Grand Central: Original Stories of Postwar Love and Reunion

by Karen White

  But the clerk in the ticket booth would not know this. He stared back, impatience and puzzlement creasing his brow. It was Virginia’s turn to approach the counter, yet her strappy heels had melded with the marble tiles of Grand Central.

  “Miss?” he said, and expelled a sigh. A presumption of incompetence.

  Virginia had grown well accustomed to enduring that sound from a slew of male Army pilots, even after General Hap Arnold himself had pinned shiny silver wings onto her starched white blouse. A pretty dame like her couldn’t possibly have the brains, let alone the gumption, to operate something more complex than a pop-up toaster. If they did not say this to her face, it blared in their snickers, their mutterings, and, yes, irritated sighs, until her butter-smooth landings of any aircraft from P-38s to B-24s silenced their derision, or at least reduced it to a low-level hum.

  “Come on, lady,” came a gruff voice in her queue. “Are you buying a ticket, or ain’t ya?” Grumbles of agreement arose from other suited men. They had trains to catch. They had lives to live.

  A woman touched Virginia’s sleeve from behind. She wore a black dress and matching hat with netting. Wrinkles crowded her eyes as if accumulated from the wiping of countless tears, further hinting to her rank as a wartime widow. “Don’t you pay them any mind,” she said. “I’m in no hurry.” In her voice lay a depth of understanding, a message that the hammer of grief had once shattered her own compass, too, leaving her lost and alone in a world that kept on spinning.

  “Miss,” the clerk repeated. Before he could spout an ultimatum, Virginia salvaged her strength and stepped forward with her travel bag. She produced a thin stack of dollar bills from her pocketbook and traded them for a voucher.

  “Thank you,” she said, and the man grunted. She started away before turning toward the widow to nod in gratitude, but the woman was already at the counter, occupied with her own journey.

  Overhead the destination board shuffled its letters. Friday afternoon marked the start of the weekend bustle. The long arms of the four-faced clock ticked in unison toward departure time.

  Gripping her ticket, Virginia ventured through the main concourse and descended the terminal stairs. She snaked through the dim stretch of tunnels and located her platform. The cool underground air prickled her skin, a warning. Yet she proceeded to weave through the crowd as if stitching a patchwork of strangers: a porter lugging a monstrous trunk, a mother soothing a crying infant, a couple meeting in an ardent embrace. Now a month past war’s end, Virginia had prepared herself for the sight of such reunions, but not for the lone soldier emerging from the train ahead. Eagerly he scanned the teeming platform with crimson roses at the ready.

  The memory of a similar bouquet, a similar serviceman, slammed into Virginia. A punch to the chest. All at once, she again saw the burst of flames and smelled the gaseous smoke. She heard the agonizing screams that had plagued her dreams for months.

  “All aboard!”

  The conductor’s voice yanked her back to the station. She strained to regain her composure, masking the anger and sorrow festering within. Her locomotive would soon be leaving, yet doubt spiked over her ability to board.

  One step at a time. This was the advice offered by her instructor in a kind, grandfatherly tone just moments before Virginia’s first flight. Between shallow breaths, she had muttered regrets for thinking a college socialite like herself was fit for such an adventure. But once they had gone airborne, in a turquoise sky wispy with clouds, a fresh wave of emotion overtook her. It was peace and freedom and danger all rolled into one. It was the thrill of truly living. She’d had no inkling the world could look so beautiful, its problems seem so small, from a simple change of view—one she had experienced only by taking a risk.

  Emboldened by the thought, she squared herself with the train and finally entered the coach.

  Inside, cigarette smoke hung in a veil of gray. Anxiety and excitement further thickened the air. Uniforms of all military branches adorned the space, clean-shaven veterans heading for home. They were the perfect models of a thousand propaganda ads. It would take days, even weeks, before their loved ones would sense the wounds that went unseen.

  Virginia stored her luggage and settled by the last available window seat. She noted several fellows, most aged around her twenty-five years, tossing smiles in her direction. She did not return the gestures. Rather, she held her purse to her lap, firm as a shield, keenly aware of the missive inside. For on that page were the last words she’d received from the man she had planned to marry. Words engraved in her mind from countless readings.

