by Janet Dailey
At first, Mary Lynn wasn’t certain she liked this brand of fun; it seemed a little too much. But gradually, as the hazing flowed from one bay of trainees to the next, she got the hang of the new game and joined in the mischief. In the last bay, she succumbed to an impish urge and turned off the cold water tap to the shower spray. Someone shouted the warning, and the fully clothed and saturated trainees managed to elude the scalding hot water that came from the shower head.
When it was over, they tramped back to their bay, laughing gleefully. Mary Lynn sprawled on her cot, mindless of the mud splattered on her slacks and caked on her shoes. She felt gloriously relaxed, all the pent-up frustrations and tensions gone.
“Did you see the way they jumped when I reached for that cold water faucet?” She laughed in remembrance and looked at Marty, one of the instigators of the night’s outing.
“It was the damndest sight I ever saw.” Marty snorted with laughter.
But it wasn’t so funny the next morning when their entire class was sternly reprimanded for their sophomoric antics. The base commanding officer announced that any future hazing of new trainees was expressly forbidden. A girl from one of the other barracks had suffered a fractured tailbone after falling on the floor when a chair had been pulled out from under her. It was too soon to know if the injury would wash her out of the program.
“My momma always told me no good ever comes out of taking pleasure from making someone else miserable,” Mary Lynn remembered, too late.
“No one was supposed to get hurt,” Marty insisted in a subdued defense of their action.
“Zero thirteen, you are cleared to land.”
Eden compressed the mike button. “Roger, FF eight one. Zero thirteen is cleared to land.”
Below the low-winged trainer, mesquite and scrub cedar dotted the ground. Eden lined up her BT-13 with the runway and adjusted her rate of descent. The ground seemed to rush up at her, blurring as she flew lower. Her wheels greased the runway, and the tingle of satisfaction she felt at the textbooksmooth landing was something that couldn’t be bought.
As she braked to make the turn onto the taxiway, a voice came over the radio. “This is Jacqueline Cochran.” Eden was instantly alert. “I’m coming in for a landing. Clear the area,” the woman’s voice ordered.
Eden taxied to the hangar, watching the sky. Planes swung out of the flight path of the stagger-winged Beechcraft approaching the field, climbing to circle at a respectful distance while the director of their women’s pilot training program made a straight-in approach.
When the plane touched down, Eden had climbed out of the cockpit and jumped to the ground. After two hours of solo work, her time in the air was finished for the day. Eden made no move to walk to the hangar, waiting instead to greet her famous commanding officer and wondering whether Jacqueline Cochran would remember their meeting at that party the previous December.
With the airfield and the skies above it virtually empty of traffic, Eden couldn’t help being amused. Long ago, she had been taught the value of making an entrance. There was no doubt that the director of the Women’s Flying Training Detachment had accomplished it in style.
The big plane taxied by her, its propeller nearly touching the concrete. After braking to a stop, the engine was cut. Eden approached the Beechcraft, unconscious of the grime on her face and the ratty pigtails of auburn hair, as the familiar blond aviatrix emerged from the cockpit.
“Hello, Miss Cochran.”
Her greeting barely rated a glance as the director headed toward the hangar. “Carry this for me.” She tossed a full-length mink coat to Eden.
Eden came to an indignant stop, stunned at being treated as some sort of servant. Outrage bubbled as she looked down at the mink coat in her arms. But she also saw the wrinkled clothes and dusty grime that covered her. She touched a hand to her absurd pigtails and broke into a laugh.
At the sound, Jacqueline Cochran slowed her steps and swung around to regard Eden with a commanding hauteur. “Do you find something amusing?”
“I just realized my own mother probably wouldn’t recognize me,” Eden replied, unabashed.
A finely drawn brow arched in question, creating a furrow in the smooth forehead. “Have we met?” she asked, then immediately broached an explanation that was polite and aloof, fitting her rank as commander. “I have interviewed many girls. I can’t be expected to remember all their faces. I’m sure you understand that.”
