Authors: Marie Bostwick

On Wings Of The Morning (24 page)

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning

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The other girls murmured excited congratulations, and I happily accepted them. I'd always wanted to be an instructor; now I was finally going to get my chance. I'd only be teaching instrument instruction and navigation, but it was still exciting. I lifted my coffee cup in a toast. “Here's to John! I'd never have gotten the assignment if he hadn't recommended me. He's a great guy, Pammie,” I said in all sincerity.

“Well, he'd never have recommended you if he didn't think you were the best pilot for the job, but, yes”âshe sighed happilyâ“he is a great guy. I'm crazy in love with him. I must be. That's the only thing that would make me give up flying.”

“But,” I protested, “it's not like you're giving up flying. You're just giving up flying for the WASP. Once the war is over and there's enough fuel for private use, you'll be able to go up anytime you want. I thought your dad was going to buy you and John a little Piper Cub for a wedding present.”

“He is,” Pamela confirmed, “but, like you say, I'll have to wait until the war is over to be able to fly. Even Daddy won't be able to pull enough strings to keep me in fuel before gas rationing ends.”

“Well, Pam might be temporarily grounded, but I think she's going to have lots of company before too long. The way things are looking, the WASP are going to get their wings clipped. Maybe sooner than you think.” Donna Lee reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled what looked like a newspaper clipping out of her pocket.

“Why is that?” Fran asked.

“There's been a lot of rumbling and grumbling from the male members of the flying fraternity lately. We're winning the war, ladies. We didn't lose as many pilots or aircraft as the generals in Washington thought we would. They don't need to build or deliver as many planes as they used to. And they don't need as many new pilots to fly those planes. Georgia and John were lucky to land those instructor's jobs because a lot of the training bases are being closed. And they are shutting down the Civil Aeronautics Administration training programs, too. What it all adds up to is a whole bunch of pilots without anything to do. Of course, the war isn't over yet. There is still plenty of fighting to do in the air, but even more on land. All those out-of-work civilian pilots are afraid they're going to be drafted and sent into combat. They'd much rather have our jobs, delivering planes stateside, than do bombing runs over Berlin. Or, worse yet, end up in Japan in the infantry.

“The civilian flyboys are starting to band together to put a bug in Washington's ear. And it couldn't come at a worse timeâjust when General Arnold and Jackie Cochran are trying to get Congress to militarize the WASP.”

In a voice thick with bitterness, Pamela said. “And it's darned well about time! We should have been militarized from the first, with the same benefits and same pay they'd give to a man. We do the same job, and it's just as dangerous for us as it is for a man. If we have to pass the hat to bury one more girl ...” Pamela muttered darkly. I knew she was thinking about Doris, but there had been many more funerals since then. Our safety record was comparable to that of male pilots, but flying was dangerous; there was no way around it. More than twenty WASP pilots had been killed since the program began. That year we lost a girl every month. We now had a permanent fund that was just to help with the final expenses of any girl who was killed in the line of duty.

“It's just not right!” Pamela declared.

Donna Lee rolled her eyes, acknowledging the obvious. “Well, don't count on it getting any better. A few months ago,
Life
magazine had a picture of a WASP on the cover and was telling the whole world that we were brave, patriotic, and self-sacrificing, a band of Yankee Doodle girls who could ferry pilots as well as any man.”

“And so we are!” Becky yelled out gamely and turned to her friend, Jeannie. The two girls exchanged a self-congratulatory handshake.

“Not anymore you're not,” Donna Lee said ominously. “Lately the papers have been starting to run all kinds of stories about the WASP, and they don't paint a very flattering picture.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean they are starting to print stories saying we are bad pilots, just a bunch of glamour pusses that are playing at being pilots. They're saying our accident and fatality rates are much higher than they are for men. They say that we're too expensive, that it costs much more to train us than it does men. They even say that our uniforms are expensive. One paper reported that the government spent five hundred and five dollars to outfit each WASP and that our uniforms are custom-tailored by a shop on Fifth Avenue.”