  She angled toward the window to hide the emotion welling in her eyes. She pulled a long breath, let it out. A glimpse of her reflection reminded her of the extra effort she had devoted to her appearance: the navy belted dress and cream sweater, the rouge and lipstick, the smoothing lotion in her platinum blond hair. As if a polished look could reassemble the shambles of her life.

  The transport suddenly creaked, its muscles being stretched. With a shudder, the wheels began to churn. Each rotation would bring Virginia closer to a collision with her past.

  She bridled the impulse to escape as standing passengers located their seats. Chatter continued among those not engrossed in their books and periodicals. It was difficult to recall which topics had filled daily papers before the outbreak of war.

  In the row ahead, twin girls with double braids broke into an argument, battling over a Hershey bar.

  “Good gracious,” snapped a woman in a beige brimmed hat, presumably their mother. She reached across the aisle to confiscate the candy. “How is it you two are best of friends or worst of enemies, and never in between?”

  The comment sent a shiver up Virginia’s spine, for the same could have been said of her relationship with Millie Bennett. At one time, they, too, were like sisters, as close as twins. Who would have imagined the price they would pay for interweaving the strands of their lives?

  If only they had stayed enemies. If only they had never met.

  If only.

  —

  Avenger Field had served as their training center in Sweetwater, Texas. Every barracks had been divided into two living quarters for six women each with a latrine to share. Although extensive flight experience was a prerequisite, the program was to be a grueling one as they learned to “fly the Army way.”

  And yet, on move-in day in February 1943, Virginia’s roommates chirped with all the zeal of spring nestlings. Introductions looped and overlapped: Where are you from? Are you married, have a steady? Is he serving? Where’s he stationed?

  Can you believe we’re actually here?

  It was quite surreal to be surrounded by an entire group of female pilots. Often deemed an oddity elsewhere, their common passion instantly bonded them all—save for Millie.

  Like her appearance, her clipped two-word answers set her apart from the others. She had arrived in roughened trousers and a plaid cotton shirt. Her reddish brown hair was bound in a ponytail, loose with stragglers, completing her look of a day spent in the fields. Her features were pleasant enough, sun tinted and dusted with freckles, but the set of her jaw and dark, hooded eyes defined her bearing with an edge.

  “Well, I’ll be,” exclaimed the gal named Lucy, her drawl thick as molasses. Everyone in the room was in the midst of unpacking. “I know why Virginia struck me as familiar. She’s that model I’ve seen in the magazines!”

  Begrudgingly, Virginia looked up from her half-emptied trunk to find herself pinned by a circle of gazes.

  “Really? Is it true?” a couple of the girls asked in near unison.

  Before Virginia could respond, Lucy flipped open a copy of Good Housekeeping and skipped past the usual advertisements that featured sketches of apron-clad wives. “Lookee, right here,” she said. Ladies clustered around her, oohing and aahing over the Kodak Film ad in which Virginia had been photographed wearing a frill
y dress and propping a parasol.

  Virginia attempted to wave this off. “It’s just a silly picture,” she insisted, and not out of false modesty. She wished to be known for greater skills than striking dainty poses. She had accepted the job only to afford flight lessons in secret, for she knew better than to ask her parents.

  Although the couple was reasonably supportive of women’s independence, her father, as an esteemed surgeon, had pieced together too many broken bodies to approve of his only daughter buzzing through the sky. Virginia had little choice but to sign the permission form on his behalf. Eventually, when she was accepted into the elite training detachment that ultimately formed the WASP, or Women Airforce Service Pilots, she did her best to stress the high points: Graduates will be hired as pilots but still as civilians. Don’t you see? By ferrying military planes in the States, I’ll be doing my bit for the war effort. Her parents did not share her enthusiasm, but denying her entry would have been unpatriotic. And that was one thing the Colliers were not.

  “Honestly, it’s nothing,” Virginia told the girls who were still fixated on the magazine. She resumed her unpacking as their questions rolled in about Hollywood and starlets and glamorous things of which Virginia had no knowledge.

