by Janet Dailey
“No, Miss Cochran.” Eden wasn’t impressed by that ambiguous offer. “We won’t discuss it. I either have my transfer or I resign. It doesn’t matter whether you accept it or not. If I walk off this base, what will you do? Have me arrested? That might make for some unpleasant publicity—and believe me, I’ll make a scene.”
“That sounds distinctly like a threat.”
Mary Lynn spoke up, “Our leaving is not going to affect the experiment here. We have proven we can fly tow-target missions. Our record is excellent. No army expects a soldier to remain on the front line for the entire war, Miss Cochran. Our request for a transfer is not unreasonable under the circumstances.”
“That is a valid argument,” the Director of Women Pilots conceded.
“Does that mean you’ll grant our requests for transfer?” Eden wanted a more definite response.
“I’ll take them under advisement and see what can be arranged. You’ll hear from me.” She retreated behind the desk, in effect dismissing them.
Eden stood, but didn’t leave the office. “When?”
With a trace of impatience and grudging admiration, Jacqueline Cochran replied, “Within the week.”
They filed out of the office, not pausing until they were outside the operations building. The Carolina air on that December day was cold and damp, the sky overhead gray and leaden. They halted to zip their jackets against the seeping chill.
“What do you think?” Mary Lynn asked.
“She doesn’t have a choice,” Eden replied complacently. “We’ll get our transfers to the ferrying division.”
A dismal, drenching downpour saturated the Carolina ground. Eden picked her way across the winter grass, taking a shortcut to the barracks, her boots squishing through the mud. She darted inside, dripping water in a trail that followed her down the narrow corridor to Mary Lynn’s private cubicle.
“Mail call!” Out of breath and barely able to contain her excitement, she whipped several envelopes from beneath her rain slicker and shoved them at Mary Lynn, who was curled on her cot in the midst of her Christmas writing. “Open this one first.” Eden indicated an official-looking envelope and watched with bright, shining eyes as Mary Lynn tore at the flap with her finger. “New orders, right?” she guessed.
At first glance, Mary Lynn nodded affirmatively while she read a little farther. “Yes.”
“Mine came, too.” Solid triumph put a steady gleam into her dark brown eyes. “Can you think of a better Christmas present than getting transferred out of this place?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Where are they sending you?”
“To the Sixth Ferrying Group in Long Beach, California.”
“Same here,” Eden said with some surprise, and sank onto the cot in front of Mary Lynn. Satisfaction radiated across her features. “I can hardly wait to enjoy some of that California sunshine. This constant gray gloom is depressing.”
Mary Lynn’s glance fell on another envelope and recognized Beau’s familiar scrawl. “It’s from Beau,” she said, offering an unnecessary explanation as she eagerly ripped it open and skimmed the first few paragraphs. His letters were always read many times. “Listen to this.” In a quick recap of the letter’s opening paragraphs she explained, “Beau was on a raid and lost two engines. He was forced to land at an RAF base. But listen to this part. ‘They told me luck had run out for the old girl and she was destined to be scrapped for spare B-17 parts,’” she read. “‘I went to have a last look at her. Some fighter pilots were standing around. One came over and started talking to me. It turns out that he knows you.’” Mary Lynn stopped reading to tell Eden the astounding news. “It was Colin Fletcher! Can you imagine? He and Beau are having dinner over the Christmas holidays, he said. At least he won’t be alone at Christmas.” She released an excited sigh. “Won’t Marty be surprised when I write and tell her about Colin!”
An agreeing sound came from Eden, but she looked absent and preoccupied. The wet hood of her rain slicker had fallen to the back of her head. Wispy tendrils of damp, dark copper hair curled along her temples. Her dark eyes were troubled.
“Is something wrong, Eden?” Mary Lynn inquired even though the redhead hadn’t shown an inclination to confide in her in the past.
A heavy sigh broke from her lips. “Finally we have transfers that will take us out of these awful planes and away from this miserable weather—something I’ve wanted for months—and now I don’t want to go.” Eden pushed herself to her feet on that impatient declaration, half angry. “I don’t want to leave Bubba.” She hung her head for a dejected instant, then darted a proudly assertive look at Mary Lynn. “I’m crazy about that man.”
