Silver Wings, Santiago Blue

by Janet Dailey

  Cappy tucked the ends of her loosely knotted long wool scarf inside her coat and reached for the doorknob. “Goodbye, Mother,” she said.

  Outside, Cappy paused a moment on the stoop, then walked carefully down the snow-shoveled steps to the sidewalk. The visit had turned out almost the way she had expected it would. She had anticipated her father’s anger, his lack of understanding. She breathed in the cold, sharp air and started off.

  With head down, she turned at the juncture of the main sidewalk and walked in the direction of the bus stop. At the crunch of approaching footsteps in the snow, she lifted her glance and tensed at the sight of the Army officer in a long winter coat—Major Mitchell Ryan.

  “Hello.” His breath billowed in a gray, vaporous cloud as he smiled at her in puzzlement. “Am I too late? I thought the Major told me dinner would be at six this evening.” It was typical of her father to invite the bachelor major to dinner without mentioning it to her. She had been foolish enough to go out on a few dates with him after her father had introduced them. Now both of them seemed to believe Mitch Ryan had some sort of proprietary rights over her.

  Cappy reluctantly stopped to speak to him. Dusk was gathering, sending lavender shadows across the white townscape. She looked out across the snow-covered lawns and bushes rather than meet the narrowed probe of his dark eyes. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not staying for dinner. Father and I had a falling-out over my decision to join the training program for women pilots.”

  “General Arnold’s new little project. Yes, I remember you mentioned it to me.” His head was inclined in a downward angle while he studied her closed expression. “There is some skepticism toward it.”

  “I’ve been accepted.” She tilted her head to squarely meet his gaze, since he was a head taller than her five-foot-seveninch height. The rich brown shade of his eyes had a velvet quality, and there always seemed to be something vaguely caressing about the way he looked at her, a definitely disconcerting trait—all the more reason to stay clear of him now that these last few months had shown her she could like him. Major Mitchell Ryan was career Army.

  “Are you going?” His eyes narrowed faintly.

  “I report to Avenger Field in Sweetwater, Texas, next week.” She started walking and Mitch Ryan swung around to fall in step with her, the wool Army coat flopping heavily against his long legs. Like Cappy, he looked straight ahead.

  “For how long?”

  “Twenty-six weeks, if I make it the full distance.”

  “What then?”

  “Then I’ll be assigned to the Air Transport Command, I expect, ferrying planes around the country,” she said.

  “And where, exactly, does that leave us, Cap?” His head turned in her direction, the bill of his officer’s hat pointing down.

  “I wasn’t aware there was any ‘us.’” Her mouth was becoming stiff with the cold, but it seemed to match her mood.

  His leather-gloved hand caught her arm, stopping Cappy and turning her to face him. “Don’t go.” He held her gaze, their frosty breaths mingling.

  “Why?”

  The line of his mouth became grimly straight. He was struggling to conceal the frustration and annoyance he was feeling. “Surely the Major advised you of the negative image associated with women and the military.”

  “Yes, I heard the whole lecture, but this happens to be a civilian group.” She stayed rigid in the grip of his hands.

  “I suppose I can’t change your mind about going.” The muscles along his jaw stood out in hard ridges.

  “No,” Cappy replied evenly, without rancor. How many times had she seen Mitch since her father had introduced them three months ago? A half-dozen times maybe, but no more. Yet she must have turned down thrice that many invitations from him. Her rejection only seemed to add to his determination. It was just as well she was leaving before his persistence wore her down and she became involved with him despite her better judgment.

  Through the thickness of her winter coat, she could feel his fingers digging into her arms. “There’s a war on, Cappy.”

  “Washington is loaded with man-starved girls. You aren’t going to miss me for long, Mitch. Not in this town.” The approaching rumble of a bus was a welcome intrusion on a scene that was becoming very uncomfortable to Cappy. “Here comes my bus, Major. I won’t have a chance to see you again, so we might as well say goodbye to each other now. It’s been fun.”

  He flicked an impatient glance toward the oncoming bus, then brought his attention back to her face. “Fun. Is that all it’s been to you?”

  “Yes.”

