She was very rarely seen at all. Just occasionally she was glimpsed, out of the corner of someone's eye, pushing her bicycle, never riding it. But when a full gaze was turned on her, she was never there. Yet the whole airfield knew of her and many had felt her breath.
She had been the eighteen year old sweetheart of a Captain in the Royal Flying Corps. He had survived combat in France ten times longer than many would have thought possible but his latest crash in September 1917 had injured him so badly that he was brought back to North Weald to assist, when recovered, in the instruction of new pilots. Eight years his junior, Daisy was besotted with him. Whenever she could, she would visit the airfield and watch him take off and land, willing him to be safe. Then, as he limped back from his aircraft to the airfield buildings, she would scamper over to him, (all entirely contrary to Flying Corps Regulations), would walk with him, hanging on to his arm and would play her favourite trick of blowing out the match with which he was trying to light his pipe. The number of boxes of matches that Captain Bowhill got through in a week was a standing joke.
One day, as Daisy was watching, the engine of Bowhill's plane cut out as he approached the airfield. At first, it looked as though he would be able to simply glide in and land but he lost too much height and caught the top branch of a tree just at the edge of the field. With part of the lower wing missing, the biplane swung round and crashed to the ground. It began to burn as ground crew and airmen rushed to the stricken plane but they were too late to put out the flames. When Daisy caught them up, she fought the onlookers to get through and after a brief struggle succeeded. Ignoring the roaring blaze she hurled herself into the rear cockpit, where her lover, burning and motionless, sat trapped and she too was consumed by the fire.
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It was only when a second war brought North Weald back into operational use that anyone began to speak of catching a brief glimpse of a young woman near the airfield buildings. But it wasn't the sight of her that was so noteworthy.
On many a night a sentry would strike a match to light a cigarette and, even when there was not the slightest breeze, there would be a puff of breath and the match would go out. Eventually word got out to locals, who remembered Daisy and her favourite trick, and that was it, the ghost of Daisy became an accepted fact.
The airfield was nearly as busy at night as during the day. The Blenheim Night Fighters stationed there had their work cut out, once Germany's attention changed from daylight raids on airfields and cities during the summer of 1940, to night raids on London and the Home Counties. So the personnel making the aircraft ready, as well as the aircrew themselves, were out and about throughout the night and they all became familiar with Daisy's trick.
No-one felt alarmed; there was nothing threatening about the experience. None considered themselves haunted. Airmen are, and were then, about the most superstitious creatures alive and the Bristol Blenheim lost more aircrew than any other World War II RAF aircraft. But rather than to consider a brush with Daisy an ill omen, it was spoken of cheerfully by those about to launch themselves into combat in the pitch black. The fact is that everyone knew why Night Fighter crews didn't come back. It had much more to do with an under-powered plane, with enemy tracer bullets or with our own anti-aircraft fire than the ghost of a sweet girl who had died twenty-five years ago.
So all that would happen would be that, after two or three attempts to light up had failed, the would-be smoker, would say, with a chuckle -
"Daisy, come on, cut it out now," and the next match would stay alight until the cigarette was lit and then, sometimes, a gentle breath on the smoker's fingers would put the match out. And, with perhaps a hint of the smell of lavender, that would be the end of the encounter.
The next morning, someone would say, in passing conversation:-
"Daisy was out last night," and talk would move on to another subject.
Jimmy Cartwright, a young gunner in the Night Fighter squadron, seemed to be a favourite of Daisy's. He was the same age as she had been at her death and he was permanently frightened. He shared the same veneer of bravado as all of the others but, try as he might, pray as he might, drink to oblivion in noisy pubs as he might, he could not get out of his mind the sight that he saw so often of enemy planes, or those of his own comrades, bursting into flames in mid-air and plunging down to earth.
So at nights when he was on duty he would avoid the excited chatter of the other crews as they waited for the off. He would sit alone, outside, wrapped up against the cold, under cover if it was raining or snowing, or watching the stars if the night was clear; and he would smoke.
He grew accustomed to Daisy's visits, although he was not one of those who had ever actually caught a glimpse of her. Despite that, he almost welcomed her presence and would recall it as he climbed up into the black fuselage and then up into the machine gun turret behind the cockpit, where he would sit, trembling with cold and fear throughout the whole flight.
In early May 1941, after a weekend's leave at his parents' home in Hertfordshire, he returned to duty with as strong a feeling of dread as ever. The night was clear but at least the moon would not be up for a few more hours - total darkness was the Night Fighter's best friend. For that reason he almost wished for the call that bombers were coming, so that they would have to go out straight away but the night dragged quietly on.
