her hair, she made the cover shot of the popular Picture Post that sold thousands of copies in autumn 1944.
Dunlop mastered the controls of 28 different single-engine and 10 multi-engine aircraft types, which also included the Hawker Typhoon, Hawker Tempest, Avro Anson, Mustang, Bristol Blenheim and Vickers Wellington.
The ATA did a gruelling day-to-day job, plying the skies under constant threat from inclement weather the length and breadth of Great Britain, at a time when the nature of flying was changing in popular consciousness from having been a pre-war novelty and the subject of record attempts and joyrides, to being a vital part of the war effort.
The women among its members also had to put up with opposition from men who had little faith in their ability – or perhaps misplaced chivalry – such as Air Chief Marshal Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory, who would not let women pilots cross the Channel, or who were merely rude, such as the RAF men who joked of the first all-women aircraft ferrying pool at Hamble in Hampshire as "the lesbians' pool".
Dunlop, like many of her female colleagues, said she wished she could have flown in combat: "I thought it was the only fair thing. Why should only men be killed?"
The ATA service had been founded on the initiative of Gerard "Pop" d'Erlanger, a director of British Airways and banker, who bent the ear of Sir Francis Shelmerdine, Britain's director-general of Civil Aviation, against opposition from the RAF, which preferred to use its own pilots until shortages forced it to relent. ATA pilots had to make the most of training that was, some avowed after the war, inadequate. Instrument flying was not taught, but the service would have ground to a halt if pilots had not broken rules forbidding them to fly in bad weather. Women had to have a minimum of 500 hours' solo flying before joining the ATA, twice as much as the 250 hours originally laid down in September 1939 for the first members, all men. She was one of the 164 female members of the wartime Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA), of which one in ten pilots died while transporting aeroplanes between factories and military airfields
Maureen Dunlop, the second of three children of Eric Chase Dunlop, an Australian farm manager employed by a British company in Argentina, and his English wife, Jessimin May Williams, began flying at the age of 15, when she joined the Aeroclub Argentino. Two years later she had obtained her pilot's licence. Living with her parents, older sister Joan and younger brother Eric on estancias in Patagonia, she was educated by a governess and briefly attended St Hilda's College, an English school at Hurlingham in Buenos Aires. The example of her father's British military experience as a volunteer with the Royal Field Artillery in the First World War, together with an article in Flight magazine, inspired her to sail to England and offer her flying skills to the ATA.
She came through the war uninjured, but once had to make a forced landing when a faulty engine developed heavy vibration (an incident for which she was absolved of responsibility), and once was flying a Spitfire when a badly fitted cockpit cover blew off. After the war she qualified in England as an instructor and, returning to Argentina, flew for the Argentine Air Force and taught its pilots, as well as flying commercially. In 1973 she and her husband, Serban, a retired Romanian diplomat she met at a British Embassy function in Buenos Aires, returned to England, where for the rest of her life, on a farm in Norfolk, she followed her second love - breeding Arab horses. Dunlop built up an outstanding knowledge of bloodlines. She died in 2012.
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#OTD in 1943, Maidenhead airfield. Jadwiga Piłsudska serving in the ATA (Air Transport Auxiliary). Daughter of the prewar leader of Poland. #WW2 #HISTORY
@rgpoulessen via X
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Anna Leska-Daab: ATA Ferry Pilot in England during WW2.
Original B&W image source unknown.
Anna Leska-Daab obtained her glider and balloon pilot licence at the Warsaw Flying Club. After escaping to England through Romania and France she was one of three Polish women serving with the ATA (Air Transport Auxiliary)
She was Stationed at Hatfield and Hamble and ferried a total of 1,295 aircraft including 557 Supermarine Spitfires. She flew 93 types of…
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A while ago you posted ideas you had for OCs for MOTA - what happens if we write similar OCs by accident like I had some same ideas before you posted and now it looks like I'm just copying and I'm basically thinking we are all gonna be having this problem here on out with OCs sounding very similar
Kind Anonymous Friend, this is a great question.
This is one of many reasons I don't usually talk about my characters before they're people. But I'm fairly confident that the list of ideas I shared is really pretty low level and won't lead to copying.
Sure, I could get sore if someone else writes an ATA pilot, but I don't own the whole idea of that job, and I know there are going to be some OCs with the same jobs. This is a pattern that already exists in the Band of Brothers fandom, where nearly every single OFC is a female paratrooper or a nurse. And that's okay! Those are jobs that make sense for the context they exist in. I investigated this more in 2020 and you can see my results here.
