by Janet Dailey
There was no mission to fly. Tonight was merely a check ride to test their night-flying proficiencies. In a way, it was a compliment to the female pilots that they’d done so well on the tow-target missions they were now being considered for other assignments, but Eden was too conscious of the added risks to feel flattered by the commanding officer’s show of faith.
“I’d feel better if we were going up in multiengine planes. At least if an engine failed, we’d have a back-up.” It was the closest Eden could come to admitting the trepidation she felt. Accustomed all her life to the best, she still had trouble accepting the junky craft she flew.
At night, the land was shrouded in darkness, making it difficult—if not impossible—for a pilot to determine wind direction and select a safe landing site in an emergency. The airfield was surrounded by swamp, and the thought of going down in its snake-infested marsh was even more harrowing.
Rachel was never very communicative. If she shared any of Eden’s apprehensions, she kept them to herself. Taking a drag of smoke deep into her lungs, Eden guessed at a great many of Rachel’s secrets. She’d already figured out that Rachel slipped away in the evening to meet her handsome, enlisted lover. With a twinge of envy, she’d identified the look of love she had sometimes glimpsed in Rachel’s expression. Naturally, she didn’t let on that she knew about the trysts, and Rachel was hardly likely to confide in her about them.
The instructors arrived to give check rides to the group of WASPs ordered to report to the flight line. The inaction and the inability to talk about the misgivings they all shared were finally put behind them as they went about the business of checking out the individual aircraft they’d be flying. But they kept reminding themselves that male pilots had been flying these night missions all along, and they were here to replace them.
In the warm, languid air of late summer, Eden read the Form One sheet of her aircraft’s log. The only defect listed on the form was a broken seat, a very minor item in Eden’s opinion. Other than that, her plane was in good flying condition. Still, when she saw Bubba Jackson going over her A-24, it gave her added reassurance.
The lanky mechanic waited by the wing to give her a hand up while her instructor spent a last few minutes conferring with one of his colleagues. “You’re working awfully late, aren’t you?” Eden observed, smiling and aware of the strength in the hand that assisted her onto the wing. Usually, only the ground crew was around the flight line for the night missions, the mechanics long gone.
“Had to check the planes out for you ladies; make sure they were safe for you,” Bubba replied with a warm, wide smile. There was about him a generous, loving nature, sparked with an easy humor, steadied by a solid will, and tempered by an iron strength.
“No major problems?” Eden climbed into the front cockpit. Bubba followed her onto the wing and helped her get settled in the seat.
“None, not in any of them,” Bubba stated, then qualified his words. “It’s all fairly minor—broken seats like yours, static problems with radios, a sticky canopy latch, but no trouble with the engines on any of the planes.”
“Thanks,” she said and meant it. Just knowing that Bubba had checked out her plane eased her fears. She tried to tell herself that tonight would be no different from the many times they’d practiced night-flying in Sweetwater.
With a wink, Bubba slapped the metal skin of the plane in a kind of farewell pat and hopped off the wing. Her instructor took his place in the gunner’s seat. Down the shadowed row of aircraft, Eden saw the shimmer of something white, then the small silhouette of Mary Lynn crawling into the cockpit of an A-24 with the pillows which enabled her to reach the foot controls.
Engines sputtered and coughed, then revved into a steady roar. When they taxied away from the ramp, Eden followed the plane Rachel was piloting down the darkened taxi strips to the unlighted runway. She closed her canopy and made her run-ups while she awaited her turn. As soon as Rachel’s Dauntless cleared the runway, Eden started her roll, hurtling her plane down the blacked-out airstrip. It was like flying blind, relying solely on her instruments to direct her liftoff.
Airborne, they were to stay in the pattern and practice take-offs and landings from the darkened field. In order to see the dimensions of the strip, they were forced to fly low, always keeping in mind the swamp pines that loomed so close to the foot of the runway.