Some time after three o'clock in the morning, as he tried to light yet another cigarette, Daisy arrived and started blowing out his matches. After about five attempts he turned to where the breath seemed to be coming from and gently said:-
"Come along now Daisy, let me have a smoke, you know it calms my nerves." The next match was left to burn and he was sure he felt the lightest touch on his cheek. It gave a brief hint of solace but only momentarily. The moon began to rise over the edge of Epping Forest and his spirits started to sink even further, just as the shout went up.
It was a heavy raid and London's anti-aircraft defences were doing their best. The whole crew saw the German Dornier bomber caught in the searchlight and, as it was below them, the pilot dived so that they could come up behind and underneath it to rake it with fire. Jimmy had just started to send machine gun bullets up at the bomber when there was a huge flash - an explosion of anti-aircraft fire hit both planes and the engine on the Blenheim's starboard side burst into flames.
The pilot banked and dived, hoping against hope that he could reach North Weald before the whole crate went up and it seemed as though he was going to manage it. The crew could just about see, peering through the darkness, the landmarks that they knew so well, as the field and then the runway approached.
But the flames had spread from the engine to the wing and then on to the tanks that still held plenty of fuel in them and it was going to be touch and go whether they made it before the inevitable explosion. The landing gear appeared to go down on the port side but not the starboard so it was going to be a rough landing irrespective of the fire and then, all of a sudden, they were down, with an almighty crash and were skidding along the runway and then off it into the grass alongside the tarmac.
They ground to a halt and in the still air the fire seemed to take hold. Jimmy had cracked his head on the turret canopy when the impact took place and had briefly blacked out. The flames came nearer and nearer to him. The ground crew reached the aircraft and as they struggled to climb up inside it there was suddenly a long and furious gust of wind, which almost blew out the fire that was beginning to flicker around the gun turret. It came from nowhere on an otherwise still night but it gave the rescuers the chance to get at Jimmy that they needed. He was pulled down out of the turret by the crew but as they did so he let out a terrified scream. Slipping back into consciousness he had been kissed, full on the lips, by a young woman whose face had been burned off back to her skull.
And after that night, no-one ever saw or felt the presence of Daisy again.
She had been the eighteen year old sweetheart of a Captain in the Royal Flying Corps. He had survived combat in France ten times longer than many would have thought possible but his latest crash in September 1917 had injured him so badly that he was brought back to North Weald to assist, when recovered, in the instruction of new pilots. Eight years his junior, Daisy was besotted with him. Whenever she could, she would visit the airfield and watch him take off and land, willing him to be safe. Then, as he limped back from his aircraft to the airfield buildings, she would scamper over to him, (all entirely contrary to Flying Corps Regulations), would walk with him, hanging on to his arm and would play her favourite trick of blowing out the match with which he was trying to light his pipe. The number of boxes of matches that Captain Bowhill got through in a week was a standing joke.
One day, as Daisy was watching, the engine of Bowhill's plane cut out as he approached the airfield. At first, it looked as though he would be able to simply glide in and land but he lost too much height and caught the top branch of a tree just at the edge of the field. With part of the lower wing missing, the biplane swung round and crashed to the ground. It began to burn as ground crew and airmen rushed to the stricken plane but they were too late to put out the flames. When Daisy caught them up, she fought the onlookers to get through and after a brief struggle succeeded. Ignoring the roaring blaze she hurled herself into the rear cockpit, where her lover, burning and motionless, sat trapped and she too was consumed by the fire.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was only when a second war brought North Weald back into operational use that anyone began to speak of catching a brief glimpse of a young woman near the airfield buildings. But it wasn't the sight of her that was so noteworthy.
On many a night a sentry would strike a match to light a cigarette and, even when there was not the slightest breeze, there would be a puff of breath and the match would go out. Eventually word got out to locals, who remembered Daisy and her favourite trick, and that was it, the ghost of Daisy became an accepted fact.
The airfield was nearly as busy at night as during the day. The Blenheim Night Fighters stationed there had their work cut out, once Germany's attention changed from daylight raids on airfields and cities during the summer of 1940, to night raids on London and the Home Counties. So the personnel making the aircraft ready, as well as the aircrew themselves, were out and about throughout the night and they all became familiar with Daisy's trick.