We know that there are going to be a lot of OCs with particular jobs because we've already seen those roles in the show - there are women waiting at home, women in the Land Army, the Clubmobile Service, the WACs. We also know that there are adjacent services we could handwave about if we wanted to - the Medical Air Evac nurses, Women's Air Service Pilots, Air Transport Auxiliary pilots, Women's Auxiliary Air Force officers. The Army Air Force received 40% of of the women who enlisted in the WAC, and they did pretty much every ground crew job imaginable: "weather observers and forecasters, cryptographers, radio operators and repairmen, sheet metal workers, parachute riggers, link trainer instructors, bombsight maintenance specialists, aerial photograph analysts, and control tower operators." (There's a prompt list if I ever saw one.)
At a certain point, we also know that we're going to start seeing the same names, because the most common women's names for 1920 don't change. Both @shoshiwrites and I both happen to be writing women named Frankie, for example, but they're wildly different people. (The fact that Buck Cleven keeps referring to Marge is making my head spin - but Marge Cleven is not Marj Gordon.)
And that's the thing I want everyone to take away here - it only starts to look like copying if the entire concept and backstory and character quirks are the same. When two of us both start writing devil-may-care British blonds with a penchant for John Egan, then we'll have a problem. Or maybe we won't! Ultimately, it is the quality of your writing and your character development that will make what you do stand out.
All the same, it is a good idea to make friends with your fandom neighbors. Being aware of what other people are working on - and reaching out to assure them you're not copying - can go a long way.
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Retrato de Amy Johnson. Fue una piloto inglesa pionera y la primera mujer en volar sola desde Londres a Australia. Voló en la Segunda Guerra Mundial como parte del Air Transport Auxiliary y desapareció durante un vuelo en ferry (Reino Unido 1933)
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Star Singer
the first of, perhaps, five unfinished fics. i do hope that ,even inspite of the parts that arent done, you enjoy this :)
soft vore, extreme size difference. isolation, perhaps fear of the void?
~6000 words
Nine-Metis. Home sweet fucking home. One of the larger nickel-iron mines within the asteroid-belt, and Wilbur’s new home for the next three years. An entire lump of rock in space all to his own. Fantastic.
Stepping from the transport shuttle airlock into the airlock of the mining operations center, he frowned a little at the grime and oil inlaid in the metal flooring, and the way that the air was far too cold for human comfort. Thank God he had put on his cardigan when the shuttle had arrived, it was clear much of the auxiliary life support systems were left on low-power.
The air pump wheezed and caught with a ragged cough of space dust, before registering a clear-to-entry sigil on the inner door of the airlock. Wilbur considered turning around and fucking off back to his home Orbit Station right then and there. Surely even Somnus, with its choking population and underwhelming job prospects, would be better than being blasted into space halfway to Jupiter?
Do it for the money. Do it for Dad.
He stepped into the mining control center, looking around at the stale air that seemed to sparkle with ice crystals, none of the lights yet on and the only light visible was a pale dull glow of the faraway sun coming through the shaded windows.
Wilbur pushed his way through the zero-gravity corridor, pulling his tablet from his pocket as he went to try and pull up one of the billion schematics that Astero-idea Mining Corp had sent him along with the job confirmation notice. One of these ought to be the layout of the mining operation center…
Ah, there it was. Heating was a floor up. Set up so the living quarters would be coziest, while he could freeze his balls off whenever he had to go down to the machine storage areas to work.
His job wasn’t glamorous. If anything, he was mostly a glorified machine baby-sitter. His job was to sit here for three years, keep the mining equipment happy, and occasionally send reports home about the quality of the meteor dust that it grinds up. Easy enough.
It also was supposedly the kind of job that changes the person who takes it forever. The kind that drives those to isolation madness, the kind of loneliness that cannot even be fathomed by the rest of the human race.
But hey, it paid really well as a result. And Wilbur needed it. He could deal with a little homesickness every once in a while, right?
Right.
There was a sudden heavy clunk that reverberated through the cold dark center that almost sent him jumping into the ceiling-wall panel, and he had kicked off back towards the sound before realizing it was probably the outer airlock disengaging from the transport shuttle, sending the now empty vehicle to dock in the shipping supply bay to refuel for the journey back.
The sound did attract his attention to the starscape around the meteor that was now his home, however. He knew that he would be able to see other tiny asteroids from his place on Metis, but he had never imagined how they might sparkle and shimmer like miniature moons. He thinks he could get used to a sight like that, but for now he would drink in the marvel of such an experience.
There was something curious about one of the closer meteors though… As if there was something stretched over the surface. Was there another meteor mining operation so close to his own base? Maybe he wouldn’t have to feel totally lonely after all?