On her first circuit, Rachel wasted a lot of runway before setting her plane down by coming in too high, an error her instructor pointed out as she went around to try again. It was difficult to distinguish the long, black shapes of the camp buildings below, but one of them was the barracks that housed Zach. The thought of him stabbed into her concentration, bringing a momentary break in focus—and a smile to her lips.
“Bring it in low this time, Goldman,” her instructor advised from the rear gunner’s seat. “You can’t see where the runway starts if you come in like a cautious old woman.”
“Yes, sir.” She bridled at the slur of female timidity and aggressively attacked the pattern, swooping down to make her approach.
In the changing colors of darkness, the runway lay before her, a wide swath of gray-black. With all her concentration focused on setting up the A-24 for a turn down the center of the strip, Rachel failed to see the trees rushing up to meet her. Suddenly the plane was jolted, the wheels snagged by the treetops.
Rachel heard a cry, but didn’t recognize it as her own. There was barely time to brace herself as the Dauntless tumbled forward, nosing for the ground. On impact, there was a wrenching tear of metal, a violent jarring that bounced her from side to side. When the crashing, crunching noise stopped, it was a dazed instant before Rachel realized she was still alive.
Then she saw it—the leap of yellow flame from the engine, a searching serpent’s tongue, flicking and darting and disappearing, only to show itself again. Terror sucked at her throat. Her fingers tugged frantically at the buckle to free herself from the seat, then turned their efforts on the canopy.
GET OUT!
She jerked at it, but the latch was stuck. Panic flashed through her mind as she remembered the Form One sheet had warned the canopy could only be opened from the outside. The fire blossomed into a roar, sweeping back from the engine while Rachel screamed and beat on the mullioned canopy.
GET OUT!!
She clawed at the latch in a frenzied attempt to escape as the yellow flames swirled through the cockpit. The fire trapped her inside its searing net, and rolled her up inside its life-snatching heat.
On her downwind leg, Eden saw Rachel’s plane shudder to a stop in midair, hang there for interminable seconds, then topple into the swamp at the edge of the field. The impact snapped it in two, separating the front cockpit from the gunner’s seat. She saw the yellow tongues of flame lick over the engine as it caught fire.
The landing pattern took her directly over the burning wreckage. In horror, she looked at the scene below her. Time and space seemed to stand still, hovering, while she heard Rachel’s screams and watched the figure in the blazing cockpit make a last desperate attempt to push open the canopy before the fire consumed her.
Then she’d flown past, the screams ringing in her ears and the sight of a fiery figure, arms, legs, and body all aflame, emblazoned in her mind. Afterwards, Eden didn’t remember landing the plane or taxiing it to the flight line.
One of the first things she did upon landing was to open the canopy of her A-24 and drink in great globs of air. Distantly she heard the wail of sirens as rescue trucks and fire engines raced to the crash site. She was sweating, but she felt cold and shivery.
Vaguely she became aware that someone was calling her name. Still encapsulated in a kind of dazed shock, she became aware of someone standing on the wing outside her cockpit. He reached in to switch off the engine and shut down the systems.
“Eden.” Bubba’s strong, wide face was close to hers, examining it in the night’s darkness. “Are you all right?” In the strain of the moment, Bubba had drop
ped the formality of “ma’am.”
The deep caring and concern she saw in his anxious expression broke the paralysis of shock. “I saw it, Bubba. I saw it all.” Her gaze clung to his big-jawed face. “She hit the trees.”
“I know.” He was very matter-of-fact as he urged her out of the cockpit. “Come on.”
Mechanically, she climbed from the plane. Her instructor was on the ground, but she paid little mind to him. It was Bubba she turned to as she tried to shake off the dazed terror that gripped her. The instructor hovered uncertainly until Bubba indicated he should leave.
“I’ll look after her. They’ll probably want you in operations,” he said quietly and kept a hand on Eden. In an absent gesture, she took off her scarf and let her shiny auburn hair tumble free, as if releasing it would rid her of the dreadful images.
