by Janet Dailey
On an early August morning, the Douglas C-47 Sky train made a sightseeing pass over Yellowstone National Park in the northwestern corner of Wyoming. Off the starboard wing, a clearing in the thick summer foilage revealed a log-walled lodge, a massive old giant of a structure that seemed in keeping with the mountain majesty around it. Not far from it, a blossoming fountain of steam and water shot into the air, a billowing spray of cloudy vapor and moisture.
“Did you see that?” Fran Davenport exclaimed excitedly from her copilot’s seat, casting one glance at Cappy before turning back to the view. “It was Old Faithful. What luck! Flying over it just as it erupted! We couldn’t have timed that better if we had tried.”
Cappy smiled at Fran’s contagious enthusiasm, the unabashed delight she took in things. This was the first time they’d been paired together as a flying team. The first leg wasn’t over but Cappy could already tell Fran had the ability to turn a routine flight into a minor adventure.
“Do you plan your routes according to the points of interest along the way?” she asked in jest.
“When I can,” Fran Davenport admitted frankly while she continued to gaze out the cockpit window on the starboard side. Yellowstone Lake was a sapphire blue reflection of the late summer sky. “Before I qualified for the WASPs and went to Texas for my training, I’d never been out of the state of Iowa in my life. Now I’m flying from one end of the country to the other. I may never get another chance to travel like this, and I’m going to see everything while I can.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Climbing back to altitude, the twin-engined transport swung past Saddle Mountain and threaded between Windy Mountain and Sunlight Peak, encountering only mild turbulence on the leeward side of the range. The thick forests of Yellowstone Park gave way to a barren stretch of rough Wyoming country.
“What’s that?” Fran pointed out a collection of buildings grouped in the middle of nowhere. “It looks like a town or a base of some sort, but my maps don’t indicate anything here.”
Cappy tipped the plane so she could see over the wing. A large patch of green stood out in sharp contrast to the surrounding arid land and the bleak-looking structures near it, fenced by a barbed-wire enclosure.
“It must be the Japanese internment camp at Heart Mountain,” she guessed.
“Really?” Fran strained for a better look. “I thought they were in prisons of some sort. That doesn’t look like one.”
“It’s fenced and guarded,” Cappy reminded her. “I doubt if it’s the most hospitable place to live.” A stiffness was beginning to settle into her shoulders from being in the same position. She arched them in a flexing shrug. “You take the controls for a while, Fran,” she suggested.
They had a long way to go to their destination, Wright Field in Dayton, Ohio. There was no need to make it a tiring trip when they could spell each other along the way. Fran took over as pilot and Cappy leaned back.
Late in the afternoon they landed at Wright Field and taxied to the flight line to deliver their craft. The base was the center of Air Material Command, in charge of monitoring research, engineering, testing, and procuring equipment for the Army Air Force. Experiments and tests of new engines, instruments, and aircraft designs were constantly being conducted at the field.
As they walked from their parked plane to the operations building, Fran had to run backwards to keep up with Cappy and still look at the unusual array of planes on the flight line. “That’s a Japanese Zero,” she exclaimed. “And look! There’s a Messerschmitt.”
A sudden, high-pitched whine came loudly across the field, an unearthly howl that halted both Cappy and Fran. They stared, trying to pinpoint the source of it, as the eerie scream continued to drift through the air.
“What is that?” Fran wondered, frowning at the weird sound.
“I don’t know,” Cappy murmured.
“They’re testing a prototype jet engine.” The female voice startled both of them and they swung around to look at the woman pilot in her Santiago-blue flight suit. She smiled easily. “Hi. Where are you from?”
“The Ferry Command out of Long Beach.” Cappy answered automatically, intrigued by the revelation. “A jet. It’s powered by that new propulsion system that pushes the plane through the air with its exhaust, instead of pulling it with a propeller. I’d heard about those jet-rocket attacks on England and wondered what those German buzz-bombs sounded like. Now I know.”
“Have you seen it?” Fran asked.