He squinted some more. No… It didn’t seem like a base. He had gotten a good look at the shape of the center when the transport shuttle had arrived, and that dark patch seemed more…
Organic. Like an outstretched bird’s wing, or some large and elaborately finned fish.
He blinked a few times, and the shape’s organic shape dissolved into patches of light and shadow against the tiny meteor. Just a trick of the eye.
Abruptly he was feeling the cold again, and pushed the neighbor meteor’s curious shape out of his mind as he went back to fire up the auxiliary life support on this rock.
…
(feeling lonely, getting into the groove of working there. It mainly involves watching over a bunch of robots that shuttle in piles of dust. He tries to fashion it like he’s a shepherd, and the machines his flock. He grows tired of the joke by the end of that day though. Establish his singing - he does it a LOT while bored because the dull machine silence of the habitat would just drive him crazy otherwise)
Hello?
Wilbur full-body flinches. Then whips around to stare at the dark corners of the room, searching for something living amongst the floating piles of rubble and disassembled drill-bits that threatened to float out of arm’s reach. Nothing.
Hello?
There it was again. Right at the edge of his hearing, bordering on the unhearable. Did he just imagine it? He might have just imagined it.
Can you hear me?
This is fine. Just fine. Everyone’s heard of the exhaustion catching up to the average asteroid worker, the way the isolation causes auditory hallucinations. He’s just having a minor one. It’ll clear up after he gets some rest.
Hello, Wilbur.
He’ll break open an extra caff pack tomorrow morning. He deserves it. Especially after sleeping through the night with all of the lights on.
You can hear me.
…
Wilbur had decided, after much groaning, to reclassify his brief mental break as ‘ongoing’ after the third experience of hearing something whispering to him right at the edge of his hearing. He had honestly hoped that he would be able to avoid the ‘meteor madness’ everyone talked about for more than three months, he had really expected more from himself.
After the fourth instance of hearing voices whisper from the walls of the inner hull of the station, he decided that, what the hell, there was nobody else here to listen to him other than the mineral auger drill bits hes still got to polish and replace. So he answered back.
“Yea yea yea, I hear you, I’m here, I’m here. Could you speak up?” He called out to nothing in particular, taking the time to stop squinting at the newsfeed burst that had come through for this week (all some dumb political dick measuring contest happening back on one of the Venus orbiters, he really didn’t care about it but there wasn't much reading material out on a space rock like this) and stretching out his back in a cacophony of pops.
There was a couple of moments of silence that made him feel like an idiot, straining his ears only to hear the faint hum and chuff of the ventilation system. Then -
How about now?
The voice was extremely clear now, loud enough that it made Wilbur twist and stare wildly behind him. He could almost hear the breath that his mind had inserted into the voice, the inhalation that preceded those words.
As his heart slowed down from a race, he muttered a “fuck” under his breath. “Please- Please don’t do that again. Please.” For now there was too much adrenaline in his bloodstream for him to think of how ridiculous it was that he was begging with his own now obvious case of meteor madness.
Ok Wilbur.
And with that it had faded back into a far-away echo.
Wilbur didn’t read another two words from the news burst that day, and decided to turn on some loud music over the intercoms of the station instead.
…
hes really lonely. And one night on his time off he ends up sleepwalking to one of the larger windows on the small base and he… sees…. Something that looks like more than reflected rock on one of the asteroids. Something with enormous wings that glitter like comet trails
he doesnt see it again for a while. He starts hearing things though.
he tries to mention it to his family, but apparently isolation issues are a common thing with asteroid workers (inspo from antarctic workers?). dad puts it aside.
…
[This Call Has Been Inactive for [30] Minutes - Disconnecting in [5] Minutes To Save Broadband]
Fucking Tommy. He had planned this for a week, had done the time conversion to Earth Orbit schedule, everything. He’d even fucking called into his supervisors to get the long-range call times double-checked so he wouldn’t end up with his signal blocked by Mars or something. And Tommy hadn’t picked up.
Wilbur pushed out of the zero-gravity hammock contraption that acted as his chair with a groan that edged into a scream around the edges. He had looked forward to this for so long, long enough that he no longer cared that it sounded pathetic that this was the only thing he was looking forward to at all in recent memory.
“My own fucking brother! Standing me up on a call! Can you fucking believe it!” He yelled at the ceiling, rocking his head back and leaning back as far as the ‘chair’ would allow. He kind of wanted to kick something. Or bite something. Preferably Tommy.
