On Wings Of The Morning

by Marie Bostwick

  “Really,” I commented as I shuffled through a mountain of papers and manila folders. “He sounds like a find all right. Do you pay him?”

  “Pardon?” Roger asked.

  “Your mechanic. Stubbs. Do you pay him? Because I can’t find any pay stubs for him anywhere, or for you. I can’t find the checkbook, either. You have one, don’t you?”

  “Oh! I should have told you.” He jumped up out of the wobbly desk chair he’d been sitting in, crossing the office in three big strides, and opened the lid of a battered old fruit crate that was sitting in the corner. “I keep all that in here.” He pulled a check ledger out of the box along with a lidless cigar box overflowing with old pay stubs. “I thought it’d be a good idea to keep them separate from that stuff on the desk.”

  “It was,” I said and took the checkbook from his outstretched hand. Roger grinned, apparently pleased by my approval. He really is a sweet man, I thought to myself. He reminded me of a big, gamboling puppy—always cheerful and eager to please.

  “Well,” I said. “You’d better leave me alone with all this for a while. I’ll see what I can make of it.”

  “Sure you don’t need me to stay and help?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” He looked a little disappointed but took the hint.

  The office door led right into the hangar, and when he opened it the smell of fuel and engine grease filled the room. “Georgia?” He turned back to me as he was leaving. “After you’re done—say, in a couple of hours—you want to go flying?”

  I put down the folder I was holding, rested my chin in my hand, and smiled at him. “I’d love to.”

  Roger grinned and raised and lowered his eyebrows a couple of times in a comical expression, and tossed me an enthusiastic thumbs-up signal. Later, I would come to think of it as his “all-systems go” face, a small ritual that he performed whenever we made a date to fly, or just after he’d given the propeller a powerful yank and the engine caught hold, or anytime the exhilaration and anticipation of being airborne again was just too much to contain. The look on his face was pure joy and boyish enthusiasm, and I thought to myself, Here is a man who will never grow old. His excitement was contagious, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “All right, then! I’ll see you in two hours.” He nodded his head. As he left he said, “Big day! Think of it, Georgia!—Your first flight! You’ll never forget it.”

  The door closed behind him. Leaning back in the desk chair as the worn springs creaked in protest, I let his words wrap themselves around my mind like an embrace.

  Your first flight. Amazing. Finally, after all these years, I was just two hours from my dream. I’d never been farther off the ground than my own feet could lift me, but I already knew Roger was right. It was a day I’d never forget.

  What Roger didn’t say, what I learned on my own was this: that the amazement and the yearning never fades. If anything, it becomes stronger. From that first moment I touched the sky, each moment I spent on the ground was a moment spent waiting to leave it again.

  Every day I’ve ever flown is a day I’ll never forget.

  6

  Morgan

  Oklahoma City, Oklahoma—December 3, 1941

  “Morgan! You’re here already,” Mr. Wicker said with surprise as he slammed his car door closed. “I wasn’t expecting you until nine-thirty. How long have you been waiting?”

  “Oh, not long,” I lied. The truth was I’d been there since six that morning, hoping Mr. Wicker would show up a little early. I’d waited, crouched down with my back resting against the cold wall of the hangar, so I’d have a good view of the Jenny and could admire the clean lines of her as the sun rose, glinting red and silver against the new paint I’d labored to put on her during every hour I could spare from studying. My calculus grades hadn’t been much to write home about, but mine was the best-looking plane on the field and, to me, that was what mattered.

  I’d been sitting there so long my legs had cramped up under me. “I just thought I’d get here a little early,” I said and heaved myself to my feet, fighting the cramp that suddenly took hold in my left leg.

  Mr. Wicker smiled a little as he watched me struggle to get up. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  I shook my leg to try to get the circulation going and smiled. There was no point in trying to play it cool. “Not a wink,” I admitted. “I’ve been sitting here three solid hours.”

