The Girls with Golden Wings
  • Reads 80
  • Votes 5
  • Parts 4
  • Time 32m
  • Reads 80
  • Votes 5
  • Parts 4
  • Time 32m
Ongoing, First published Oct 31, 2012
When people think of the Second World War, few know about, or have even heard of the ATA, The Air Transport Auxilary. The service that freed the young men for fighters and bombers in the RAF, took on the older men, foreigners, those who were not considered fit for the RAF, and the most contraversial of all, Women.

Whoever heard of a woman flying a Spitfire, or a Lancaster Bomber, but, they did. During the course of the war the brave women of the ATA overcame the criticisms, jokes, refusals and sheer disbelief to take to the skies in service to Britain, flying every British Aircraft from the factories, from the airfields, all over Britain and, even towards the end of the war, France, wherever the Royal Airforce needed them.

This is the story of six of these amazing young women, who answered their countries' call and spread their wings, their Golden Wings.
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11 parts Complete

Do you know anyone with a crippling, morbid fear of flying? Well, you do now. I have a theory: An event one spring day in the town cemetery at the dawn of my existence had everything to do with planting a stark view of life and death which led, eventually, to a profound mistrust of infernal contraptions that carried you up into the sky. Because of that profound mistrust, vast portions of my prime were spent (and misspent) on long journeys aboard trains. A trip that would have been a blip in time by plane was an entirely different deal on the train—days and nights, not hours. Veritable miniature eternities. This led to encounters, adventures, dilemmas and situations that could only happen on a train—and not merely because of the train’s comparative slowness, but because train people are an entirely different breed of human from airplane people (or bus people, for that matter, and that’s another story). Trains are so....well....so existential. This stark view of life and death, which also had plenty to do with me lobbying my mother (in vain) to get busy on building a fallout shelter in our basement, had some stiff opposition. To be an American child in the 50s was to open one’s innocent eyes on the post-WW2 decade, an era jumping with progress,plenitude, dazzling crazed optimism and fun. Nightmare glimpses of atrocities from that big bad war we missed by the skin of our teeth bobbed to the surface occasionally, sobering us and reminding us of our aberrant good luck, and in my case, whispering that innocence was but a thin, thin membrane, that this world I’d been born into was a seething, infinitely complicated place, and I’d better pay attention. But let’s have some fun! Here we go, with Bad Boys. What’s rock ‘n’ roll but the shot heard ‘round the world?