Fanny laughed. “Our uniforms? They've got to be kidding! We didn't even have uniforms at first. Remember? When we first got to Sweetwater, we all had to drive into town to buy ourselves some dungarees so we'd have something comfortable to work in. We wore men's flying suits that were ten sizes too big for us and belted them just so they wouldn't drag on the ground. What are they talking about?”

“That's crazy,” I said. “Where are they getting this stuff about us? None of that is true.”

Donna Lee shook her head sagely. “Doesn't have to be true. They just have to make people believe it's true.”

“But why would they want to do that?” Pamela asked.

“I told you,” Donna Lee said impatiently. “Because they want our jobs. Here. Listen to this.” She unfolded the newspaper clipping she'd pulled from her pocket. “It's a letter to the editor from a Mr. Emmett Foley.” Donna cleared her throat and started reading.

Dear Sirs,

I found your article about the women flying planes for the Army very interesting. I couldn't agree with you more. It was all very well and good for these girls to fly when we were short of pilots, but now that there are plenty of men to do the work, I think it is time the WASP hung up their wings and returned to roles they are more naturally suited to fill. If the government needs pilots, why not give the “washed out” cadets a chance to take over these ferrying jobs? The men may not be cut out for combat flying, but surely they could take over the job of ferrying, target towing and the other easier flying jobs that these girls are doing.

Very truly yours,
Emmett P. Foley

Donna Lee concluded and put down the clipping. The room was silent as we took in the contents of the letter. I was the first to speak up.

“Well, that's just ridiculous! Emmett P. Foley doesn't know what he's talking about. There's no such thing as an easy flying job. You've got to know what you're doing. You've got to be able to handle all kinds of aircraft, in all kinds of weather, and keep a cool head during emergencies. I had two tires blow out on me last week, a frozen flap, and an engine fire.” I paused and took a sip of coffee. Then, peering over the rim of the cup, I joked, “It was a slow week.” Pamela grinned.

“Really, Donna Lee” Pam said, “you can't make me believe that any sane person would rather see a washed-out male flight cadet, somebody who couldn't even get through basic training, flying military aircraft than an experienced, fully trained female pilot. This guy is just a crackpot. Nobody's going to listen to that nonsense.”

Donna Lee shrugged again. “Maybe not. The militarization issue is supposed to be coming up before Congress soon. Maybe it'll pass, and then all this will blow over. But I wouldn't bet on it.”

Georgia

Chicago, IllinoisâJuly 1944

D
onna Lee's speech kind of took the wind out of our sails, and the party broke up. The girls hugged each other, congratulated Pamela again and again, thanked Fran, and said their good nights.

Fran and I started picking up the empty cups and dirty plates and Pamela stayed behind to help with the washing up. She scraped plates and cleaned the countertops while Fran and I resumed our respective roles as dishwasher and wiper.

I hummed as I worked, thinking how good it was to be in the kitchen with my two best friends. Pamela and Fran had never met before tonight, but after washing dishes together for five minutes they were chatting like they'd known each other for years. Fran gave Pam her special recipe for chicken croquettes.

“Really,” Fran assured the bride-to-be, “they couldn't be easier. You just need to make sure the oil is good and hot before you put them in the pan. Richard loves them.”

“Hey,” I interrupted, “where is that husband of yours, anyway? Did you stash him in a closet or something?”

“No, he took the girls to his mother's for dinner. They'll be back any minute. Anyway, Pam, try making those croquettes for your John. They are absolutely foolproof.”

“Well, they'll have to be if I'm going to make them,” Pam said doubtfully. “I think I'd rather be asked to parachute out of a burning plane at two thousand feet than to cook a dinner. I can't even scramble an egg.”

“It's true,” I confirmed. “Pamela was raised by her father's butler and her mother's cook. She's barely housebroken.” Pamela looked at me and made a face.

“Don't listen to her, Pam. She's just giving you a hard time. All you need to be a good cook is willingness and practice. If you're smart enough to fly airplanes, you're certainly smart enough to keep house. Trust me,” she said with a sigh, “there's not that much to it. You don't have to be a genius to be a wife. I'm the proof of that.”