Hooded and coated once again to keep out the cold, dripping the rain that misted the field from low-hanging clouds, Eden splashed through the puddled water collecting on the concrete apron around the hangars. She ran with her head down and her shoulders hunched against the bone-damp chill. The massive hangar doors were shut against the inclement weather and Eden ran to a small side door, quickly rushing in out of the drizzling rain.
Pausing inside, she pushed the slicker hood to the back of her head and scanned the cavernous interior. The light patter of rain drummed a thousand finger-tappings on the corrugated metal of the hangar’s roof. All sound echoed in the empty hollow of the building—the clank of metal tools, the idle call of male voices, and the thud of walking feet on the concrete floor. The humid, heavy air smelled strongly of gasoline fumes, motor oils, and grease from the disemboweled planes parked inside.
In her second sweep of the hangar, Eden spied Bubba’s long, lanky figure in loose-fitting overalls, standing by a workbench along the near wall. She walked immediately toward him, her step quickening. The soft-wrapped package stowed under her raincoat for protection from the elements made a rustling sound as she moved, but it was mostly drowned by the wet swish of her slicker.
With his concentration centered on the valve lifter in his hand, Bubba failed to hear her approach. At the last minute, the sound of her footsteps reached him and his keen hazel eyes looked her way. His wide, intelligent features immediately glowed with pleasure.
“Hello.” The drawled greeting managed to convey a host of caresses. They had learned to do this—to touch and feel each other with words and looks, to mentally make love while abstaining from contact.
There was an excited quiver in the pit of her stomach. “Hello.” Her dark gaze searched his face for an anxious second. “My transfer came through.”
The soft expression on his face suddenly hardened. His oil-grimed fingers fiddled with the lifter. “Are you going?” His tone was an attempt to sound offhand, yet under it was deep, painful alarm.
“It’s what I’ve wanted,” Eden reminded him and watched him for some sign that he would insist that she stay.
“Yep,” Bubba agreed to that.
“They’re sending me to Long Beach … in California.” Another mechanic paused at the workbench to pick up a tool, and Eden waited until he was out of earshot before continuing. “There isn’t any reason why you can’t ask for a transfer.”
Bubba breathed out a sound that dismissed the thought. “My C.O. has made it real plain that he isn’t going to approve any such thing. I’m needed here.” His pause was short. “Besides, I’ve been told if I leave this camp, it’s likely to be for the Pacific. That’s where they’re usin’ so many of these dive-bombers.”
“Not the Pacific.” That suggestion brought a cold chill down her spine. “The Japanese scare me.” In a diversionary gesture, she brought forth the package that had been protectively hidden inside her coat, and offered it to Bubba. She wanted to remind him of the continuing patterns of life that war couldn’t change. “It’s your Christmas present. I didn’t know when I might have another chance to give it to you before I left.”
Self-consciously, Bubba wiped at the grime on his hands before he took the tissue-wrapped package from her, glancing around to see who might be watching.
“What is it?” h
e asked with a vague, boyish smile lifting his lip corners. He was trying to respond to Eden’s gift-giving spirit, but not too successfully.
“Silk pajamas … from Saks.” She’d guessed at the size, then had Ham pick them out for her in New York and send them to her. It had all required considerable time, effort, and expense. Her dark eyes glowed with anticipation, awaiting his look of surprise and pleasure.
His brows arched high, taken aback. As always when he was in an awkward situation, Bubba retreated into a thick drawl and a country-boy pose. “I haven’t worn pajamas since I was a pup,” he joked. “What do you aim for me to do with these?”
“You were so embarrassed about having nothing on when Ida Mae brought the breakfast tray in, I thought you should have something to wear the next time a maid brought you breakfast in bed,” Eden replied easily, warmed by the memory of that weekend.
His wide, raw-boned features grew grimly smooth and serious. “But there aren’t any maids in my house, Eden,” he pointed out with quiet pride.
Laughing, she didn’t hear that underlying note. “But there are in mine.”
