...and hang on she did—a decision that would lead to one of the most thrilling rides of her life. As the Spitfire roared down the runway, Horton quickly realized the gravity of the situation. She flopped across the tail cone, demonstrating quick thinking and agility, held in place by the vertical fin. Her legs dangled to the right, while her torso clung to the left. Meanwhile, another WAAF, who had witnessed the unfolding drama, dashed off to alert a flight sergeant, who in turn sprinted to the control tower. Orders were given for Cox to make a quick circuit and land, though he was not informed of the reason. Between Horton's death grip on the elevator with her left hand and the Spitfire's tail-heaviness, Cox could tell something was off, but he couldn't see as far back as his airplane's empennage. The Spitfire soared through the sky with Horton hanging on for dear life, the wind whipping past her as she clung to the tail cone.
The world below became a blur, and the adrenaline coursing through her veins made her feel more alive than ever. It was a wild ride she would never forget. After what felt like an eternity, the Spitfire finally touched down. Horton, relieved to be back on solid ground, announced with a cheeky grin that after a change of panties and a cigarette, she'd be ready to return to work. Her daring escapade quickly became the stuff of legends within the squadron.
However, her adventurous spirit did not go entirely unpunished. Horton was later fined for losing her uniform beret during the short, thrilling trip around the pattern. But the story of her wild ride on the Spitfire would live on, a testament to her bravery and quick thinking in the face of unexpected challenges.
At Hibaldstowe, where I was working as a WAAF flight mechanic in 1945, it was a flight order for one of the ground staff to sit on the tail of each Spitfire as it taxied from the dispersal to the distant runway in rough weather, to prevent the wind from tipping the machine over on its nose.
On this occasion my pilot did not receive the order ‘Rough Weather Procedure,’ which was issued from flying control, and, not having seen me jump on the tailplane while the other mechanics were removing the chocks, he took straight off instead of waiting for me to descend upon reaching the runway.
The violently increased rate at which we were taxiing first told me that something was wrong, and I flung myself across the fuselage and grasped the elevator in an attempt to attract the pilot’s attention. I was unable to move it.
Events move fast with a Spitfire, and there seemed only a panic-stricken moment before the cessation of the rushing sensation of travelling along the runway told me that we were airborne.
All hope gone
Newbolt knew what he was writing about when he described the traveller, doomed to certain death from the brigands into whose hands he had fallen, as spending his last hours “in a dream untroubled of hope.” At that moment I was not merely in great danger. I was, to all practical purposes, already dead.
I had no hold other than that of three fingers which I had managed to get round the cutaway portion of the tailplane, there was no possibility of attracting the attention of either the pilot or anyone on the ground, and it seemed so certain that I must roll off the fuselage the first time the aircraft banked that I did not even trouble to wriggle farther across it to balance the weight of my heavy boots.
It was at this moment of realization that fear left me. My first coherent thought was, “I’ve muffed it for the last time – better me than most people, but I wish it hadn’t happened!”
Nothing much stronger than that. The grimness of any sudden severance from a normal routine, a passing regret – you may laugh if you like, but it’s true – that my NAAFI cigarettes and chocolate rations would be wasted, and a deeper regret that I could not leave a message to tell my mother how easy death had been.
Strangely, although I realized that my family would feel my loss, there was no feeling that I was leaving them. Of anxiety for what was to come there was none, though I was never any braver than the next person, and am in a funk when it comes to climbing ladders or riding bicycles.
Black-out sensation
The force of the slipstream must have been terrific, for there was nothing but that and the precarious hold of my finger-tips to prevent me rolling forward, though the fin made it impossible to slip over the tail of my mount. Before many minutes there was a sensation of blood rushing to my head, a feeling of something pressing me down, and a blackness before my eyes, and I thought with a mild sense of gratitude that death was coming in the easy form of a ‘black-out’.
There was never any sensation of the mist clearing. My next recollection is of a perfectly clear head and an entirely fresh line of thought. The doctrine that good is the source of all power, and evil a figment of our imagination, had long appealed to my reason – now, my own voice seemed to be saying in my ear, was the chance for me to prove it.
Steadily, the idea that there was nothing to harm me took possession of my mind, helped by the clear serene sky, and I knew I was safe whether the flight was to last ten minutes or a couple of hours.
Shortly afterwards I felt the machine drop – so gently that I did not realise the cause until the returning sensation of speed proclaimed that we were back on the runway.
As we slowed down I slipped off the tailplane, ran back for my beret which had remained faithfully on my head until we reached the ground, and made my way back across the grass to the dispersal, while the pilot taxied home round the perimeter road, still unaware why his controls had refused to function.
How, in the circumstances, he achieved that perfect landing I have never understood, but he must have had a harrowing ten minutes in the air. On leaving the runway he had found his elevator almost unserviceable, and after struggling round the circuit at 600 feet had radioed for permission to land.
The flying control officer, who had only that moment been informed by the flight office of my predicament, judged it safest not to tell him of the presence of a passenger, so it was not until he walked indignantly into the flight office to report his aircraft unserviceable that he learnt he was the victim of an unusual case of ‘parasite drag’.
Whatever his feelings, he was off with the next detail, and I should have accompanied him – to the beginning of the runway only – if he had not implored me, as I prepared to scramble up: “I know you don’t want to lose your nerve, but please don’t come on my tail again!”