I glanced at Fran. She looked so sad. Now that I thought of it, she'd hardly said a word during the whole party, just listened to everyone's stories and kept the coffee cups filled.

“What are you talking about, Fran? Your home runs like clockwork. I've stayed here enough times to see all that you have to do around here, and it makes my head spin, but you make it look easy. You're smart. You've always been smart. I'd have never passed sophomore English if it wasn't for you, remember? Remember? With Sister Bernice? We had to read
Moby Dick,
and I didn't have a clue. I just thought it was a story about fishing.”

Fran smiled a little but said dismissively, “Well, sure. But that was easy. I've always liked to read. But flying an airplane! When we were girls, I used to make fun of Georgia for wanting to be a pilot. Now, after hearing about all the things you girls have done and all the places you've been! My life is so dull by comparison. Anybody can cook dinner or scrub a bathtub, but flying! That's just ...” Fran looked up, as though the word she was searching for might be floating above her head. “Well, that takes real talent.”

“True, flying is not something you pick up overnight, but, really,” Pamela said, “it's not that different from learning to cook. It takes desire and a lot of practice, but with enough of eachâand maybe a dash of recklessnessâyou could learn to fly.”

Fran exhaled a disbelieving puff of air and rolled her eyes.

I jumped into the conversation. “Pam is right. You could learn to fly if you really wanted to, Frannie.” Pamela nodded confirmation, and suddenly I had an idea. “You know what? We could do it. When the war is over, I'll be reopening the flight school. You can be my first student!”

“Uh huh,” Fran said sarcastically, “I'm just going to leave my husband and two daughters and run away to Waukegan so I can learn to fly airplanes?”

“Well, of course not,” I retorted. “You can all comeâyou and Richard and the girls. You can stay at my house for a couple of weeks, like a vacation. Richard can take the kids out during the day while you're taking lessons. Then at night we can all have dinner together.” The idea had popped into my head just that moment, but the more I thought about it, the better it seemed.

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Pamela added, but Fran dismissed us with a wave of her hand.

“Oh, you two are crazy,” she said. “Richard would never go for that.”

“Why not?” I asked, and just as I did, the knob on the back door rattled and Richard walked in carrying sleeping ten-month-old Emily in his arms. She was so beautifulâthe image of her mother in miniature.

Then three-and-a-half-year-old Bonnie came in the door, dragging her favorite stuffed toy, a battered feline named Miss Kit, behind her. “Auntie Georgia! I din't know you was here!” she cried when she saw me. She dropped Miss Kit on the floor and ran into my arms. I scooped her up and covered her face with kisses while Fran greeted Richard and introduced him to Pamela.

“Mmm-wah!” I said to the child. “Yes, I'm here! I could never, ever come to Chicago without dropping in to see my favorite girl! How are you? Where have you been?”

“I was at Grandma's for dinner. Din't like it.” Bonnie made a face. “Fish. Yech! She let me have cake instead. Two pieces!” She held up two fingers in triumph.

Fran shot Richard a look, and he said, “Well, what did you expect me to do about it? Grandmas are supposed to spoil their grandchildren. It's in their contract.”

Smiling, Fran shook her head and reached out to take Bonnie from me. “You've just got Grandma wrapped around your little finger, don't you Bonnie-Boo? Come on, little girl. It's late. Let's get you to bed.”

“That's all right,” Richard said. “You stay and talk to your friends. I'll put the girls to bed.”

“Are you sure you don't mind?” Fran asked.

“It's fine. I can do it.”

Fran kissed the girls and then Richard. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Come on, Bonnie. Let's get your pajamas on.” Bonnie protested that she wanted to stay at the party. But when I promised to send her a postcard from Kansas for her collectionâI sent her cards from every new city I visited, and she kept them all pinned to her bedroom wallâshe went off without any fuss.

“Good night, Bonnie.”

“Good night, Auntie Georgia.”

“Oh! Richard! I almost forgot. After the war, I'm going to teach your wife to fly airplanes. Okay?”