  “I agree, it’s nothin’,” Millie interjected, standing off by her cot. “Nothing that’ll be useful, anyhow, if you’re a serious pilot.” She muttered this as if to herself, though loud enough to plunge the room into silence.

  Stunned, Virginia had to work to find her voice. An array of retorts formed in her head, but by then Millie had walked out of the barracks.

  Lucy jumped in, overly cheery. “I don’t know about you ladies, but I’m rightly famished.”

  Virginia replied with a smile, one that wasn’t entirely feigned. Her father had taught her that acts of success ultimately trumped boasts to the effect. Thus, in that instant, she set her sights on topping that self-righteous Bennett girl in every evaluation.

  The goal proved more challenging than anticipated.

  As it turned out, Millie could hold her own in any aircraft the instructors threw her way. Skill-wise, she and Virginia were a relative match. “Not bad,” Virginia said to her once in passing, after Millie sailed through her flight on an AT-6. Millie paused for a beat, clearly surprised by the compliment. Her lips had just curved upward when Virginia added, “For a farm girl, that is.”

  It was a petty jab Virginia immediately regretted. But before she could say as much, Millie glared with disdain and marched away, leaving a solid barricade in her wake.

  In the months that followed, whether in the barracks, mess hall, or classroom, even waiting on the flight line, the two made a point of avoiding all contact. A running joke, Virginia heard, was that the temperature fell ten degrees whenever they inhabited the same area. Not to say Millie was overly chummy with the others. Although in cordial fashion, she invariably declined invites for any group outings: evenings at a picture show, Sunday suppers with local residents, formal dances with eager Army cadets. Evidently she preferred to stay in the barracks, alone, writing letters home or scribbling in her diary.

  Then, at the start of the fifth month, it happened: Millie Bennett failed a check.

  On a regular basis, the women were tested on their ability to fly a wide range of Army aircraft. The first failure earned a warning. A second one sent the pilot packing that very day. The thought that Millie might soon “wash out” gave Virginia a sense of satisfaction.

  Hours later, at lights-out, this was the feeling that carried Virginia off to sleep.

  It seemed mere seconds had passed when her eyes snapped open to a room draped in darkness. Unsure what had woken her, she listened closely, hearing only the soft rush of her roommates’ breaths. She rolled onto her side, adjusted her pillow, and noticed Millie’s cot stood empty.

  Just then, a sound came from the latrine, like the clearing of a person’s throat. No doubt it was a similar noise that had disturbed Virginia’s rest.

  Could Millie not manage to be quieter?

  With a grumble, Virginia flipped the other way. She closed her eyes before another sound reached out. This time it resembled a wheeze.

  Perhaps Millie suffered from asthma, an affliction Virginia recalled from a classmate in grade school. Instinct took hold and launched Virginia to her feet. She hurried into the restroom, where the glaring light forced her to squint. Through the dots in her vision she found Millie seated on the floor. The girl was hunched in a ball, forehead on the knees of her nightdress.

  Virginia knelt in a panic. “Are you having trouble breathing? Should I go fetch someone?”

  Slowly Millie raised her head. Tears streaked her face. Her breaths indeed were short but solely from sobbing. “It’s too much,” she said in a whisper. “I can’t . . . do it anymore . . .”

  Virginia surveyed the books on the floor, the manuals they had been tasked with cramming. Atop the pile was Millie’s diary, splayed open, exposing her private words. But those words were not recordings of her life. Instead, they were centered on aircrafts, from facts and formulas to sketches of instruments.

  Suddenly Virginia realized: all those evenings when the other girls hit the town, Millie had stayed to study.

  With a single month until graduation, every trainee was feeling the pressure. Of their initial class, only two-thirds remained. It was not unusual to see a pilot shedding tears from nerves or dread. Yet somehow the sight of Millie breaking down melted Virginia’s heart, and with it her defenses. The truth of the matter was, Virginia could barely remember what had prompted their grudge from the start.

  Millie wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. She released a calming exhale.

  In the silence, Virginia settled at Millie’s side and picked up a manual. The pages were dog-eared, the margins filled with notes. “Jeez, Millie, why didn’t you just tell me you needed help?”