  Wicker threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Well, I don’t blame you. It’s a big day. You’re not nervous, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good! You’ve no reason to be. You’re about the best natural pilot I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching, and that’s a fact. It’s an instinct with you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. But I think I’ve been pretty lucky to have you as my instructor. You’ve taught me a lot.”

  “Well,” Mr. Wicker said, casting his eyes up to check the weather as he fished the keys out of his pocket and opened the flight-school door, “if you’re ready, I can’t see any reason you can’t take off a little early. Make sure you stretch out good before you go, though. You don’t want your legs cramping on you.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And Morgan?”

  “Sir?”

  “You enjoy yourself up there.” I didn’t answer him. I didn’t have to. We both knew there was no possibility of me doing anything else.

  My heart was beating fast as I approached my plane all alone, my body buzzing with adrenaline and anticipation, but my mind was absolutely clear. I went through my preflight check carefully and deliberately, exactly as I’d been taught, but it was almost a surprise to realize I wasn’t the least bit afraid, just utterly focused, and that gave me a sense of control I’d never experienced before. I was confident, and unconcerned for my safety because I was aware that it lay so completely in my own hands. I felt powerful.

  I reached high to grip the prop and felt the muscles swell and strain in the heavy sleeves of my flight jacket as I gave the propeller one mighty wrench and the engine caught hold on the first try. She roared to life, and the whole plane pulsed and quivered, impatient to be on her way. I scrambled into the cockpit and settled myself inside, looking over my instrument panel one last time.

  Mr. Wicker had been in the office all this time, though I doubted he had any pressing business inside. I think he wanted to give me the privacy I needed to savor the moment. But when the engine started up he’d stepped outside to watch, and he raised his hand over his head in salute as we taxied past, the Jenny and me—heading to the airstrip, making a slow right turn to the takeoff point, waiting for the all-clear signal from Jerry, who ran the tower, then picking up speed, following the ribbon of runway that led to the point of no return, pulling back the stick to lift the nose. We lifted off as smoothly and easily as if the Jenny were my own body responding to a sudden, careless idea that it might be nice to head skyward. The Jenny and I were two parts of one being, our desires and actions a perfectly integrated whole, because flying was our whole reason for being.

  We cut a path through the wind. And the sound of air splitting across my face and moving past my ears was like the roar of ocean surf, constant and powerful, a force to be met and conquered. I spied a series of clouds off to my left and banked left to bring myself closer. I thought, I could punch a hole through those clouds if I wanted to, and then, just to prove it, I did. I pulled the stick back even more, rising steadily, putting even more distance between the earth and myself. The old feeling was there again. I felt limitless, exuberant, and peaceful all at the same time, completely comfortable in my own skin in a way that it’s impossible to feel with two feet on the ground.

  I was living the moment and living the memory all at once. I thought, This is what it means to be truly alive.

  I felt invincible. And when the fuel gauge was hovering above empty, and I had to land, the feeling stayed with me. Not forever, but for a while. It was with me on December eighth when I walked
into the recruiting center and signed my enlistment papers. I was ready and willing to die flying airplanes, defending my country against the Japanese, who’d bombed us the day before, though I couldn’t seriously fathom it coming to that, what with me being invincible and all.

  As I said, the feeling stayed with me for quite a while.

  7

  Morgan

  Dillon, Oklahoma—Christmas, 1941

  Christmas didn’t start off quite the way I’d hoped it would. “So you see, Mama,” I explained, “I’ve only got a few days before I have to leave. I know you’d counted on me being here until the fourth, but my bus leaves right after Christmas.” Her face clouded over with an expression that might have been anger, disappointment, shock, or all three. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to tell her I’d enlisted just as soon as I landed. Maybe I should have waited until we’d gotten home, or even on the drive from the airfield, but it was too late now. I just kept talking, hoping that if I did she’d collect herself and realize that I was only doing what I had to do, the same as thousands of other mothers’ sons across the country.

  “I know it only gives me about a week, but don’t worry, Mama. I’m going to use every minute. Make me a list of chores. Tell me whatever needs fixing, and I’ll get it done before my train leaves. I’m going to give the tractor a tune-up, too. That way it’ll be all ready for the spring planting.”