“Okay,” Richard said as he ushered Bonnie out of the kitchen.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny, Richard. Like I'd be able to learn how to fly.” Fran said as she turned back to the sink and started washing dishes again.

“Well, why not?” Richard responded, pausing at the doorway. “If Georgia can do it, how hard can it be?” He winked at me. “Seriously, hon. If you want to learn how to fly, then go ahead and do it.”

“Really?” Fran asked, her voice suddenly bright with excitement. She left the dishes and walked up to him.

He kissed her on the top of the head. “Sure. Why not?” He picked up Bonnie and headed for her bedroom. “But, Georgia, about this flying school of yours,” he called over his shoulder as he went, “I expect to get the brother-in-law discount.”

“You've got it, Rich. Good night!”

“Good night, Georgia. Nice meeting you, Pam.”

“Likewise!” Pam called after him, and then turned to Fran. “That is one swell guy you've got there, Fran. What a sweetheart! I hope John and I will be as happy as you two. Two kids, and you still seem so in love.”

“We have our moments, any couple does, but yes ...” Fran sighed and turned back to the sink, plunging her hands into the soapy water. Pam and I returned to our posts as scraper and dryer. “I love Richard as much as the day I married him. More. I'm sure it will be the same for you. That is, if he's even one-half the dreamboat that Georgia says he is.”

“He is!” I promised. Pamela rolled her eyes at me but couldn't keep the smile from her face.

“He is pretty special,” she admitted as she picked up a sponge and started wiping down the countertops. “Georgia was actually the one who introduced us.”

“I met John when I was delivering some new trainers to Liberal, Kansas, and I thought they'd be perfect for each other. So I called in sick for my next Kansas delivery and asked Pam to fill in. She and John had dinner, and the next thing I knew, she put in for a transfer to Liberal and I was shopping for a bridesmaid's dress.”

Pamela said, “And the rest, as they say, is history. Or it will be in two more months. And speaking of love and romance, what about you, Georgia? Any swains on the horizon?”

I shot her a “mind your own business” look and said, “None worth mentioning, Miss Matchmaker.”

Pam held up her hands in surrender. “Sheesh! You don't have to get so snippy. I was just asking.” She laid a tea towel on the edge of the sink to dry.

“Now that we've finished cleaning up, what do you say we use up whatever's left of the whisky that Donna Lee poured into the punch? Where'd you stash the bottle?” Pamela started opening cupboards until she found the bottle hidden behind a loaf of bread and a jar of sweet pickles. She pulled it out of the cupboard and held it out.

“Here we are! What do you say, ladies? Anybody besides me want a nightcap?”

“Fran?” I asked.

Fran shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

“That's the spirit! Georgia, find me some glasses.”

The glasses found, Pam poured a generous shot of amber whiskey into each.

“Wait a minute,” Fran said. “We've got to have a toast. Let me think. I know! To love!” She raised her glass. “And to bridesâpast, present, and future.”

We clinked our glasses together and took a drink. Fran started coughing.

“Good, isn't it?” Pamela said in a hoarse voice. “You all right?” Fran nodded and tried to catch her breath. I pounded her on the back.

“Hey, Georgia,” Pam said, as though she'd innocently forgotten my earlier warning to butt out of my personal life. “Remember, that cute lieutenant we met at Avenger? The only real emergency landing in the history of Avenger Field? What was his name?” She winced her face into a mocking model of concentration. “Glennon! That's it! Morgan Glennon. He was a cutie. Whatever happened to him?” She looked at me innocently over the rim of her glass as she took another sip.

“Pam, knock it off already. Just give me a break, will you?”

“Well, I was just wondering. He seemed like a nice guy, and he sure liked you. Did you ever see him again?”

I sighed. “Not that it's any of your business, but yes. I saw him one other time. We had dinner. He shipped out the next day, and I haven't heard from him since.”

“Really?” Pam asked a little surprised. “Where'd they send him?”

“I have no idea,” I lied. “Somewhere in the Pacific.”

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning

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