  A dry laugh shot from Millie’s mouth.

  Virginia leveled a smile at the obvious. “Fair enough,” she said. “Why not another girl, then? You’ve seen plenty of us quizzing each other.”

  Millie reclined against the wall. Following a pause, she said, “I guess, where I come from, asking for help doesn’t come easy.”

  Virginia gave a nod. She could understand allowing pride the upper hand. It was the reason she herself had not dared, before now, to attempt a truce.

  “Where is that, anyway?” Virginia inquired.

  “Where’s what?”

  “Your hometown.” How strange that in all these months—the two of them sleeping, eating, breathing just a few yards apart—Virginia did not know even this much.

  Before speaking, Millie appeared to gauge the sincerity of the question. “Dover, Ohio. Not far from Alliance.” She added pointedly, “Where I don’t live on a farm.”

  Virginia grinned, not fighting it this time. “Yes, well. I suppose we’re both guilty of jumping to conclusions about each other. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Millie did not answer, though her chin raised and lowered just enough to pass for agreement.

  Virginia ran her fingertips over the manual in her hand, the wrinkles and curled edges. Her own manuals had fared no better. “You know, Millie, if it’s any consolation, I’m personally thankful we didn’t start off on the right foot.”

  Millie narrowed her eyes, dubious. “Why’s that?”

  “Because, more than anything else, trying to keep up with you has made me a better pilot.” And that was the honest-to-goodness truth.

  Millie digested this for a moment, and an air of confidence seeped back into her eyes. She shrugged and said, “You’re not too bad yourself.” But then clarified: “For a brainless model, that is.”

  Virginia’s smile dropped, along with her jaw, and for the first time at Avenger Field she heard Millie laugh. It was an infectious sound that caused Virginia to giggle, cut short by her recoll
ection of the other women sleeping.

  “Shhh,” Virginia said, not to stop their conversation, but to resume it in a hush. As if meeting for the first time, she wondered about the path that had led the girl here. “So, tell me, Millie Bennett, whatever made you want to fly?”

  At the sheer mention of the topic, like a flame to a wick, Millie’s face gained a glow. Her standard edge continued to soften. “There was this barnstormer,” she said. “He’d swoop over our town and burp the throttle. Folks—mostly kids—would race to the field where he’d landed. My brothers and me would all line up to pay for a ride. I was ten the first time Pop let me go up. And, well . . . I guess you could say, part of me never came down.” She seemed to catch her own sentimentality and pulled back a little. “After that, I saved every penny I could from working at my dad’s general store. When I was old enough, I hired the same barnstormer for lessons. Never thought I’d be flying for the military, though—not till Pearl Harbor, when my cousin went down with the USS California.”

  Virginia covered her mouth, taken aback. “Oh, Millie . . . that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  The memory of the tragedy played across Millie’s face. The cause of her initial attitude, her resentment toward leisurely pilots, at last gained clarity.

  “What about you?” Millie asked, either curious or diverting. “When’d you get the itch to fly?”

  Virginia had to collect her thoughts. The impetus behind her own journey paled in comparison. “It actually never occurred to me until my third year at Cornell,” she admitted, recalling the scene. “I was in the library, preparing for an exam, when I overheard a girl at the next table. She was going on and on about how the government was charging college students just forty dollars for flight lessons. But the guy she was with, he told her not to be a dimwit. That gals are meant to be stewardesses, not pilots.”

  Long before then, Virginia had been intrigued by articles about Amelia Earhart’s feats, though no more than the next person. If anything, the woman’s mysterious disappearance had served as a deterrent against following her lead. But in that moment, hearing of yet another way in which females were expected to behave, which careers were too ambitious, and how foolish it was to want for more, Virginia felt an inner fuse spark to life. Her brother, even at nine years her junior, was already viewed as a future doctor or leader by any number of guests at her family’s regular dinner parties. Virginia, on the other hand, like one of the art pieces in her parents’ Manhattan home, was a collectible to be auctioned. My, what a lovely face. What exceptional poise. No doubt a fine husband will snatch her right up!