On Wings Of The Morning (14 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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I was calm and confident. Until then, every time I had walked across the tarmac to approach the BT-13, she looked like some kind of menacing monster-machine, bent on my defeat. Every time I took her up was a contest of wills as I forced the reluctant beast clumsily through her paces. But that day, from the second the propellers began stirring in the hot Texas wind and I took hold of the wheel, vibrating with the power of four hundred and fifty horses, all my uncertainty vanished. I was never again afraid of the BT-13, or any plane for that matter. My anxiety was replaced by respect—respect for the plane and what she could do, and respect for my ability to make her do it better. That day I began to realize that every craft is . . . well, almost alive. Each plane has a personality with unique strengths and weaknesses, and it is up to the pilot to enhance the former and minimize the latter.
That day the BT and I were like perfectly matched dance partners. We practically waltzed across the wide Texas skies as I led her through dips and dives, spins and stalls, with an easy confidence I'd never known was in me. I forgot all about Maytag, sitting in the passenger seat, waiting to pounce on the tiniest error. I focused my mind and heart on knowing this plane, feeling all the possibility within her and drawing it out. I felt brave and peaceful and vast beyond words.
I walked the wind. I found again what I hadn't even realized I'd lost—the joy of flying, of living—the joy I'd buried with Roger because his death had made living unseemly.
I'd been going through the motions, and very convincingly. Once the girls had gotten to know my story, they'd been all admiration for how I'd picked up and honored Roger's sacrifice by fulfilling his last wish for me. They used words like
brave, patriotic, selfless,
and sometimes I told myself the same thing, but it was all a sham. I wasn't brave; I was terrified, and I was hiding my terror beneath a suffocating veil of obligation. I'd been trying to live on Roger's behalf, trying to be what I thought Roger wanted me to be, trying to live the life I thought he'd been cheated out of and that I owed him because I hadn't loved him completely until it was almost too late.
I'd had it all wrong. As many times as I'd read the letter I wore over my heart, I hadn't understood it. But now, somehow, something in the way the sunlight sliced through the clouds, separating light from dark, finally brought it within my grasp.
I had loved Roger, not at first, but at last, and that was enough. There was no debt to pay, no fee owed. I could finally see the sky again. Aloft, there is no beginning and no end, and if you give yourself up to the sky, you see time as the limiting, contrived idea it is. We were not created to live such boundaried lives. No matter for how long or short a time, I loved Roger and he loved me, and because it had been, even for a moment, it always would be. The price of his love exacted no debt.
Without voice, or words, I heard my husband speak to me one last time, words of love, words of forgiveness, words of release.
I love who you are. I love who you will become. I always will.
 
When we landed, I didn't even stand around waiting for Maytag to fill out my evaluation. I didn't have to. I knew I had passed with a perfect score. Maytag actually chased me down, waving the form and hollering, “Hey! Aren't you forgetting something?”
I turned around but kept walking, backwards, as he trotted up to me. “Don't think so. Seemed like a perfect flight to me, wouldn't you say?” I knew I was being cocky, but I couldn't help myself. This man had put me through the ringer, and I vowed never to be afraid of him again.
“You'll do,” he said flatly and shoved the evaluation into my hand, but just the same, I thought I recognized a look of grudging respect on his face.
When I walked into the ready room, Pamela, Fanny, and Donna Lee were waiting for me with anxious faces.
I pulled off my helmet, ran my hand through my hair, fluffing up my flattened curls, and unzipped the neck of my flight suit. “Can you believe this is only March?” I said nonchalantly. “It must be one hundred degrees out there! I miss flying the PTs. It was nice getting a breeze in those open cockpits.”
The girls examined me for a moment, trying to decide if I was teasing them or putting up a brave front in the face of failure. I couldn't keep it in any longer.
“Yee-haw!” My triumphant cowboy yell was accompanied by a spontaneous victory dance and the joyous shouts, squeals, and squeezes of my girlfriends.
“You did it! I knew you would!” Fanny yelled as she threw her arms around me.
Donna Lee grabbed the evaluation that was clutched in my fist. “Look at this! She got a perfect score! I didn't know those existed!”
“Tumbleweed, here we come! I'm buying the first round!” Pamela promised.
“And I'll let you,” I said, laughing. “Too bad we can't go right now, but I guess we'll just have to hang on until tomorrow night. Right now I'm due at my meteorology class, and after that I think I might celebrate by sneaking off for a nap. Don't look for me at lunch, girls.”
I waved good-bye and scurried off to class. Opening the ready-room door, I hit a solid wall of scorching West Texas heat. But I didn't mind it; I welcomed it. I welcomed the feeling of sun on my face and the smell of mesquite that perfumed the air. My eyes feasted on the endless expanse of blue that stretched across the horizon. Everything around me seemed bright and clear, as if it had been outlined in sharp-pointed pencil, demanding my notice, which I gave, wholly and gratefully.