  For an instant longer, his dark gaze bored into her while his mouth tightened. With a roughness he’d never shown her before, Mitch dragged her closer and bent her head backwards with the force of his kiss. It was hard and short, briefly choking off her breath. When he abruptly released her, Cappy gave him a stunned look.

  “Go,” Mitch ordered roughly with a jerk of his head toward the braking bus.

  “That achieved nothing, Mitch.” The tactic was so typically military—to overpower and control. Cappy wanted him to know it had failed. He might be like her father, but she was not like her mother.

  “Then there’s nothing to keep you here, is there?” The hard gleam in his eye challenged her.

  Behind her, the bus crunched to a full stop next to the snow-mounded curb. Cappy hesitated only a split second. Long ago she had resolved not to let herself be open to hurt. It was better to know what she wanted. In the long run, it would spare her a lot of pain and heartache. She waved for the bus to wait for her and left him standing in the snow.

  The clickety-clack of the iron wheels clattered in the background as Cappy gazed at the Texas buttes to the south. They were the only landmarks in an otherwise monotonous landscape of mesquite and dull red earth beneath a gray sky. Yet she observed it all with a controlled eagerness.

  There was a movement in her side vision, followed by an outburst of raucous laughter. Cappy let her attention stray from the dust-coated train window to the group of servicemen at the front of the car. It was a motley assortment of passengers on board, weighted heavily on the side of soldiers either heading home on leave or reporting for duty.

  Everybody was going somewhere. It had been that way for over a year—ever since Pearl Harbor. Cappy glanced at the family from the Arkansas hills, seated across the aisle from her. The woman and her three children were on their way to California. She had confided to Cappy earlier in the journey that her husband had “gotten hisself a right fine job at one of those aeroplane plants.” Cappy had surmised from the woman’s wide-eyed look of wonder that he was making more money than his family had seen at one time before.

  “Momma, I’m hongry.” The oldest child made the hushed comment which carried to Cappy’s hearing. The girl looked to be about seven although the mother didn’t appear to be much older than Cappy’s twenty-two years.

  Cappy’s head bobbed slightly with the rocking sway of the train while she observed the family with idle curiosity. For all the woman’s apparent inexperience of the world, the blue eyes above those hollow, boned cheeks possessed a knowledge of life’s more basic realities.

  The woman removed a wax-paper-wrapped sandwich from the satchel at her feet without disturbing the toddler sleeping on her lap. The middle child, a five-year-old boy, stared at the sandwich with big eyes, but didn’t say a word. When the woman pulled the sandwich into two more-or-less equal halves, the older child made a faint sound of protest.

  “Now, Addie, you share this with your little brother,” the woman admonished with a warning look that silenced the girl, but Cappy noticed the resentful glance she gave the boy.

  The sandwich didn’t appear worthy of a fight. The thick slices of bread almost hid the thin slice of cheese trapped between them, yet the children ate it slowly, savoring every mouthful, and carefully picking up any crumb that fell. The woman bent across the sleeping child again to rummage through the satchel, and this time came up with a small, sl
ightly withered-looking apple. As she straightened, she noticed Cappy watching her. She darted a quick, self-conscious glance at the apple in her hand.

  “Would ya care fer an apple?” the woman offered hesitantly. “They’re right sweet ones growed from our own tree in the back yard. They kept real fine in the cave this winter.”

  “Thank you, no.” Cappy noticed the faint show of relief in the woman’s expression. “I’m getting off at the next stop.”

  Cheese sandwiches that were more bread than cheese, old and wrinkled apples—Cappy mentally shook her head in a kind of wry pity. She couldn’t recall ever eating plain bread and cheese in her life. Army life had insulated her from much of the Great Depression. Food had always been plentiful in her family, purchased at PX prices. They had never lacked for anything.

  A man in a Marine uniform approached, deliberately catching her eye. He paused by the aisle chair next to the window seat she occupied and braced his feet against the rock of the train.

  “Anyone sitting here?” He indicated the vacant aisle seat.