On the day they left Camp Davis, Eden wangled a driver and jeep from the motor pool to take her and Mary Lynn to the train station. When the Army private picked them up at the nurses’ barracks, she ordered him to stop at the flight line. No explanation was offered to the driver and Mary Lynn needed none. She sympathized with Eden’s desire to see Bubba one last time.
As the jeep rolled up to the hangar area, Bubba spotted them and came trotting over to meet them. His work cap was reversed, the bill pointing down the back of his head, and he wore a wide smile at the sight of Eden. In between wipes of his greasy hands on a rag, he gave the two of them a careless salute.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, conscious of the eavesdropping private behind the wheel.
“We just came by for one last look before we left,” Eden replied, smiling too.
“The boys on the ground are gonna miss you. The place won’t be the same with you gone,” Bubba said.
“We’ll miss you.”
The weight of parting lay heavily between them as their smiles faded. They looked at each other with undisguised longing, memorizing details for the lonely times ahead. Mary Lynn ached for them, understanding the conflict between the love and the sense of duty they each felt.
Bubba finally broke the contact, lowering his chin and turning his head aside, and resumed the wiping of his hands. “I guess you’d better be on your way before you miss that train.” He stepped away from the side of the jeep and stood well clear of its path. “Good flying.”
“Take care of yourself, Sergeant,” Mary Lynn offered, aware that Eden was too choked up to say anything.
Her attempt at a salute became a tearful wave, but only Mary Lynn noticed. Except for the wetness in her eyes, Eden’s poise was otherwise intact. As she ordered the private to drive on, someone in the hangar yelled for Bubba. Her last glimpse of him came as he walked away in that long, rolling gait. They’d be together again, Eden never doubted that, but she still regretted the separation.
Because of the Christmas holidays, the trains were more crowded than usual. There was always a crush of servicemen and passengers in the dining and club cars. It didn’t matter how discouraging the war news was in Italy and the Pacific, a holiday spirit prevailed on the train. Like Mary Lynn, Eden joined in with the caroling in the club car, each of them drawn a little bit closer to the other because of the men they missed.
As the train slowed its clacking wheels to pass through a small town, Eden absently glanced out the club-car window. A yellow convertible was stopped at a highway crossing, a street lamp shining down on it. She poked at Mary Lynn.
“Do you think that’s my car?” They were past it before Eden could tell for sure. “It looked like it, didn’t it? The chauffeur is somewhere en route to California with it.”
“Wouldn’t it be something if we just passed it on the way?” Mary Lynn declared.
“Many more of these cross-country jaunts and I’m going to need a new car before this war is over,” Eden joked, then she turned faintly serious.
“When we start ferrying planes, we’re going to cover a lot more country than your car has.” Mary Lynn sipped at her soda-pop rickey, an innocent concoction of soda, lime juice and sugar.
“That’s true,” Eden agreed.
* * *
When they arrived in California, they reported to Air Transport Command’s Sixth Ferrying Group in Long Beach. New orders awaited their arrival, sending them to Palm Springs to attend the ATC pursuit school, where they would learn to fly the Army’s fighters, the hottest ships around.
The first three weeks of training were spent in the rear cockpit of the AT-6 Texan, the plane they’d flown so often during their advanced flying phase in Sweetwater. The Texan’s rear cockpit allowed them to simulate conditions in the nose-high “Jug,” the pilots’ nickname for the P-47 Thunderbolt because of its thick, blunt-nosed cowling. The training was intensive but it had to be. There wasn’t any room in the Thunderbolt for a second pilot, so the first time up in the fighter plane had to be a solo ride.
The cockpit of the P-47 was just Mary Lynn’s size, measuring roughly three feet by three feet. In that small space a mass of levers, gauges, and navigational and communication equipment was crammed, not leaving much room for the pilot. But Mary Lynn didn’t take up much room.
She ran through the cockpit check, seat belt and shoulder straps fastened tight—and her heart somewhere in her throat. Thirteen separate buttons and switches had to be in position for flight preparation and Mary Lynn mentally counted them off. With the stick back and the brakes locked and the primer feeding juice to the engine, she pushed the starter switch.