“I could hear her screaming,” she told Bubba in a flat voice as the instructor moved away. “The engine caught fire. She couldn’t get the canopy open and—” She couldn’t get the rest of it out, the horror of it too much for speech.
“My God,” Bubba said, softly at first, then in a clearer, flatter voice. “My God.” He remembered the canopy with the faulty latch that could only be opened from the outside.
“Bubba, it was awful,” she said with a sob.
When his arm circled her shoulders, she gratefully turned into his body and buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder. He held her tightly against his lanky frame, absorbing the violent shudders that racked her body. His low, softly drawled voice murmured near her ear, dulling the memory of those terrifying shrieks while he suffered pangs of remorse and guilt. “If only I had …” but he hadn’t.
The night was a din of noise—the strident wail of an ambulance, the shrill sirens of fire trucks, and the roaring engines of other planes landing and taxiing back to the flight line. The check rides had come to an abrupt end; the planes landed on the air strip one after another. Eden stayed hidden in the shadows of her plane and isolated in the island of Bubba’s arms.
“I didn’t even like her,” she said in an odd mixture of guilt and regret.
“Shh.” He cupped his hand to the back of her head and pressed it more tightly to his shoulder while he gently rocked her.
By the time the fire trucks could put out the fire, Rachel’s body was charred beyond recognition. In fate’s strange way of working, her instructor had been thrown clear of the fire-engulfed front section. The ambulance whisked him away.
Within minutes of the crash and the first shriek of sirens, word of the accident swept through the Army barracks. Zach joined the cluster of soldiers outside his bay and stared at the odd light reflected in the sky.
Nearly all party invitations in Washington, D.C., included instructions on which bus to take. Mitch Ryan, however, had a military vehicle at his disposal, a mark of his status regardless of his rank.
When they reached the exclusive Washington suburb of Chevy Chase, Mitch had no difficulty locating the manor-sized home. Lights blazed from virtually every window of the two-and-a-half-story structure, throwing long, rectangular streamers into the night, sometimes spotlighting glimpses of the partying crowd beyond the sheer drapes. Cappy couldn’t help regarding it as an extravagant display.
“Will they let me in like this?” she asked when he left the vehicle parked in the drive. Mitch ran a quick glance over her uniform of tan slacks and white shirt, a tan boat-shaped cap sitting atop her midnight-dark hair. Women in slacks were still frowned on in a great many circles.
“We’re at war. It would be unpatriotic to turn away an officer in uniform,” he returned glibly. Then he assured her, “We won’t be staying long—whatever time it takes to make my presence known—then we’ll go off by ourselves.”
“Okay.” Even though she was stationed close by, flying out of a base on the outskirts of Washington, she’d only been out with Mitch on two occasions since starting her new assignment almost two weeks before. Each time she found herself looking forward to seeing him more and more.
The hectic pace of wartime Washington made it socially acceptable for guests to arrive in street clothes or office garb. But Cappy’s uniform slacks did succeed in raising a few blasé eyebrows. However, the plethora of military uniforms, especially field grades, took much of the strangeness out of her appearance.
Caterers circled the rooms with trays of drinks balanced on their hands. Cappy was holding a glass within minutes of entering the house. Either there weren’t any shortages in Chevy Chase or the black market was the popular shopping place, she decided, upon seeing the silver platters of canapés and hors d’oeuvres, which were not only plentiful but also stuffed with an array of meats rarely obtainable.
While Mitch squired her through the noisy, laughing clusters of guests, Cappy quietly observed the avidly gossiping crowd, spreading the latest rumors. This scene was all too familiar to Cappy, the currying of favor and the back-stabbing. She’d seen all these games played; she’d seen the advancements and promotions that had nothing to do with merit.
She had become so inured to the sight of Army uniforms that she almost didn’t notice the gold stars adorning the shoulders of the officer now receiving Mitch’s respectful attention. Then she heard Mitch introduce her and the broadly smiling general turned an interested glance on her.