Purposefully walking through the middle of a whirling dust devil, I stretched out my arms and laughed at the insistent wind. And for the first time in a long time, I thought of how good it was to be alive.
Was it coincidence, then, that I met Morgan the very next day? I suppose it's possible, but you'll never get me to believe it.
16
Georgia
Sweetwater, Texas—March 1943
 
I
'd just finished a five-hour flight and was coming in for a landing “under the hood.” That meant I had to fly with a black curtain drawn across my windshield to block my view, relying completely on my instruments. Since the primary role of the WASP would be to ferry planes from factories and bases to where they were needed, our curriculum placed even more emphasis on this kind of navigation than the training of our male counterparts did. It wasn't easy.
Flying under the hood required complete focus. You had to keep your eyes glued to the instruments at all times—the airspeed indicator to know if you were going too fast or slow, the altimeter to make sure you were climbing or descending properly, the needle-ball to make sure you weren't listing too far to the left or right—all the while listening to the instructor's directions as they were shouted over the earphones and praying that those instruments really were accurate. You had to have great trust in your plane and your own ability, because you really were flying blind. It was exhausting.
I was looking forward to using the bathroom (long flights didn't include pit stops, and, unlike male pilots, we couldn't take care of business in midair—even if we had, our oversized flight suits weren't exactly designed to accommodate the female anatomy), taking a cold shower, and falling into bed. We were all supposed to go to the Tumbleweed that night, but I thought I'd just beg off and get some sleep instead. But once we landed, my instructor, Dave Kalinowski, pulled back the curtain and said, “Nice flight. Couldn't have been better,” and I felt a sudden rush of energy.
Maybe just the ladies' room and shower,
I thought. I was ready for a night on the town after all.
I taxied up to the hangar and climbed out of the BT just in time to see another plane, a big, twin-engined monster of a ship, come in for a landing right behind me. Dave and I watched as it touched down.
“What is that?” I asked. “I never saw anything like it.”
“That's one of those new P-38 fighters,” he answered. “They say that's the plane that will win us this war. They're fast and handle like a dream.” We watched admiringly as that beautiful airplane taxied toward us, the sun glinting off her silver finish and reflecting bright diamonds of light into our eyes.
“I'd like to stick around and check her out,” Dave said, “but I've got another girl going up in half an hour and I've gotta grab some chow. Say, I heard a rumor that the Fantastic Four were going to the Tumbleweed tonight, that right?”
“Umm. Maybe,” I vacillated. “I'm not sure.”
Instructors and students weren't supposed to socialize, but, of course, a few did off base. Dave had hinted that he'd like to go out with me a couple of times, but I'd sidestepped the question. He was attractive, with a full head of wavy black hair and a sharp-jawed masculinity, and was a good teacher to boot, but I wasn't going to risk my career by fraternizing with an instructor. On top of that, I just wasn't interested. Not in Dave. Not in anybody.
“Well,” he said. “Maybe I'll see you later, Georgia. Real nice work today.”
“Thanks.” I waved as he walked off but kept my eyes fixed on the approaching P-38. It was one hot-looking plane and I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to fly her myself. She taxied through shimmering waves of ghostly water brought on by the blistering heat rising from the tarmac, looking like a mirage of a plane, too beautiful to be real.
She parked next to me, dwarfing my BT, which seemed suddenly very plain-Jane next to this gorgeous beast. When her engines were cut and the props slowed and ceased their whine, the canopy popped open, and the pilot stepped out, a man with dark eyes and a serious expression. For some reason, it had never crossed my mind that a man would be flying this plane.
Without thinking, I blurted out, “What in the heck are you doing here?”
The pilot pulled off his helmet. “Emergency landing,” he said.
“Oh,” I replied knowingly. “You're one of those. Well, you'd better get going, Flyboy. Didn't you hear? Avenger is off-limits to male pilots. Even male pilots with ‘emergencies.'”
“What are you talking about?” He frowned, a deep crease appearing between his eyebrows.
“Yeah. Don't play so innocent.” I smirked. “The first couple of weeks we opened we had dozens of guys like you—fellas who touched down saying they had an emergency when all they were looking for was a chance to check out the girls and chase some skirt. After that, an order went out saying that no more men could land at Avenger—not unless they had real emergencies. Come on. You'd better fire up your engines and get out of here before somebody writes you up.”
I heard a noise and looked up to see one of the base mechanics trotting toward us. It was Joe Palka. I recognized him from a distance because, as usual, he had a cigarette clutched between his teeth. I never saw him without one. Joe was a little fresh, but he was a pretty good mechanic. He ran up to the young pilot and, a little out of breath with a lit Lucky bobbing up and down as he spoke, said, “You the one that called in the emergency?”