  Cappy gave a negative shake of her head. “Help yourself.” Such advances had occurred so many times during her long train ride, they had acquired a certain monotony. As the young Marine dropped into the seat, she asked, “Are you heading home on leave or on your way back?”

  “Reporting for duty in California,” he said. “Rumor has it we’ll be shipping out in a few weeks. Destination—some ‘nowhere’ in the Pacific.” His mouth twisted in a rueful grimace, intended to elicit sympathy.

  “Somebody has to go, I guess.” Her sidelong glance mocked his pity-me look.

  He laughed shortly, unsure whether she was joking or making fun of him. He eyed her, faintly puzzled by the aloof poise she maintained, so at odds with the vibrant image of her long dark hair, curled at the ends, and her vivid blue eyes.

  “My name’s Andrews, Benjamin T. Ben to my friends.” He tried to smile. Usually the uniform did the trick for him with girls but he could tell she wasn’t at all impressed by it.

  “Hayward, Cappy.” She mimicked his military phrasing.

  “Cappy, eh.” He seemed to search for a topic that would give him control of the conversation. “Well, where are you bound … Cappy?”

  The clackety-clack of the train became louder as the connecting door between the passenger cars was opened. The conductor entered and started down the aisle. “Swee-eetwater! Next stop, Swee-eetwater!” He made the rhythmic announcement as he walked through the car.

  “This is where I leave you–Avenger Field, Sweetwater,” Cappy said to the Marine and glanced briefly out the window. The flat-topped mesas to the south that had dominated the landscape since Abilene were gone. All she could see now was flatly undulating country beneath a gray and bleak sky.

  The train began to slow as it reached the outskirts of the Texas town. Another young woman in the front of the passenger coach stood when Cappy did and took her suitcase from the overhead rack. Their glances met across the heads of the other passengers, and recognition flashed between them—recognition of the shared purpose for which they’d traveled to this west Texas town.

  “I’ll get that for you.” The Marine reached for the blue suitcase bearing Cappy’s initials and lowered it down.

  “Thanks, I can manage.” She started to take it from him, but he eluded the attempt.

  “No doubt you can,” he agreed with a rare show of humor that put them on equal footing. “But my mom taught me to carry heavy things for a lady.”

  Unexpectedly liking him, Cappy shrugged and laughed. “Suit yourself.” They made their way to the end of the coach with Cappy gripping each passing seat-back to retain her balance against the slowing lurch of the train. The grinding screech of the brakes put an end to any further conversation as the train rumbled to a stop. “Good luck to you, Ben.” She stuck out a friendly hand to say goodbye to him.

  “Yeah.” He looked at her hand for a second, then at her face, and leaned forward to plant a kiss on her surprised lips. Grinning, he handed her the suitcase. “A fella never knows if he’ll get another chance to kiss a pretty girl.”

  Cappy smiled widely. “Liar,” she mocked the trite sentiment, as a barrage of wolf whistles rose from the other servicemen in the car.

  Wartime had a crazy effect on people, a fact she had noticed before. It became an excuse for them to throw aside convention and do what they pleased—and they usually did.

  The door opened and Cappy turned to leave. Her glance locked with the other girl also waiting to disembark. There was a bold and reckless quality about her—an earthy zest. Cappy had a distinct feeling this girl would do anything on a dare. About the same height as Cappy, maybe an inch shorter, she had sand-colored hair, bobbed short into a mass of loose curls that needed little attention, and her eyes were an unusual gray-green, very frank in their gaze.

  The conductor took their luggage and carried it down the steps. He left it sitting on the platform of the Texas and Pacific train depot and came back to give them a hand down. A raw wind lashed at their cheeks as Cappy followed the other girl. She looked down the track, but no one else had gotten off the train. All the townspeople seemed to have been chased inside by the blustery wind of this gray, February day. Their glances met again as they reclaimed their respective suitcases.

  “I heard you tell that private you were bound for Avenger Field.” The girl’s voice had a pleasant rasp to it, husky and warm, yet as bold as she was. “Since we’re both going to the same place, we might as well share that lone taxi.” She nodded in the direction of a navy-blue sedan that had just driven up to the train station.

  “Why not?” Cappy couldn’t argue with the practical suggestion.