A rumbling groan came from deep inside the plane, and the four-bladed propeller cranked, slowly rotating and picking up speed. So did her pulse. The rumble grew louder as the Pratt and Whitney engine took power and vibrated the aircraft with its bass-deep roar.
On the ground, her instructor gave her a thumbs-up sign, wishing Mary Lynn good luck on her first ride in the powerful plane. She scanned the dials once more—temperature and pressure gauges all reading right—and eased the throttle forward to start her taxi roll, a scared feeling in the pit of her stomach.
At the end of the runway, Mary Lynn reached up and grasped the canopy bar, located just behind her shoulder. With a squeeze of the lever, she pushed the canopy forward to close the cockpit, then locked it.
“Okay, Army Three forty-seven,” the tower operator’s voice sounded in the ear sets. “Clear off for takeoff when ready.”
“Roger.” Mary Lynn depressed the button on the stick to activate her throat mike and acknowledge the clearance. She was in position, but the Thunderbolt’s high nose kept her from seeing down the length of the runway.
For all her apprehensions, she was mentally committed to a takeoff. Her hand slowly pushed the black throttle knob forward while the powerful engine changed from a rumbling pitch to a deepening thunder. She took her feet off the brake pedals and kept pushing the throttle forward. The Thunderbolt seemed to catapult itself down the runway, its high acceleration pressing Mary Lynn against the seat and the tremendous roar of the engine filling the cockpit. She let the stick come forward, lowering the nose and lifting the tail wheel. Applying more and more right rudder to compensate for the powerful engine torque, she kept the fighter plane pointed down the center of the runway.
She was unconsciously holding her breath as she glanced at the airspeed indicator. The needle swung past 85, then past 90, still moving. The plane wasn’t fighting the controls so much now. Another glance at the airspeed and Mary Lynn gently pulled back on the stick at 110 miles an hour. The ground fell away as the pursuit surged into the air, not using even half of the runway, and the sensation turned her nervous qualms into soaring excitement.
With the gear folding away inside the fighter’s belly, she trimmed the craft for a climb and the Th
underbolt streaked for the clouds like a homesick angel. Palm Springs was behind her and the blue of the Salton Sea reflected the desert sky. She put the plane through its paces, exulting in its power and high maneuverability. She was sorry when she had to return to the base.
That night her letters to Beau and Marty were filled with the thrilling experience of that first solo flight. It seemed fitting somehow that, while two of the most important people in her life were flying B-17 bombers, nicknamed the “Big Friend,” she was now flying P-47 Thunderbolt pursuit aircraft, called by some the “Little Friend.”
When their month of training was finished, Eden and Mary Lynn joined the Sixth Ferrying Group in Long Beach and began delivering the fast pursuits all over the country.
Chapter XXIII
JEWELED TURQUOISE WATERS surround the chain of islands that trail off the southern tip of Florida like stepping stones into the Gulf of Mexico. The clear barrier of the B-17’s Plexiglas nose was all that separated Marty Rogers from the white-capped blue waters and the sun-drenched Keys below. The February skies were clear and limitless, stretching to the end of the sea and beyond. Through them, the Army-drab B-17, painted olive green, headed to its home field at Buckingham Army Air Base outside of Fort Myers, its training mission for turret gunnery operators complete for this trip.
Belly down in the glass nose of the Flying Fortress, Marty let the panoramic view ease the tension from the previous concentrated patterns she’d flown. Her copilot took the controls for the home-bound flight while she enjoyed a break. From here to the airfield, it was all fairly routine.
“It’s hard to believe that a month ago I was zipped to the throat in a fleece-lined flight suit, with long underwear, a leather jacket, and wool-lined boots, trying to keep warm twenty-four thousand feet above frigid Ohio.” Her chin rested on the cup of her hand and her voice rumbled deep from her chest as she flashed a wry glance at the uniformed officer sharing the close quarters of the B-17 nose with her.
Graduation from the four-engine school at Lockbourne Army Air Base had also signaled the end of the grueling, strength-building exercises. Marty had gladly abandoned the Bernarr Macfadden wrist developers and now picked up a newspaper only to read it, not to crumple it into a ball in her fist.