“Don’t I wish,” the WASP replied. “I’ve had glimpses of it, but that’s it. I sure would love to climb into the cockpit of a jet, though.”
“Do you fly out of here?”
“I’m one of their test pilots for new oxygen systems, gun sights and other experimental equipment, or new engine designs.”
“Sounds exciting,” Cappy observed while the three of them started toward the operations building.
“It is,” she agreed. “This place is real futuristic. When they say the sky’s the limit, they mean it. Some engineers here are talking about going to the moon.”
At operations, they split up, Cappy and Fran going one way to file their papers and the female test pilot going another. When they were finished, they passed up the food at the canteen in favor of dinner at the Officers’ Club.
When they walked in, the first person Cappy saw was Mitch Ryan. The ground seemed to rock under her and her pulse made a crazy leap. For an unsteady moment, she didn’t know what to do. Unbidden, her feet carried her to him.
“Hello, Mitch.” She stopped beside his chair, smiling hesitantly, unsure of her welcome. But Cappy knew she wanted to see him—to speak to him.
With a turn of his head he looked up, into the startling blueness of her eyes. For a small second, he betrayed himself, then quickly the shutters came down to block out the glow of pleasure. The pain was still cruelly fresh.
Just for an instant, Cappy experienced that sweeping rush of excitement his smile had so often evoked in the past. Then his warmth was pulled away from her, and it was gone, and his expression was set in rugged, forbidding lines.
“Hello, Cappy.” His voice was flat.
“I was surprised to see you here when I walked in.”
“I don’t know why you were.” Mitch rolled the ash off his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “This is an Army base. You won’t find me anywhere else.” His dark eyes gleamed with challenge.
Cappy drew back, belatedly noticing the woman in a WAC uniform sitting at the table with him. “Mitch and I are old friends,” she said to quell the speculating look from the curly-headed blonde.
“Yes, we were good friends.” Mitch put it in the past tense.
“If you’ll excuse me, my friend’s wating,” Cappy said abruptly. The scene had become too awkward. She backed away, hating him for making her feel like an unwanted outsider.
Fran was waiting for her at a table. “Is he an old friend of yours?” Her admiring gaze strayed to Mitch.
“Was.” Cappy used his past tense.
“Ah,” Fran guessed. “An old flame, eh?”
Without confirming or denying it, Cappy sat down and picked up the menu, but her eyes darted to the table where Mitch was sitting. She watched as he bent close to the woman, saying something and smiling. Her teeth came together on the sudden surge of jealousy.
During dinner, Cappy tried to ignore the pair, but it was difficult as she became conscious of Mitch’s attention centering more and more on the woman with the flaxen hair. The WAC officer was every bit Mitch’s age, if not on the high side of thirty, she thought cattily.
The more she tried not to watch them together, the more compelling it became to look. She hated the twisting jealousy she felt as she observed the intimate way Mitch watched the words form on that vividly red pair of lips.
Minutes later they were getting up from their table to dance. It was almost more than Cappy could stand to see them twined so closely together and that slow, caressing move
ment of Mitch’s hand on the woman’s back.
“You’re really a lot of fun tonight,” Fran murmured dryly.
“Excuse me.” Abruptly, Cappy pushed away from the table and walked blindly to the powder room to escape the sight of the dancing couple, nuzzling and kissing on the floor.
Splashes of cold water cooled her hot face, the shock of it driving away the tears that had burned the back of her eyes. Cappy managed to rationalize her reaction, convincing herself it was to be expected, but she’d get over it. She remained in the quiet of the powder room until her nerves felt steadier.
As she ventured outside, she met Mitch coming out of the men’s facilities. A smudge of vibrant red was near the corner of his mouth and all the hot feelings she’d struggled to suppress came running back to the surface.
“You didn’t get all the lipstick wiped off, Mitch,” she informed him, and angrily watched his hand move instinctively to his mouth.
His fingers came away with some of the telltale red on their tips. “So I didn’t.” Untroubled, he wiped the rest of it away with his handkerchief.