“Of course, Miss Cochran.” Their meeting had been memorable to Eden, but it had been merely one of a multitude for the blond aviatrix. “I’m Eden van Valkenburg. We met last December in New York at a party my parents were giving.”
“Yes, of course.” The significance of the name registered although Eden seriously doubted that Jacqueline Cochran actually remembered her.
And Eden’s social equality with her commander had little effect but to temper her supercilious attitude into something a shade more condescending. She turned and headed again toward the hangar, expecting Eden to follow, her strides long and smooth, almost leisurely compared to her previous sweeping rush.
“Tell me, Miss van Valkenburg, how are you getting along?” she asked. “Any problems or complaints?”
“No.” There was a whole list, from a leaky barracks roof to harassment by a rare few of the instructors, but Eden guessed she didn’t really want to hear about it. Still relegated to carrying the mink, she absently burrowed her fingers into the dark fur, stroking its sleek softness and savoring the almost forgotten sensation. “Besides, Miss Cochran, I’ve already learned the Army response to complaints is a very simple ‘That’s tough.’”
A low, melodic laugh came from Cochran’s throat. “How very true,” she agreed, and paused to face Eden when they reached the hangar. The smile softened her features and harked back to her southern upbringing. The look in her eyes when she studied Eden was both serious and sincere. “If you ever do have a serious problem, I want you to come directly to me. You, or any of the other girls.”
“Yes, ma’am.” But it made Eden curious about the purpose behind this visit, although she was well aware their director regularly called on the base to check on the operations. “What brings you here this time, Miss Cochran? Is it just a routine stop?”
“Not quite.” A self-satisfied gleam came into her eyes. “You girls are going to have more company. We’ll be shutting down the Houston operation and moving the entire training program here to Avenger Field. The demand for qualified pilots is outstripping the supply, and more men need to be released for combat duty, which means more women in the air. Houston doesn’t have the facilities to allow an expansion, so we’re taking over here.”
“The whole field?” Eden stared. The war. She’d almost forgotten about it. Flying, flying, all the time it was flying. The war, it was some remote thing that didn’t really mean much to her. Newspapers—who had time to read them? Oh, sure, she knew Marty got letters from her brother, a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne Division stationed in North Carolina, and Mary Lynn heard regularly from her bomber pilot husband in England. She knew it, yet it didn’t really touch her.
“The last class of Army cadets will be leaving next week, and we’ll move in—lock, stock, and airplanes.” She smiled with a hint of pride. “I can’t stress enough the important contribution you girls will be making, stepping in for the men so they can go off and fight.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take my coat.” The prodding statement snapped Eden out of her reverie.
“Of course.” Unwittingly, she had been clutching the mink so tightly in her arms that the fur was being crushed. She attempted to smooth it with a caressing stroke of her hand while she reluctantly returned it to its owner. “It’s funny. At home I have a mink stole, a mink bolero jacket, and a coat like this, but I’d almost forgotten how soft they feel.”
Jacqueline Cochran took the coat and merely smiled at the comment. “Good flying,” she said and walked away.
The ligh
t from a full moon spilled through the window of the darkened hotel room and cast a diffused glow over the interior. Colin lay in bed on his side, one arm crooked under his head on the pillow while the other rested along his length. The bedsheet covered his hips and left his chest bare, the muscled flesh gleaming pale in the moonlight.
Lying next to him, Marty broke into a mocking song, “The stahs at night … are big and bright …” She clapped her hands. “… deep in the haht of Texahs!” She had deepened her voice to mimic his earlier singing.
“Enough.” Colin clamped a hand over her mouth to smother any future mangling of the song.
Her shoulders shook with the laughter he smothered. The husky chuckles continued in her throat when she finally pulled his hand down. The sheet slipped, exposing her breasts, but Marty felt no need for false modesty with Colin. His hands and lips had fondled them often. She brought his hand down to the valley shaped by the rise of her breasts, not to be provocative, but simply because it was the natural place to let it rest.