The on-screen display ticked the [4] minutes and he closed it dejectedly. If Tommy wasn’t showing up right on time, he wasn’t ever going to show up. What kind of excuse would he give, Wilbur wondered. He hoped it was at least elaborate enough to make up for his rapidly plummeting mood.
Hopefully at least the voice will chat with him later today.
...
Today was shipping day, the anti-Christmas as they (as in he, and absolutely nobody else) called it. The day where all of those rock-dust filled capsules had to be packed into the homeward bound shuttle, and where he had to spend fourteen hours scrambling over boxes and completing checklists in making sure everything was properly labeled and accounted for and the rockets weren’t about to blow up and destroy millions of dollars worth of raw material (and maybe also him). And then after that he got to spend another four hours filling out more forms to pack with them asking for the higher ups at home to maybe please send some more mining equipment, and also food?
Shipping day fucking blows. If it weren’t for the voice intermittently coming in and keeping him company (and how weird is that, how can a hallucination keep you company?) during those long and backbreaking hours he might have just given up on even writing the worker-products request slips and slept for two days straight. As it were...
Why do you need to request for food?
“Well, voice in my head,” he said as he tugged at his foot, which had caught itself between two 600 pound capsules that bobbed around like balloons in the null gravity and might just crush him by their sheer inertia, “If I don’t put in the request then they can’t have enough ready to send back next time they send the delivery shuttle. And if they don’t send enough then I’ll have starved to death before the next one can arrive.”
That is silly. Isn’t the sun bright and beautiful from out here?
“I can’t exactly eat the sun, and no. This is pathetic compared to a summer’s day back home.”
Can you tell me about summers?
“I’m probably not the best person to answer, given I had them in England, but I can try.” The foot came free, and he hurried to keep the capsules from drifting too far with a couple of tether cables that he attached to the inner carapace of the delivery shuttle.
Thank you Wilbur.
…
With the shuttle barely another glimmer of light to hide among the stars, Wilbur couldn’t help but stare out at it. That was the only way home, before his tenure was up at least. With each shipping day come and gone, the desire to huddle himself and a couple of tanks of oxygen up in the spaces between the capsules and try to survive the two month journey back to the nearest meteor processing center grew more enticing. As if he would ever survive the trip, without suffocating or getting crushed by one of the shipping pallets or running out of food.
Besides, this paid good money. He needed to keep reminding himself of that. Money was hard to remember when he had nothing to spend it on, after all.
He tried to squint at it one more time, just one more before he would go and finally get his much-needed rest, but his tired eyes drifted and he found himself watching one of the smaller asteroids that orbited far off. It glittered slightly in the weak sunlight, and it was close enough that he could see it tumbling very slowly end-over-end.
He stifled a yawn, about to turn and leave, when he detected the faintest movement from the meteor that wasn’t consistent with its orbit. He was abruptly awake and aware, squinting as hard as he could at it. There was something… dark, cast against the surface of the meteor. He could barely see it stretch into the void above the meteor, but with the blotting out of a nearby star he could almost see… wings?
Wings, like the ones he had seen that one night so long ago, a shape that seemed more at home flitting around in the Earth sky than the darkness of empty space.
He hesitates before, in a feat of exhausted reasoning, he waves an arm at it as if he were hailing a spaceship.
Hello Wilbur!
He froze mid-wave. Did the voice in his head just…
The shape on the meteor changed slightly and, against the deep blackness of space he could almost see… an arm? It must be an arm, but of impossibly large size to be seen from so far away. It mimicked his wave.
“Is that you?” He asked, immediately feeling dumb about it. Probably visual hallucinations again.
(But… He had seen the wings before…)
Yes! I have come to live closer! What was the small flying thing?
His arm dropped to float in the zero-gravity air, his heartbeat suddenly pounding hard and fast in his ears. The voice was real. There was something out there. Was it aliens? Was he first contact with alie-
No. He had to take this logically. And the logical thing was that he was just having an exhaustive hallucination because he just spent an entire day doing hard work, both physically and mentally.
He needed sleep.Without much fanfare, he located the nearest decently soft surface and collapsed on it as much as one could without gravity.
Ok Wilbur. I’ll be here when you wake up.
…
And it was still there the next time he woke. Inexplicably, there was a dark shape upon a nearby meteor that was utterly unexplainable. That is, unless it was…
Hello again Wilbur!
“That’s you.” He pointed out at the shape again.
Yes!
The voice sounded a little bemused, and he realized he had probably asked that question already. He still had to ask it again. “Are you sure that is you? And not some… other… space… thingy?”
The voice actually laughed, less a sound and more a feeling that fluttered around the inside of his skull like a trapped bird.