“You wanted me to see it, didn’t you?” Her teeth were held tightly together as Cappy struggled with the pain she felt, the wish to somehow strike back.
His aloof bearing didn’t alter as he made slow work of folding his handkerchief and returning it to his pocket. “Have you seen the report your illustrious director released to the press the first of the month?”
“I’ve seen articles on it, yes,” she admitted warily.
“In it, she made the same mistake you did. She virtually issued an ultimatum to General Arnold, by stating that if her WASPs can’t be commissioned, then serious thought should be given to ending the program.” At his statement Cappy tensed, and Mitch smiled in a slow, unkind humor. “Congress is in no mood to militarize a bunch of women pilots. And General Arnold is a pragmatic man. He isn’t about to whip a dead horse. I’d wager my oak leaves that you won’t be in the air much longer. But you shouldn’t mind. After all, the alternative would have meant becoming part of the Army. And I know how violently opposed you are to that.”
“I don’t really blame you for wanting to get back at me for hurting you,” Cappy declared tautly. “But I hate you for this, Mitch Ryan.”
His hands caught her, stopping her and holding her by the shoulders. For a long minute, he simply looked down at her, his jaw clenched and angry. With reluctance, his gaze traveled over her features in a memorizing pattern.
“Do you?” he ground out bitterly. “You have no idea how badly I want to say, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!’ … But the hell of it is—I still do!”
He released her with a roughness that indicated a wish that he could rid himself of her memory just as easily. Torn and troubled, Capy looked at the broad set of his shoulders, which was all she saw of him as he strode away.
Amid all the smarting hurt, the jealousy and the resentment, she felt a stab of fear at the thought of losing her wings, or being taken out of the skies and out of the uniform she wore with such pride. If they were disbanded, where would she go?
* * *
The sight of a B-17 bomber on the Long Beach flight line was not that common. When Marty spied the big bird with its hundred-foot-plus wingspan, she gravitated to it, gripped by nostalgia at the hours she’d flown in similar Fortresses.
“The Big Friend,” she said as she trailed her hand along the fuselage, caressing the metal skin. Her glance flickered to the Plexiglas nose and three-bladed propellers of the heavy bomber. “Losing you over a man,” she murmured wryly. “He wasn’t worth it, I promise you that.”
A ground man bent low to peer under the plane’s belly at the trousered legs on the other side. “Are you talking to me?”
Marty bent down, previously unaware anyone else was around. “Yes,” she lied. “Is it all right if I take a look inside?”
“Sure. It’s all right with me. You can have a whole party in there if you want,” he said magnanimously. It wasn’t the first time one of these women pilots had asked to crawl into the cockpit of a plane. He’d long ago decided it was some kind of compulsion to have been in as many as possible.
Not needing a second invitation, Marty walked to the belly hatch and tossed her gear in, then pulled herself up to swing inside the fuselage. Slowly she moved forward, taking her time to look around and rediscover.
As she approached the cockpit, Marty spied an Army captain sitting in the pilot’s seat. With a welling disappointment she started to back up, but the man caught the sound of her footfall and turned. She locked eyes with Walker and a fine anger ran smoothly through her veins.
“This is the last place I expected to see you, Walker.” She came forward and maneuvered into the unoccupied right seat. She looked over the familiar instrument panel, remembering all those blindfolded checks during training when they had to point out the location of instruments without being able to see them.
“Well, if it isn’t Martha Jane,” he mused dryly.
“Where’d you find the nerve to get back in one of these?” Marty asked tauntingly.
“It’s been a while since I was in the cockpit of one of these.” Walker absently rubbed his hand along the yoke, remembering, while he glanced over the array of gauges and switches. “I wanted to see how it would feel again.” Then he turned to her. “What’s your excuse?”
“The same,” she admitted, with a qualification. “Except it doesn’t scare me. If those engines started up, I’ll bet you’d shake in your boots.”
“You still despise me, don’t you?” His hard and knowing eyes looked her up and down. “You still think I led Mary Lynn astray, don’t you?”