“WASP Hay ward, at last I have the pleasure of meeting you.” He warmly clasped her hand, the gleam in his eye hinting at the many things he’d heard about her. The glance he sent Mitch revealed the source.
“You’re very kind, General Arnold.” She inclined her head to him, respectful of his rank but unawed by it. Protocol and pettiness too often walked hand in hand. She was well schooled in the ways of paying lip service to rank. “Please forgive my less-than-feminine appearance,” she said, drawing attention to the gabardine pants tailored to her slim hips and long legs. “But I’m afraid I came straight from the flight line.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he replied easily. “I’d wager half the women at this party wished they looked as attractive as you do in slacks.”
“Now you are being gallant, General,” Cappy demurred with practiced ease.
His chuckle held approval as he glanced at Mitch. “No wonder you’re so taken with this young lady. She’d be an asset to any man.”
“That’s always supposing I would want to be,” she murmured. Pride straightened her shoulders and lifted her head as she gave him the full strike of her gaze. She refused to exist in a man’s shadow the way her mother did.
On an amused intake of breath, the general glanced again at Mitch. “The trouble with letting women wear pants is getting them to take them off.” His attention returned to Cappy. “You’re Lieutenant Colonel Hayward’s daughter, aren’t you? He’s a crack polo player, I’ve heard.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He must be very proud of you,” General “Hap” Arnold remarked.
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” Her smile was reserved as she turned military on him, clipped and opinionless.
An aide approached and discreetly called the commanding general of the Army Air Forces aside. The content of the whispered message caused a frown to furrow the general’s wide forehead. He looked soberly from Cappy to Mitch, lingering on the latter as if he had half a mind to call him away, too.
“Excuse me, I … have a phone call. You’ll be around for a while yet, won’t you, Major?” The polite inquiry was an indirect order to remain.
“Yes, sir.” Mitch confirmed with a small nod of his head. “We’ll be here.”
“Good.”
After the general had gone off to some private room to take the phone call, Cappy sipped at her drink and surveyed the gaggle of guests over the rim of her glass. “I thought you said we wouldn’t be staying long,” she mockingly reminded Mitch.
“I’d like to think you’re complaining because you want to be alone with me.”
“Maybe I do.” When she turned to look at him fully, her eyes were big and blue, d
emanding in their keen brilliance.
“What do you want from me, Cappy?” There were many meanings to his question, but Mitch knew she’d pick the one that suited her, as usual.
This time she surprised him. “I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that lately, too.”
It was a subject he would have preferred to pursue, but the party made it impossible. Someone came up to speak to him and the conversation was sidetracked. They became caught up in the social chatter of the war, the endless talk and speculation and the hinted-at secrets.
Twenty minutes later, Cappy observed the general’s return. He was an imposing figure, solidly packed and vigorous as he moved through the room, always in their direction. The congenial smile that came so readily to his lips seemed distant and preoccupied, an automatic response while more serious matters dominated his mind. He stopped when he reached them and looked at Mitch, a serious light in his hazel-colored eyes.
“Would you excuse us for a moment?” The perfunctory request was addressed to Cappy as General Arnold drew Mitch aside.
No response was expected from her beyond an agreeing nod while she pretended to focus her attention elsewhere and not listen to the words spoken in undertones. But when Cappy heard “WASP” and “crash” mentioned, followed by the location, “Camp Davis,” she did the unforgivable—she intruded.
“Whose plane crashed?” she demanded and watched the general’s thin lips come together to hold back the information. Impatience and agitation swept across her features, writing an unbearable tension and strain all over her expression. “I heard you say a WASP crashed at Camp Davis in North Carolina. Please, I have friends there.”
“Sorry, sir,” Mitch muttered and tried to silence Cappy with a look as he reached for her arm to lead her away.
“No.” She refused to be removed, aware that her actions were attracting the unwanted attention of those around them. A false calm steadied her. “General, you did say a WASP crashed. Who? Was she … hurt?”