“I can’t believe you actually sang that song to the townspeople. It took a helluva lot of nerve.” Her voice continued to croak with humor. “It’s practically been adopted as the national anthem of Texas.”
“I think they were rather pleased by our gesture,” he informed her, the corners of his mouth pulled in, suggesting a smile was lurking somewhere in warning of retribution to come.
“Oh, were they?” Marty mocked him again.
“Yes.” A warm, admiring glint appeared almost reluctantly in his eyes. “They recognized we were expressing our appreciation for the way they’ve taken us into their homes—”
“And into their beds,” Marty interrupted.
“Ah, but gentlemen don’t speak of such things.”
“How interesting.” Marty turned her head to get a better look at him. “What do gentlemen speak about?”
“Other things,” he said. He withdrew his hand from beneath the slightly pinning weight of her hands and reached up to smooth the toasted gold strands of her hair against the white pillowcase. He curled the end of a lock around his finger, testing its silkiness. “Your eyes remind me of the color of the water in the English Channel.” A certain drollness touched his mouth. “I expect I’ll be taking a dunking in it sooner or later. I’ll write and let you know if it’s the same shade up close.”
“I wish I could go in your place.” More than once when she was out flying alone, Marty had wondered what it would be like to be locked in the throes of an aerial dogfight.
But it was an experience she was denied, because she had the misfortune to be born female. She was allowed to make brief forays into the male world, but only with its permission. It had always rankled her to see how much more her brother, David, could experience and do than she could. It wasn’t fair. Right now he was in training at Fort Bragg, jumping out of airplanes as one of the “Screaming Eagles”—the 101st Airborne Division.
“I’ll bet you do.” Colin chuckled and rolled onto his back, smiling at the shadow patterns on the ceiling.
With a turning lift of her body, Marty propped herself up on one elbow, facing him. The sheet slid down to her waist. “I suppose you think I couldn’t do it.”
“You? You could probably be the Joan of Arc of the skies, the warrior maiden with wings,” Colin retorted smoothly and caught her hand, carrying it to his mouth to kiss the center of her palm. His look became slightly serious as he gazed at her. “I’m going to miss you, Marty. I didn’t expect to say that, but it’s true.”
“Please, let’s don’t get all sloppy and sentimental and spoil everything,” she urged.
“I’m not. I promise you.” He turned his lazy, smiling glance on her. “No emotional entanglements for either of us—just good friendship. But I will miss you all the same.”
She leaned down to kiss his mouth. “I’m going to miss you, too. These last weeks have been fun.”
The hanging fullness of her breasts invited the caress of his hands. Colin cupped the weight of one in his hand and rubbed his thumb back and forth across the hardening nipple.
“You’re a rare one, Marty,” he declared. “I doubt I shall ever have the good fortune to meet a woman like you again.”
“We’ve been damned good together, haven’t we?” She stroked the ridge of his shoulder with her fingers. “I’m glad we’ve had this last time together for—what shall I call it?—our farewell fuck?”
Laughter rumbled from deep within as Colin caught her by the waist and twisted her back onto the mattress while he hovered above her. A wide, laughing grin split his face.
“Has anybody ever told you that you have a definite way with words?” he chuckled. “You cut right through all the drivel and get straight to the heart of it.”
Her hands slid down his torso and under the sheets, gliding over his pelvic bones and continuing downward into the springy-nest of hairs. “In that case …” Marty peered at him through her lashes with deliberate provocation while her fingers deftly encouraged his hardening with caressing strokes. “… why has there been so much conversation tonight, and so little action?”
“Is that right?” Colin asked with a deepening smile. His hand pushed at the bend of her knee to open her legs, then he filled the opening with his body and lowered himself onto her. “Well, if it’s fucking you want, babe, it’s fucking you shall get,” he promised in a voice husky with affection and desire.