It’s only me Wilbur. I think I would know if there were anyone else.
He was half way into eating a bowl of something he would be generous and call scrambled eggs when the uncertain calm he had been feeling upon waking up breaks like poorly-made glass. He’s conversing with an alien, who is not a hallucination.
“Holy fuck! I’m talking with an alien!” He cried aloud, because why not, he’s already being pretty pedantic this morning.
Another laugh, gentler.
Can I come closer?
“Oh, of course you can!” He was up and out of his seat, letting the spoon spin freely in the air as he swung towards the window and peered out desperately. Like a kid in a candy store, he laughed to himself.
The shape on the meteor moved, and to his amazement grew closer. And larger.
A lot larger.
As it approached one of the closest nearby meteors that took up large chunks of the ‘sky’ for Wilbur, he could see it was easily able to dwarf not only him, but probably the entire base he lived on and all of the machines that swarmed it.
He was panicking now, something animal in him violently rejecting the concept of something inhumanly large and dark flying towards him through the silent void of space. Before the - he couldn’t call it a voice anymore, it was an alien, it had a body - could, he didn’t know, leap from the next meteor towards his own, it stopped.
You’re scared.
He probably should be more worried about how easily the alien was able to determine his mental state, but he could only manage a nod. “Can you… stay there for now?”
Ok Wilbur.
He took a few stabilizing breaths, letting his heart settle, and leaned in closer to the window. With the alien now closer, he could see a little more of its body. For one, it was massive on a scale that baffled him. Human brains weren’t really meant to interpret such large scales, but he could tell that a living being and a crater should not be of comparable size.
He eventually calls it Sally. It says that it likes him. That he’s funny. He doesnt know why he feels so happy that an auditory hallucination that is brought on by asteroid isolation called him ‘funny.’
He mentions Sally in passing on one of his calls back home. Everyone is concerned because clearly hes having a mental break.
Finally, he starts to get desperate enough and starts asking Sally if it (now she) will come visit him. That he is so lonely and that he loves talking to her and if she was on that asteroid maybe they could see eachother? Sally laughs and tells him that she’s always been seeing him. But yes, she can come.
He’s never been so delighted and excited. This is the most energetic hes been in months, since he took this job even, maybe even beforehand.
...
Are you ready?
“I’ve been ready all morning, Sally. I’ve been so excited.”
Good. Come on out, I’m here.
He had the EVA suit on already, had been sitting impatiently in it for hours at this point. The helmet was pressed to his knees, and he now hurriedly put it on and sealed it tight. Without a second thought he checked his oxygen (2 hours, not too bad but would mean he probably would have to come in and trade out tanks a few times) and the seal on the suit. He lifted his tether rope and hooked it to his suit, and floated into the airlock. Sally was right here! Right outside the door!
He bounced from one hand-hold to another, as impatient as a small kid, and wished that the airlock cycle would just happen faster, damn it! Why couldn’t he just open up the door right away, he didn’t need this air that it was pumping out. Not when Sally was right there.
Wilbur?
“I’m almost there, I promise I promise,” he placated, smiling widely at just the sound of her voice.
The airlock at long last finished cycling, and he pushed at the outer door with a bit more force than he probably needed. Without sound in space he couldn’t hear the clang of it hitting the outer edge of its hinges’ range of motion, but he could certainly feel the jolt. He giddily scanned the dark and endless sky for a hint of those comet-light wings, the flash of red and green. “Sally?”
You have to come out further, Wilbur. I’m just a little further out.
Of course, of course. Stupid of him to think otherwise. He’s getting ahead of himself. That’s why he brought the tethers along in the first place after all. He reluctantly tore his eyes from space and, with the hand not holding onto the open airlock door, clipped the other end of the tether to one of the many hooks bored into the surface of the asteroid. He let the rest of the line run slack and, carefully closing the airlock door behind him, prepared to jump.
The gravitational pull of asteroids was minimal, which is why basically everything he owned was made for zero g. There was some pull, enough that it might eventually drag him back down, but if he jumped far enough it would be as if there was none at all, at least long enough for him to find Sally. He jumped, and felt the tether spool out behind him. 100 meters, 200 meters, 350 meters… and it caught him with a jolt at the end of the line.
Then a knot somewhere along the tether, tied with not nearly enough care by excited fingers, pulled loose. The reassuring tug of the tether back down to the asteroid was released and, with a feeling of horror, Wilbur felt himself float a little further than the 350 meters he’d been allotted. He couldn’t even turn around to grab the rope again - the knot was another 30 meters down.