No-one felt alarmed; there was nothing threatening about the experience. None considered themselves haunted. Airmen are, and were then, about the most superstitious creatures alive and the Bristol Blenheim lost more aircrew than any other World War II RAF aircraft. But rather than to consider a brush with Daisy an ill omen, it was spoken of cheerfully by those about to launch themselves into combat in the pitch black. The fact is that everyone knew why Night Fighter crews didn't come back. It had much more to do with an under-powered plane, with enemy tracer bullets or with our own anti-aircraft fire than the ghost of a sweet girl who had died twenty-five years ago.
So all that would happen would be that, after two or three attempts to light up had failed, the would-be smoker, would say, with a chuckle -
"Daisy, come on, cut it out now," and the next match would stay alight until the cigarette was lit and then, sometimes, a gentle breath on the smoker's fingers would put the match out. And, with perhaps a hint of the smell of lavender, that would be the end of the encounter.
The next morning, someone would say, in passing conversation:-
"Daisy was out last night," and talk would move on to another subject.
Jimmy Cartwright, a young gunner in the Night Fighter squadron, seemed to be a favourite of Daisy's. He was the same age as she had been at her death and he was permanently frightened. He shared the same veneer of bravado as all of the others but, try as he might, pray as he might, drink to oblivion in noisy pubs as he might, he could not get out of his mind the sight that he saw so often of enemy planes, or those of his own comrades, bursting into flames in mid-air and plunging down to earth.
So at nights when he was on duty he would avoid the excited chatter of the other crews as they waited for the off. He would sit alone, outside, wrapped up against the cold, under cover if it was raining or snowing, or watching the stars if the night was clear; and he would smoke.
He grew accustomed to Daisy's visits, although he was not one of those who had ever actually caught a glimpse of her. Despite that, he almost welcomed her presence and would recall it as he climbed up into the black fuselage and then up into the machine gun turret behind the cockpit, where he would sit, trembling with cold and fear throughout the whole flight.
In early May 1941, after a weekend's leave at his parents' home in Hertfordshire, he returned to duty with as strong a feeling of dread as ever. The night was clear but at least the moon would not be up for a few more hours - total darkness was the Night Fighter's best friend. For that reason he almost wished for the call that bombers were coming, so that they would have to go out straight away but the night dragged quietly on.
Some time after three o'clock in the morning, as he tried to light yet another cigarette, Daisy arrived and started blowing out his matches. After about five attempts he turned to where the breath seemed to be coming from and gently said:-
"Come along now Daisy, let me have a smoke, you know it calms my nerves." The next match was left to burn and he was sure he felt the lightest touch on his cheek. It gave a brief hint of solace but only momentarily. The moon began to rise over the edge of Epping Forest and his spirits started to sink even further, just as the shout went up.
It was a heavy raid and London's anti-aircraft defences were doing their best. The whole crew saw the German Dornier bomber caught in the searchlight and, as it was below them, the pilot dived so that they could come up behind and underneath it to rake it with fire. Jimmy had just started to send machine gun bullets up at the bomber when there was a huge flash - an explosion of anti-aircraft fire hit both planes and the engine on the Blenheim's starboard side burst into flames.
The pilot banked and dived, hoping against hope that he could reach North Weald before the whole crate went up and it seemed as though he was going to manage it. The crew could just about see, peering through the darkness, the landmarks that they knew so well, as the field and then the runway approached.
But the flames had spread from the engine to the wing and then on to the tanks that still held plenty of fuel in them and it was going to be touch and go whether they made it before the inevitable explosion. The landing gear appeared to go down on the port side but not the starboard so it was going to be a rough landing irrespective of the fire and then, all of a sudden, they were down, with an almighty crash and were skidding along the runway and then off it into the grass alongside the tarmac.
They ground to a halt and in the still air the fire seemed to take hold. Jimmy had cracked his head on the turret canopy when the impact took place and had briefly blacked out. The flames came nearer and nearer to him. The ground crew reached the aircraft and as they struggled to climb up inside it there was suddenly a long and furious gust of wind, which almost blew out the fire that was beginning to flicker around the gun turret. It came from nowhere on an otherwise still night but it gave the rescuers the chance to get at Jimmy that they needed. He was pulled down out of the turret by the crew but as they did so he let out a terrified scream. Slipping back into consciousness he had been kissed, full on the lips, by a young woman whose face had been burned off back to her skull.
And after that night, no-one ever saw or felt the presence of Daisy again.
Support Graham Pegg