Facing the front, Marty gripped the yoke, her fingers flexing and tightening their hold on it, suggesting a seething anger. “I’d rather not talk about her.”
“You’re a hard woman, Martha Jane. A real bitch. Don’t you know yet why she sees me?” The challenge in his voice sounded bitter. “She’s afraid her husband might come home all twisted up inside like me. You were right a long time ago when you said she loved him.”
“I’m sure you’re an expert on the subject,” she retorted sarcastically, “but I’m really not interested in hearing your opinions.”
“What does interest you?”
“Flying.”
“Only flying?”
“Sometimes I think men aren’t worth the trouble they cause,” she muttered. “I never have had much patience with cowards and cheats, either way.”
“You know it all, don’t you, Martha Jane?” Walker scoffed. “You think you’re a hot pilot, don’t you?”
“I know I am.”
“Yeah? Well, I think I want to find out just how hot you are.” He started to rise.
“Meaning what?” Marty demanded.
Half out of the pilot’s seat, he paused, bent over in a crouch. “Meaning—that we’re going to take this Big Friend for a ride. I want to find out how much of you is hot pilot—and how much is hot air.” He pressed a hand on her shoulder, pushing her more deeply into the copilot’s seat. “Wait here while I get permission to take this lady. If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll know you chickened out.”
Part of her didn’t expect to see him again after he disappeared into the operations building, but Marty made a preliminary check of the cockpit gauges. She had no pride. She’d fly with the devil if it meant a chance to pilot a Flying Fortress again.
Twenty minutes later, Walker was crossing the flight line at a running jog, giving Marty a thumbs-up sign to indicate permission granted. With a leap of anticipation and soaring spirits, Marty grinned to herself and pulled out the pre-takeoff checklist to prepare for the engine start-ups. From the underneath fuselage, she heard the small thuds of movement when Walker hauled himself into the plane.
Upon entering the cockpit, he tapped her on the shoulder and motioned her to take the pilot’s seat. “You fly,” he said, quickly taking the seat she vacated. “But for God’s
sake, stay off the radio. You know how they feel about mixed crews. They think my second is ‘Martin’ Rogers.”
“Hell, even if I got on the mike, they wouldn’t know,” Marty declared in her man-gruff voice, flipping on the electrical switch that activated the hydraulic pump which gave oil pressure to the number-one engine. “How did you wangle this?” She pushed the button to start the first 1,200-horsepower Wright engine.
“There are ways, Martha Jane,” Walker answered above the rumbling cough of the engine before it caught and thundered into a steady growl, the huge propellers spinning into a blur of metal.
Soon, all four engines reverberated in a deafening roar. The immense power, and the excitement of it, vibrated through the throttles as Marty advanced them to begin the roll. While she waited for takeoff clearance at the end of the runway, she gave Walker a wry glance.
“You look a little pale, Walker,” she chided. “If you’re going to lose your stomach, wait until we’re airborne.”
“You just worry about yourself,” he replied.
With the underhanded grip she’d been taught, Marty moved the throttles forward and the big bomber lumbered down the runway gathering speed. As the airspeed indicator approached the 110-mile-an-hour mark, she could feel the long wings grabbing for the air and the controls become more responsive to her touch. When she pulled back on the control wheel, the B-17 broke free from the ground, acquiring grace as it soared into the air. The hydraulics system hummed to fold the landing gear and tail wheel into the belly of the plane with a locking thud.
The exhilaration of flight pounded through her veins. She angled the Fortress for the high clouds and banked it toward the empty desert. Everything came back to her. It was just as if she’d never been away from the cockpit of the Boeing B-17. At twelve thousand feet above the low desert, she leveled the bomber out. The September skies around them were free of traffic.
“Now, we’ll put her through her paces,” she said to Walker. “We’ll see if you’ve got the stomach for some real flying.”
For the next twenty minutes, Marty had the massive four-engine bomber performing a circus act of aerial acrobatics, putting it through spins and loops and chandelles with flawless precision—all for the sheer joy of it. It ceased to matter that Walker was sitting in the right seat.