He flailed and thrashed for a moment like it was his first day in space. “No!” He cried out, seeing his end of the tether whip around and curl in circles around his kicking legs in languid spirals. No air in space meant his movements resulted in no change to his trajectory, which appeared to be up and out.
So caught up in his terror, it took him a moment to hear Sally.
Wilbur! I am here. Please do not be afraid. I will help you.
Sally. Sally. That’s right. Sally who did not live inside of the asteroid. Who could help him. What amazing luck that there would be someone on the other side of the airlock who could help him right when he needed it most.
He turned himself around, automatically pointing himself towards the asteroid he had first seen Sally at and.
She was there. So many wings that burned like liquid light and soaked up the sun’s rays so completely that she became a star herself. A fish-like tail that flicked in slow strokes in the empty space, covered in scales that gleamed as bright red as the great jovian storms. A face with all of the love and kindness and power that he had grown to know of her in all of this time.
His love, Sally. He burst out crying at the sight of it.
Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur… She crooned in her head. You came out for me. You came to me. Thank you my love, thank you my heart.
He couldn’t stop the tears that messily wet the inside of his helmet for even a moment as he stared in awe and adoration at her perfect face. She reached forward with hands the size of ships to cup around him gently, plucking him out from the open space so easily.
I have so much to show you.
She opened her mouth, exposing teeth the size of moon landers and a darkness as absolute as a black hole, and he let himself be consumed totally.
…
Wilbur, take my hand. I want to show you something.
They were sitting on a boat, floating in the ocean. It bobbed gently under his feet, the scent of salt was sharp in the air. The sun was just hitting the
He looked over at Sally. She was (blonde-haired black-haired tall short dimpled freckled) beautiful and exactly as he had always imagined her. She was smiling to him, feet kicking beneath her as she rocked on the boat’s bench. Her hand was outstretched.
He took a moment to soak in the sunlight, the beautiful sea air, her beaming face, and he took her hand. She stood up, pulling him with him, and they walked over to the edge of the boat.
Look down, Wilbur. Take a look at the sea.
He looked down. The sea was dark as wine, endlessly deep, and yet he couldn’t focus on the dark depths. His gaze was caught on the tiny sediments that glittered in the setting sun’s light, the tiny silvery fish that nipped at the craggy side of the rocking boat. Tiny sparkles of light against an unfathomable void.
He pointed it out to Sally. Look at the little fish, look at the sand and tiny floating plankton. Isn’t it beautiful? She laughed so beautifully, and nudged him.
Aren’t you so silly? Those are so small and close. Do you always see the little close things as the most beautiful? I have so much more to show you.
She pulled on his hand. Encouraging him to lean forward more. The ocean was so close now -
Wilbur tumbled forward into the ocean, which leaped forward to catch him in a warm and gentle embrace. It wrapped him up and held him so closely and he rejoiced in the sheer physicality of it all. So different from the quiet, the cold, the dead feeling of space -
Space? Why is he thinking about space? He’s in the ocean.
Beside him, Sally splashed down into the water with a flurry of bubbles, and through the inherent murkiness of the sea water he could see her smile gleam brighter. She tugged him down a little more, pulling on his billowing clothes.
We need to go further down, Wilbur. I want to show you so much more than you know.
So he followed her. He kicked feebly against the sea water, pulled further down by the weight of his sodden clothes, but he wasn’t able to keep up with the strong and confident kicks of his love.
Please help me, Sally. I don’t want to fall behind. He called with a voice that shouldn’t exist underwater, watching her disappear into the darkness underneath him. Panicking, he thrashed harder, trying to overcome a lack of ability in the water with pure stubbornness.
Come here Wilbur. I’ll show you.
All around him tendrils of glowing ghostly light, like trails of phosphorescent salps, reached out of the void to wrap around him. In the heart of them was Sally, smiling ever so beautifully.
I’ll help you. Come and see.
And he was pulled down into the dark, leaving behind the boat and the bright surface and the setting sun for the endless void.
The dark was beautiful. A crystal depth that was so unlike the endless vacuum of space. He could feel that press of water around him and, even more present, that of Sally. He had drawn closer to her and her self-assured swimming rhythm, knotted in the glowing tendrils like he was caught in a jellyfish’s tangle.
She pointed off into the encroaching darkness. Look, Wilbur. Please look.
He saw.
Civilizations living and dying like sparkling plankton. Solar winds blasting out in bellows that reflect across wings leagues across. Asteroids, hundreds of thousands of kilometers apart, and yet each one like a friend and neighbor to her.