Her hand cupped the back of his head to drag his mouth down onto hers. Marty kissed him, secure in the mutual respect and admiration they shared. Theirs was a caring relationship in which neither would be hurt. Marty sought nothing deeper than that, and, for once, she had found a man who wanted the same. Yes, she would miss him.
Later, the big April moon rode high in the sky, silvering the landscape and silhouetting the two, who faced each other outside the gates to Avenger Field. Marty gazed thoughtfully into the eyes of the lanky airman.
“I probably won’t have a chance to see you again before we leave,” he said.
“I know.” There were no tears, just a twinge of regret at the necessity of parting. As there was no need for tears, there was also no need for clinging embraces or a flood of words. Yet some final gesture, some appropriate remark, some hint of contact seemed to be required. After a long minute’s pause, Marty offered him her hand. “Good flying, Colin.”
He took it, gripped it warmly, and smiled. “Same to you, Marty.”
Chapter VIII
IN STRAIGHT LINES, the column of baggy-suited trainees marched toward the flight line. Out of step, Chicago skipped to get back into stride with the others while the section marcher called out the cadence.
“Hup, two, hree, hor. Hup. Hup.”
Someone started the singing, picking out the tune to “Bell-Bottom Trousers.” It had become routine to sing while they marched. And they had a whole medley of songs to which they’d made up their own lyrics.
Zoot suits and parachutes
And wings of silver, too.
He’ ferry planes like
His mamma used to do!
While they were singing the fourth and last verse to the song, Marty noticed the formation of Army BT-13 aircraft approaching the field from the south. She missed the line about never trusting “a pilot an inch above your knee” as she watched the basic trainers peel out of formation to enter the traffic pattern.
By the time they reached the flight line, everyone in the column had noticed the outsider planes preparing to land at their field. The column broke up and waited in front of the ready room for the arriving planes.
“It must be the Houston trainees,” Cappy said, the five of them grouped together again. “I heard they were getting to fly their BTs here so they could have a taste of cross-country flying.”
“What an experience that must have been,” Marty grumbled with envy.
One by one, the planes roared in, the pilots showing off with their wheel-greasing touchdowns. “I’ll bet they think they’re someth
ing.” No one disputed Marty’s disparaging comment as the planes taxied up to the flight line and the women trainees tumbled out. They all unconsciously disassociated themselves from the arriving trainees, even though they were members of the same class, trained at different fields.
The invasion of strange faces wasn’t at all like the arrival of the new trainees a couple weeks ago. Those had been novices, underclassmen so to speak, but these women were their equals, the other half of 43-W-3- While Houston had been the site where the women’s flight training program had begun, with the very first two classes remaining there to complete their training, the Sweetwater half of the third class had been the first occupants of Avenger Field. They had a proprietary feeling toward it. Now they were expected to share it with strangers—outsiders. A sense of rivalry was inevitable.
Jimmy Ray Price, Cappy’s instructor in the basic training phase, paused alongside their group, giving them a glowering, long-jawed look. “Ya better quit gawkin’ and get yourselves into the ready room. You’re here to fly. Remember?”
Dragging their attention away from the tired but ecstatic Houston trainees greeting each other on the ground after their long flight, Cappy, Eden, Mary Lynn and Chicago filed into the ready room with the rest of their flight group. The flying side of them wanted to know what it had been like to make that cross-country trip from Houston to Sweetwater, yet there was also a matter of pride which made it difficult to admit the Houston trainees had done something they hadn’t. Besides, all the cliques were already formed, so that didn’t leave much room for outsiders.
While the Houston group went through the orientation process at Avenger Field, the Inseparables flew with their instructors, getting in more instrument practice. The new arrivals were nowhere around when they landed, but their BT-13S were parked by the hangar, evidence of their presence on the base.
They were called into formation and marched to their barracks, then dismissed. They fell out of formation in a chatter of voices, disassembling and assembling into bay groups.