  Mama was quiet a moment, and then she spoke, in a voice choked with anger. “Is that what you think I’m worried about? About how smooth the tractor will run come spring? You think I’m worried about me?” She opened her eyes wide, staring at me, and set her mouth in a straight line, waiting for an answer.

  “Mama,” I sighed and kicked the ground with the toe of my boot, “why do you have to be like that? Just this once, couldn’t you make it easy for me?” I wasn’t being fair and I knew it. Mama had always tried to make things easy for me, or as easy as she knew how, but I was angry with her. On the flight over, I’d rehearsed this conversation in my mind several times, and though in my imagination Mama had shed a few tears when she heard the news, she always ended up saying that she was proud of me. Clearly, the reality of a man leaving for war wasn’t anything like they made it look in the movies.

  “I didn’t ask for this war,” I continued, “but, after what happened at Pearl Harbor, you know we’ve got to get into it. Even before I left for school you were saying there was no way we were going to be able to stay out of the war and that somebody had to stop Hitler. I heard you say exactly that to Aunt Ruby.”

  “I know what I said!” she snapped.

  “I’m a pilot, Mama. They need trained pilots. There are thousands of guys signing up who will be learning to fly from scratch, but it’ll take months and months before they are ready to take up a plane. With a little combat training I’ll be ready to go. They need me! The sergeant at the recruiting office said one trained pilot like me was worth a hundred untrained recruits.”

  “I’ll bet he did.” Her eyes flashed for a moment, but then she sighed and it seemed like all the air went out of her.

  “I just thought ... I just ... You might have talked to me before you went and joined up. That’s all.” She pulled her coat tighter around herself. She was so small. I felt bad for standing there and arguing with her in the cold. “I just thought maybe you could wait a little while—at least until after Christmas. It would have been nice to have Christmas without all this hanging over us.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. Maybe I should have talked to you first, but I guess I didn’t want to risk you trying to talk me out of it. All my friends joined up, too. Almost everybody I know. Probably half the guys from my dorm are catching hell from their mothers right this second for joining up without asking permission,” I smiled, trying to move past the moment by making a joke of it, but Mama wasn’t buying.

  “Watch your language,” she responded automatically.

  “Sorry.” I waited for her to say it was all right, but she just stood there, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

  “Mama, I’m a good pilot. Mr. Wicker, my instructor, said I fly like I was born to it. I’m going to be all right. I promise.”

  Mama bit her lower lip and nodded. She blinked a couple of times, and I told myself it was just the cold prairie wind that was making her eyes tear up, but I reached out and wrapped my arms around her anyway and hugged her tight as I could. When I let go she sniffed and gave me a smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes.

  “Let’s go home. There’s a good fire in the stove, and Ruby baked you a pie. Grandma can’t wait to see you. Is the plane tied down?” I nodded. “Good.”

  She reached down as if to pick up my grip, but I grabbed it. “I’ll carry my own bag, thanks. Do you want me to drive?”

  “Are you sure? Aren’t you tired after such a long trip?”

  “Naw. Besides, I’m starving. You drive so slow, Mama, it’ll be morning before I get a piece of Ruby’s pie,” I teased. “Give me the wheel and I’ll have you home in no time. I am a highly motivated individual.” Mama smiled, but just a little.

  “Not too fast,” she cautioned as she handed me the car keys. “I finally had Mr. Cheevers hammer out that dent you put in the bumper two summers ago. No point in putting another one in its place.”

  “Don’t worry, Mama. I told you, I’m a good pilot. Make that a great one!” I threw my bag in the trunk and then ran around the car to open Mama’s door. She got in, and I was about to shut the door when she reached out, closing her hand over mine.

  “Morgan,” she said softly. “You’re doing the right thing. I’m proud of you.”