Ships passing her by like fretful silvery fish, too blind to her to hear her call, her curiosity. Drills breaking into asteroids, so different, so small…
Her, perched in her asteroid, her nest in this oceanic astral life of hers, reaching forward to see if she could catch the tiny krill that live and die in those tiny glass and metal bubbles…
A small creature, barely a copepod, planktonic in his powerless tumble through the tides of the universe, reaching back. He sings so sweetly in his tiny tones, finding a fraction of the beauty in the universe that she experiences every day. And yet, those tiny reedy tones, things that only she could hear and which would never echo unending across the galaxy in gravity-distorting tones, were precious gifts in of themselves.
She reached out and plucked him from his metal habitat, careful of his fragile body not meant for such depths as what she lives in. He sees her, and she carefully takes her little gift back with her to her asteroid.
Something just for her. A song with notes that are so very small.
A song that can only feel the edges of her own tones without being drowned out entirely, for she does not want him to have to yell in order to be heard at all.
Wilbur, little ballad-maker, will you sing me another song?
He spun in the reassuring pull of tentacles around him, and in the voice of one untethered from simple vocal chords, Wilbur sang of the majesty of the stars.
...
Wilbur awoke with tears crusted thickly on his cheeks. All around him was a tight and dark warmth, not in the darkness of space but of something comforting and living. The darkness of an overturned log, lush with life, rather than that of an endless cave system.
“Sally?” He managed, croaking out through a voice that had splintered in every direction. The pressing warmth around him held tighter, like a crushing hug that he had so dearly desired for so long. He let himself melt under the sensation, the warmth that sank into his bones for the first time since he had left Earth, the softness that he had been so devoid of in the sharp grey walls of the asteroid mine.
His body apparently still had tears to give, as when he leaned back into the softness even more he could feel his vision slip out of focus behind a film of tears in the warm orange light.
Wait. Light?
He blinked furiously and, with enormous willpower, leaned up and out of the cozy comfort that cradled him. Held in his hands, pressed against his chest in a dense hot ball that was dampened only slightly by the EVA suit he was still wearing, was what looked to be a tiny star. It shined and glimmered with vermillion, and even as he watched it the glowing ball shifted.
It was alive.
Carefully he held it closer and could feel, beneath the obscuring bright light, limbs press against the suit and a head tuck into the side of his suit’s life support control panel. He didn’t realize he was holding on so tightly to it until that moment, and he didn’t have the willpower to let go.
Wilbur? Her voice almost... echoed, like it was bouncing off of the endless cavern that resided within her.
His head popped up automatically, and he smiled on instinct. Sally!
Do you trust me?
With my life, my love. Where are you? What’s going on?
Remove your helmet.
But… wouldn’t that, y’know, kill him? Last he checked he was on the wrong side of the airlock, the endless void of space. Though, it was warm and soft and oh so comforting, so different from the death that had always been promised by its endless expanse.
You said you trusted me. I will keep you safe.
His grip loosened on the star held against his chest, and drifted up to his helmet. With barely a thought he broke the seal on it and the air rushed out in one fatal blast. He should’ve been unconscious in less than fifteen seconds, oxygen starvation quickly turning his brain off and sending him into a downward spiral towards a cold and lonely death.
He couldn’t breathe, there was no air but the wispy remains of what was in his suit’s tanks, and yet… wherever he was, it didn’t matter.
I told you so.
Yes, she did. Why did he even doubt for a second? He tried his best to wiggle out of the EVA suit, which was definitely not built to be wiggled out of. He made do with awkwardly freeing his arms so he could better cradle the star that was now lying more comfortably against his chest. It seemed to solidify further with the skin contact, and he could see a muzzle of a soft earth animal, a swishing tail, large eyes that shined like quasars.
He hugged it close as much as he could. “Sally?” He called again.
Do you like them? I made them for you. A child.
“A child? Ours? They are… They’re beautiful.” It was ridiculous, and some part of his brain seemed to slip out of the elated state it was caught up in. “Wait. A child? Like, one of your kind?”
Not quite. Almost, though. I want them to be able to live with you, not out in the stars like I must. I want something from me to always be with you, even when we are apart.
A thing made of star-stuff and scales and human flesh, something that could only have hatched in the close warmth and suffocating darkness, rather than the endless depths of space. A planet-creature, not a void-creature
Wilbur names him Fundy. As he gives him a name and continues to cuddle him close, his shape becomes more and more solid, more and more a creature of the earth.