The pilot nodded, and Joe said, “Yeah, the tower called the shop and said to come over and check it out. She just stalled?”
“That's right. At about fifteen thousand feet. I tried everything I could think of to start her back up, but nothing worked. I'd just passed you a few minutes before, so I radioed in to your tower. Thought maybe I could glide her in. I banked hard right to circle back, and then, when I tried the engines again, they started up. She seems fine now, but it's a long way home. Maybe your boys can check her out for me.”
Joe puffed on his cigarette and pulled his nose at the same time, thinking. “Well, there's no way we're going to get to it tonight, that's for sure. I've got six jobs ahead of you and none of 'em can wait. That means you're going to have to stick around until Monday. The shop is closed on Sunday.”
The pilot furrowed his brow and said in a voice that was almost desperate, “Look, I've got to get back by nine o'clock on Monday morning. It's important. Can't you just give her a quick once-over? Maybe it's something simple.”
Joe lifted both hands and shrugged off the request. “Sorry, pal. No can do. I already told the tower to call your base and let 'em know you'll be here at least until Monday—maybe the day after. Better head over to our commander's office and see if they can't find you a bed and something to eat. Georgia can show you where to go.
“Don't look so gloomy, Lieutenant.” Joe grinned. “A lotta guys would give their right propeller to be stranded at Avenger. There's not another base like it in the whole Air Force. It's hotter than Hades, centrally isolated, and—did I mention?—hotter than Hades. But the scenery! Mister, the scenery here is something else. Isn't that right, Georgia, honey?” He winked and gave me a leering glance. I stuck out my tongue at him.
“Ignore him, Lieutenant. He's been breathing gas fumes all his life. It's affected his brain.”
Joe laughed out one side of his mouth, careful not to lose his Lucky in the process. “Boy, you said a mouthful, honey! I was due to muster out next month but I just re-upped for three more years. There's gotta be something wrong with me!
“Well, I gotta run. There's a busted manifold out there with my name on it. I'll get to your plane as soon as I can, Lieutenant.” With that he trotted off again in the direction of the mechanical shops, holding his hand up without looking back, extending his fingers in a farewell salute.
The pilot just stood there looking at Joe's receding figure with an expression of irritation on his face. “Great,” he muttered to himself and scuffed the toe of his boot hard against the ground like he wished he had something, or someone, to kick. “That's just great.”
I cleared my throat to get his attention. “Do you have a flight bag? Why don't you grab it, and I'll take you over to the office.”
“I didn't bring anything. I wasn't exactly planning on being here. That's a brand-new P-38,” he said, jerking his head toward the plane. “We just got her from the test pilots, and everything checked out fine. There shouldn't be a thing wrong with her. Heck, maybe there isn't. Maybe I should just start her back up and head for home,” he mused.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You want to fly a plane whose engines cut out on you at fifteen thousand feet without having a mechanic find out why? You must be one important lieutenant if you're needed at base so bad that you'll take that kind of risk with your life, not to mention a plane that cost the government thousands. Who are you? General Eisenhower traveling incognito?”
He glared at me. I hadn't meant to come off as sarcastic, but, honestly, I'd never heard of anything so crazy. And the way this guy was grumbling you'd have thought he'd just been sentenced to life in Sing Sing instead of a couple of nights at an all-girl air base. Of course, my initial greeting probably hadn't helped. I hadn't exactly made him feel welcomed.
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” I said. “I didn't mean to be so smart. And I apologize for giving you a hard time about landing here. My mouth gets the better of me sometimes. Let me walk you over to the office, and they'll get you fixed up with whatever you need. You'll feel better after a shower and some food. Come on.” I motioned with my head and started walking in the direction of the base offices.
He sighed and started following. “Yeah. Guess there's nothing I can do about this tonight.”
“You know, a bunch of us are going into town tonight. My roommates and I just passed our flight checks so we're going to go celebrate. It's just a little roadhouse, but the beer is cold and cheap. If you want to come along, we can give you a ride.”
“No, thanks,” he said, his voice was flat. “I just want to get my plane fixed and get out of here, so if you'll just point the way to the commander's office, I think I can take it from here. I've already got a girlfriend back home. I'm not looking for another one.”
What a jerk!
“Well, that's good, because I'm not looking, either! I'm married !” I held up my left hand and waggled my ring finger in his face. “Who do you think you are, anyway? Clark Gable? I was just trying to be nice to you, but—funny thing! ”—I smacked my forehead with the flat of my hand—“The urge is gone!
“The office is over by the flagpole,” I pointed to the right. “Captain Dean is in charge of billets for visitors.” I turned on my heel and stomped off, but not before shouting over my shoulder, “And I hope he puts you in the barracks with the rattlesnake nest under it! I'm sure you'd feel right at home!”

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