  We didn’t talk about my leaving again. Everyone seemed determined to enjoy the holiday and refused to acknowledge the elephant in the room, my imminent departure. But every now and then when I would look up quickly, I’d catch a glimpse of Mama’s face before she had a chance to replace her mask of composure, and I’d read worry in her eyes. Just a few days before, I’d felt invincible, heroic, and absolutely certain of my victorious and rapid return from the field of battle, but the look in Mama’s eyes started to rub against my bravado, making it just a little thinner and more brittle. I started to worry a little, too, not about myself so much, but about what would happen to Mama, Grandma, and Ruby if something happened to me. Since Papaw had died, I’d always considered myself the man of the family, responsible for the well-being of these three women who had raised me and cared for me since before I could remember. The weight of responsibility hung on me, and the look on Mama’s face in unguarded moments drove me to activity.

  I worked as fast as I could to make sure everything on the farm was in perfect repair. I tuned up the tractor, then mucked out the barn, replaced the rotted floorboards on the front porch, put a new blade on the windmill in place of the old one that had split, cleaned out the root cellar, put a new door on the storm cellar and made sure the latches were secure, and split a mountain of logs. Late on Christmas afternoon, the day before I was to leave, I went up on the roof to replace a bunch of shingles that had been pulled loose by the relentless prairie winds. The weather had turned cold and bitter, but I was running out of time and determined to finish the job, especially since I felt so guilty about not getting it done the day before when the weather had been good.

  Grandma came outside when I was up on the roof and stood at the bottom of the ladder, shaking her head and scolding.

  “You’re working yourself to a frazzle! Come down from there and eat something. I just pulled a pecan pie out of the oven, loaded with nuts, just the way you like it.”

  “Be down in a minute, Grandma,” I said through a mouthful of roofing nails.

  “It’s Christmas, Morgan. And it’s too cold to be working out here. There’s no point in fussing over those shingles. The wind’ll just blow them off again tomorrow.”

  “Maybe, but at least I’ll know they were all nailed down tight today. Besides,” I said, laying down the hammer and flexing my right ar
m so my biceps strained against my sleeve, “it’s good exercise. Just think how many push-ups I’ll be able to do if I keep this up.”

  Grandma shook her head and went back inside. I went back to work. I couldn’t help myself. I was like a squirrel getting ready for winter who knows there is nothing he can do to stop the bad weather from coming but is driven by instinct to prepare as best he can.

  One thing I hadn’t had a chance to do was take Mama flying, even though I’d promised I would as soon as I got my license. The weather was unusually nice on Christmas Eve, and I’d said we should go then, but Mama insisted I go into Dillon and see some of my old friends instead. She said we could go flying when I came home on leave. Even so, I wouldn’t have agreed to go into town if I hadn’t needed to buy roofing nails and tar paper, but I knew I had to get the job done. That roof wouldn’t last the winter otherwise.

  As I was coming out of the hardware store, there she was, Virginia Pratt, wearing a dark green sweater that outlined her shape and a matching hat that made her eyes bluer than I remembered.

  She seemed genuinely happy to see me and didn’t even fuss at me when I explained why I hadn’t been over to visit.

  Instead she just squeezed my arm and said, “Morgan, that is so sweet! Taking care of your mother like that before you leave. I bet you’ll look so handsome in your uniform. And I think you’re just so brave to volunteer! I heard that you’re a real pilot now. Mr. Dwyer said that you fixed up that old plane so it looks brand-new. I sure wish I could see it before you go, but it sounds like you’ve got too much to do. Would it be all right if I wrote to you while you’re gone?”

  Virginia was different than she’d been when I left. She talked more, and her hands kept fluttering like butterflies and then lighting on my arm ever so briefly, but I was acutely aware of every spot she’d touched. Wearing that close-fitting sweater she looked ... well, let’s say she looked a lot more mature than she had just a few months ago. She was flirting with me. I knew that. And I knew there was a mountain of work waiting for me at home, but Virginia was beautiful and the weather was fine and before I knew it I’d asked her if she wanted to go for an airplane ride. She squealed with delight and scrambled into the passenger’s seat of the Ford when I held the door open.