Sally’s stomach is, as he begins to adjust more and more to the soft light, more like an entire crater, an endless expanse so large that he nestled quite comfortably within one fold. As he watches he can see dust and rock disintegrate in the far sides, lumps of metal and plastic that are all that remain of 9-Metis mining station, having been carved from the asteroid and chewed up for having deprived Wilbur so much, knowing to the depths of his heart that he is in no similar danger.
He knows he could live here forever, safe and protected and so very close to Sally’s heart.
Sally starts to feel unsure of herself as a result, realizing that what Wilbur needed far more than her love, her coveting of him as a most precious jewel, was his own people. His mind had splintered in a way, becoming reliant on her own to keep its shape, and even as it leaked song and light for her to enjoy she knew that if she truly loved him she needed to bring him home.
She asks for one last song from him, dancing with him in a dream. He is far enough gone that he cannot tell just how bittersweet the dream had become around him, wrapping him up in pain and love in equal measures.
We are almost there.
Sally seemed sad. Why was she sad? Where were they going? He didn’t know if he said it aloud or not but Sally seemed to hear it nonetheless.
I need to bring you home. You miss your family.
But what about you? Sally, I cannot miss them when I am with you.
And that is why.
What is going on? Wilbur pulled Fundy closer, quietly shushing the small child as they nipped at the loose fabric of his EVA suit. Did he do something wrong?
I’ll miss you Wilbur. Thank you for letting me
No… no… Sally was leaving? No no no this cannot be happening. He didn’t want to leave. Please don’t make him leave he doesn’t want to leave he refuses to leave -
The warm cradle of muscle around him flexed and hardened into steel, and the comforting press turned claustrophobic. What was once endless and magnificent closed around him like a cave-in, and he yelled into Fundy’s fur and curled into a tight ball that Sally forced him into. There was a terrific yank feeling as the tether cord that he had long forgotten went taught and dragged him upwards, tangling and knotting around him.
He felt the frigid cold first, less from a temperature and more from a lack thereof as the warmth and protection Sally gave him dissipated, then the crackle of drying spit that held him in a tightening shell. He blinked open eyes and uncurled as he was tangled in the tether cable and caught in Sally’s outstretched hands. Without the protection of a shaded helmet he could see her even clearer, the tiny scales larger than his outstretched palm dappling her face, the hundreds of lacey wings that were thicker than the toughest skyhook cable spiralling out from her in long strands into the enormity of space. Compared to her, the 320 meter cable that had seemed so sturdy was like a strand of spider silk.
He’d never felt so small, not even when he had been all alone in the void. Somehow, it seemed so much larger when he got to see someone who truly belonged out here, someone for whom these endless pelagic open seas were home.
He didn’t belong out here. That’s why Sally was making him go.
Fundy whined inaudibly in his arms, the sound echoing on the inside of his head, and pushed their snout under his head into the crook of his neck. He held them closer to hide his shivering, the despair that had burst inside of him and threatened to swallow him whole more absolutely than Sally had.
I will miss you. I won’t forget you. But you cannot stay with me.
Don’t go! He wanted to scream it, to try and pry open Sally’s mouth and find somewhere to curl up in within her, where it was dark and he knew a glimpse of the true universe, but whatever was allowing him to stay unaffected by the vacuum of space didn’t seem to extend to allowing him speech in the void. Please don’t let me go, please don’t leave me out here, I need you.
Sally looked sad, in a quiet way that shivered up through her wings.
You need to be with your people again. Please take care of Fundy. Raise them well.
She oh-so-delicately untangled the cable from her hand, pinching the loose folds of his EVA suit gently and letting him drift in zero-g. He kicked as much as he could, but he couldn’t truly flail and try to keep a grip on her hand without letting go of Fundy, which he couldn’t risk.
Sally’s gaze finally left his, and she looked around her. Her vast dark eyes gleamed with distant stars, and her trailing light-filled fins flicked.
They are almost here. You are going to go home. I hope you live well, little Wilbur.
Before he could try to shout out something, anything to beg her to stay or at least say goodbye in return, all of the enormous wings on her bag expanded, and she flicked her tail and sank into the darkness again. He tried so hard to follow her form as it moved quicker than any ship he had ever seen, but his panicked flailing had left him in a rotating drift that made him unable to keep his eyes on her.
And then, like an unwary fly on a long highway, he smacked bodily against the front of a cargo spacecraft.
Hes brought aboard, seemingly miraculously still alive despite being hundreds of thousands of miles from Metis, and to his surprise its his family. Sally had brought him close enough to them that he is reunited immediately.
He can’t stop holding close to fundy as hes asked how exactly he was there, what happened, they heard something happened to the station, is he ok?
All he can do is cry, heartbroken about Sally.
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