Charles Cornell Creative Partners LLC © 2013 | ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

A World War re-imagined like never before.

Copyright Charles Cornell Creative Partners LLC 2013 - All Rights Reserved

Copyright Charles Cornell Creative Partners LLC 2013 - All Rights Reserved

Copyright Charles Cornell Creative Partners LLC 2013 - All Rights Reserved

Meet the Pilots of the DragonFly Squadron:

 

I was only nineteen when Hitler's armies started their rampage through Europe. My dream was to become Britain's first female Spitfire pilot. I knew it was going to be hard. The Royal Air Force is a male-dominated institution and it isn't about to change just because I want it to.

 

Younger men with less flight time and experience have been given the chance to climb into Spitfire cockpits ahead of me. In fact, in my first two years in the RAF, I was nothing more than a glorified cabbie... ferrying Lancaster bombers from their factories in Canada across the Atlantic, or flying the 'grumpy hippo', the Sunderland flying boat, on mail routes from Scotland to Iceland. That's not what I joined up for, but that's all they would let me do.

 

I have to tell you, after a while I was more than a bit fed up with the brass hats and their stuffy attitudes. And if you know me, you know I'm not someone to let an opportunity pass by to speak my mind. And that's probably why I was exiled by the Air Ministry to Enysfarne in Cornwall. Well, that's a lie. I'll tell you the real story over a pint of scrumpy in the Portcullis Inn. What you need to know is that Royal Naval Station Enysfarne has to be the most remote military base in Southwestern England, maybe in all of England come to think of it. And there's some strange goings-on inside its ancient walls.

 

Anyway, the base needed a pilot for their Sunderland flying boat, and I can fly those in my sleep. But on my first night in Enysfarne, the Luftwaffe tore it to pieces! At that point, I thought my war was over.

 

And what a devastating raid it was! The skies over Cornwall were filled with Platzies. They took down the radar towers above Treporth. Then there were those ugly Wasp things. And those dreadful Kegs. First time I'd seen either of them in action, and they're truly fearsome machines. The Kegs did the most damage. My Sunderland was easy prey. But when only four of the blighters took down twenty of our Spits, I was devastated. It looks so hopeless up there. The Luftwaffe decimated the airstrip at RAF Penzance before retiring back to France. I watched it all from the castle keep, helpless to do anything about it!

 

But not any more.

 

Fate and circumstance have come to my rescue. Young genius, Dr. Nigel Pennbridge has built an experimental sub-hunting seaplane called the DragonFly. And with invasion on the horizon and a desperate shortage of pilots, I now find myself in the cockpit of the most revolutionary fighter-bomber the world has ever seen.

 

I can't wait to get started!

 

I've been Ronnie's best friend ever since we were rambunctious tomboys at boarding school. We joined the Royal Air Force together. Everyone thinks I'm an 'insatiable flirt', but who wouldn't be in this dreadful war? Life is too short. There's nothing like a good night out with the boys and more than one pint of strong cider.

 

When Ronnie left for Enysfarne, it seemed that fate wanted us to spend the war apart.

 

I was on a routine mission in my Sunderland to pick up survivors of a sunken merchant ship, when I was shot down by something I later learned we were calling the 'Keg'. We have such great names for the Nazi planes, don't we? Serves them right for designing one that looks like a flying beer barrel. I mean what else did they expect we would call it? If I had my way, I'd call the Hellfire, the Fatzi, in honour of Hermann Goering, but our boys call it the Platzi. Very appropriate.

 

I don't have time to tell you the whole story of what happened the day I was shot down. The DragonFly Squadron is going out on patrol soon (some pesky U-boats have been sighted off Land's End). I'm still here, still brash and bubbly as ever,  so clearly that misadventure ended well. All I can say is that when I scrambled aboard that dinghy in the cold Atlantic, I never thought I'd be rescued by...oh bloody hell!

 

Bolt Shepton is  fussing again. He may be DragonFly's chief mechanic and all that, but he drives me to distraction. Better go see what he wants. Will you be at the Portcullis tonight? There's freshly baked apple-cakes from the kiddlywink next door and plenty of scrumpy on tap. On Wednesday nights in the summer, we listen to the wireless before the blackout. The BBC plays Duke Ellington and Glenn Miller at seven. See you there?

 

I'm the eldest daughter of King George VI which makes me the heir to a throne I don't  really want to sit in. My preferred seat is in a cockpit.

 

I've always been a bit of a rebellious royal, never comfortable with aristocratic protocol or the attentions of my toffee-nosed courtiers.

 

At sixteen, I learned to fly. At eighteen, I won the King's Cup in my Sparrowhawk air racer. But when war broke out with Nazi Germany, I wasn't allowed to enlist in the RAF. The War Cabinet preferred that I attend ribbon-cuttings at new air raid shelters or host garden fetes for a bunch of snotty old farts from Whitehall. Pardon my French.

 

Well, I'm having none of that, thank you very much! I've been training in secret with the RAF. Don't tell my father, will you?

 

The prime minister thinks the Royal Family should go into exile. Every day that goes by, British spies have been reporting more and more of the grisly details of Hitler's invasion plans. The Nazis are calling it Operation Blutskrieg. 'Blood war'? How frightfully awful that sounds!

 

My father, the King is sinking into despair. I just can't sit idly by and let this war tear my family and my country apart. I'm determined to do something about this! So, you see, I'm setting out on a secret mission to turn the tide of the war in Britain's favour. You won't tell anybody will you? Swear to your future sovereign, that you won't!

 

Britain's kings and queens have been hiding something from all of you for centuries. It involves the Druids of Lyonesse. I know they feel betrayed by the monarchy, and who wouldn't after what we did to them so long ago? I expect their current Lord of Lyonesse won't be very sympathetic to my proposal. But we're at war and there's no time to waste. I've recruited an ally from Norway who I hope will convince Affodill that I'm right. We'll see.

 

This bargain would change the ruling landscape of the British Isles forever. But it's better than having a swastika on our flag. The Aegis Bureau, Britain's ultra-secret intelligence service, would not approve of what I'm about to do. But that's easily fixed. I just won't tell them.

 

Be careful what you say in the Portcullis Inn. You never know who you're talking to in there. I even hear rumors there's a Nazi spy inside Enysfarne. Oh dear! That's not you, is it?