  The numbing wind chased away idle chit-chat and hurried them both to the waiting taxi. The driver stepped out, his collar turned up, a cowboy hat pulled low over his forehead. He angled his body into the wind while he took their suitcases.

  “Reckon you two are wantin’ to go to Avenger Field with the rest of those females,” he surmised, sizing them up with an all-seeing glance while he juggled their luggage and opened the trunk.

  “That’s right,” came the whiskey-rough reply as the girl didn’t wait around for the car door to be opened for her, but bolted into the rear seat. Cappy followed and shut the door. Finally sheltered from the bitter wind, the long and lanky girl suppressed a shudder. “It’s cold out there. I always thought Texas was warm,” she grumbled.

  “Texas is infamous for its ‘blue northers.’” Cappy opened her purse and removed a cigarette from a pack. “Want one?”

  “No thanks.” Gray-green eyes were on her as the match was struck and the flame held to the tip of the cigarette. “Are you from Texas?”

  “No, but I’ve lived here.” Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Cappy settled into her corner of the back seat. “My name’s Cappy Hayward, by the way.”

  “Marty Rogers, from Detroit, Michigan.”

  “My last address was Washington, D.C.” She flipped open the car’s ashtray, glancing at the driver when he slid behind the wheel. “I’m an Army brat, so—you name it, I’ve lived there.”

  When the taxi pulled away from the depot, the Rogers girl leaned forward to ask the driver, “How far is it to the field?”

  “Not far.” He shrugged as if to indicate the distance was of little import and not worth his time figuring.

  “A couple of miles.” Cappy supplied the information she had gleaned from inquiries within the Army system.

  “How do you know? Have you been to this air base before?”

  “Actually it isn’t a military air base. It’s a municipal field converted to military use to train pilots.” She took a drag on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke while she added, “The town named it Avenger Field last year—to train pilots to ‘avenge’ the attack on Pearl Harbor.”

  “You’re a veritable fountain of information. I thought I’d done well merely locating Sweetwater on a Texas map.” The husky gravel of her voice had a
taunting pitch of self-mockery, a wry humor always lurking somewhere to poke fun at something.

  “We had some British flyboys out there. Last of ‘em left last summer.” The driver volunteered the information, tossing it over his shoulder to his passengers in the back seat. “Got some American boys out there now,” he told them in a voice that was thick with the local twang.

  “They only have a few more weeks before they finish their training. Then, rumor has it, Avenger Field will be strictly female.” Cappy sensed the questioning look and acknowledged it. “I did some checking after I received my telegram from Jacqueline Cochran ordering me to report here. Only half of our class will be training at Avenger Field. The other half is reporting to Howard Hughes Field in Houston.”

  The taxi had already passed the last buildings on the edge of town. From the little she’d seen of Sweetwater, it hadn’t struck Marty Rogers as being a place filled with action, whereas Houston at least conjured up images of a big town. Oh, well, she decided with a mental shrug, she had come here to fly, not to party. A good thing, too, because about all she saw out the window was a heavy gray sky and a lot of desolate country.

  “I don’t care. I just want to fly,” Marty asserted a little more strongly than was necessary.

  “Don’t we all,” Cappy murmured and stabbed out the fire in her cigarette.

  “I suppose your father’s a pilot in the Air Corps.”

  “He has a desk job in Washington. He’s been posted to the Pentagon—the new building in Washington they built to house the military command. He flies, but strictly for his own pleasure.”

  “Is that how you learned?”

  “Yes.” Cappy didn’t elaborate on her answer to the first truly personal question put forth. She could have told this Rogers woman that her father now rued the day he’d ever taught her to fly. Sharing information was one thing, but giving confidences to strangers—“telling all” in the space of five minutes—was another.

  Over the years, she had lost count of the number of new homes she’d lived in, new towns, new friends—the pathetic eagerness to be liked. She had made the mistake of confiding things about herself to those she thought were new-found friends only to have them blab it all over school. She’d learned the hard way to keep things to herself-problems, fears, and desires. It was better to be self-sufficient; then people couldn’t hurt you.