On Wings Of The Morning

by Marie Bostwick

  “Thanks, F.W. I appreciate that.”

  “To Thursday night!” Fountain pretended to hold a glass in his empty hand and raised a toast.

  “To Thursday!” I answered as we clinked imaginary glasses.

  12

  Georgia

  Waukegan, Illinois—Summer, 1942

  At least twice a week, I sat down at a desk piled high with bills to be paid and papers waiting to be filed, with my coffee cup on my right and Roger’s enlistment photo on my left and wrote a letter to Roger, just like I did on July 25th.

  Darling,

  I got your letter just yesterday and (from what I could tell after the censors had done their worst—it looked like a mouse had gotten to it!) was glad to hear that you’re doing fine and that the food and beds at this new base are better than the last.

  The news reports here say that American bomber pilots have been giving the Germans a big dose of their own medicine. I’m sure the English are grateful for all of you brave pilots, but not too grateful, I hope. In other words, steer clear of any overly appreciative, young Englishwomen! Just kidding, Sweetheart.

  Business is still slow, even slower now that gasoline rationing is in full force. We really don’t have any students at this point. We’re getting by mostly on fees from pilots who’ve stored their planes with us for the duration of the war, but sometimes when the men enlist the checks seem to come irregularly or not at all.

  Thurman is having a hard time too. With so little private plane traffic, not as many people are coming to the café. We have been doing a little in the way of engine repair. Stubbs has been teaching me and I turn out to be a pretty decent mechanic. Just yesterday I replaced the fuel pump on a beautiful Waco YKS-6. I took her for a spin after I was through and she handled like a dream! What a ride! It was the highlight of my week. I wish you could have been there with me.

  Oh, I almost forgot! Given your recent experiences with the efficiency of the military billeting system, you’ll love this story.

  Recently, I learned that the government was hiring private pilots to ferry some aircraft from factories to bases so they don’t have to use military pilots for that kind of work and can save them for combat. Thinking that might help us make ends meet, I showed up at the office to apply, brought my license and my flight logs to show I was qualified. I was shown into the office of a very cranky, self-important captain who made it clear that the government had no intention of entrusting its airplanes over to a female pilot. He wouldn’t even look at my logs. Whether I’d logged two hundred hours or two thousand, it made no difference to him. The sign on the clubhouse door read ‘No Girls Allowed!’ and that captain slammed it in my face but good.

  Well, I was pretty sore at being given the brush-off by this guy (not to mention using two gallons of precious gas to drive to his office just so he could ignore me!) but I calmed down some by the time I got home. Anyway, I went into the office the next day and what do I find on my desk? A letter from Jacqueline Cochran, the most famous lady flyer in America! It seems the army is forming an all-female branch of the air force, specifically to ferry planes, fly transports and other noncombat missions to free up men for combat assignments and they were inviting me to put in an application! I guess the higher ups didn’t consult with the cranky captain before putting their plan into action.

  Really, it was kind of flattering to get the letter. If I wasn’t a married woman with a job to do, I think I’d be tempted to accept, but don’t worry. I’m still here and taking care of our business. It’ll all be ready and waiting for you when you get home. But isn’t it great that they are going to use women pilots to help with the war effort? When it comes to winning this war and quickly, I say, all hands on deck!

  Of course, now that you’re on the scene I’m sure you’ll send the Germans packing in no time and we’ll be together again! Until then, know that I’m keeping the home fires burning until you get back. One way or another, Stubbs and I will keep things afloat.

  I miss you so much, Sweetheart, but I’m so proud of you. Keep flying high!

  All my love,

  Georgia

  P.S. I’m tucking a new picture that Stubbs took of me standing next to that Waco. Just thought you might like to see what a good job we did fixing her up!

  I wrote three more times after that but, as far as I know, this was the last one Roger received. Ten days after I sent it, I received a telegram from the War Department informing me that my husband had been killed in action.

  In the letter that followed, Roger’s squadron commander told me that the B-24 Liberator Roger was flying had been attacked by enemy fighters on a bombing run. The entire crew was lost along with two of the three P-38s that were escorting them. The heavy, lumbering Liberator was a good bomber, but there was no way it could outrun or outmaneuver those fighters.

  Because the plane had gone down over the ocean, there were no remains, but I received a box with an American flag and Roger’s personal effects. Along with his clothes, I found several snapshots of myself, and a couple of Roger and me together. The white edges of the pictures were bent and worn; I guess he had looked at them often. Only the one with me standing in front of the Waco looked fairly pristine, but there was an unmistakable fingerprint on the upper left-hand corner of the photograph, Roger’s fingerprint.

  Holding the picture gingerly by one edge, making sure my tears didn’t drip on it and wash away the print, I laid it carefully in a velvet-lined jewelry box that had previously held the opal heart pendant Roger sent me when he shipped out to England. Now it held and protected the only physical evidence of Roger’s being, his last gift to me. Before closing the lid I examined the imprinted swirls and whorls of his fingertips that shone clearly against the grainy black and white shadows, embossing them with Roger’s message to me; in his last days, perhaps his last hours, he’d thought of me. I closed the lid and put the box on my dressing table. I still have it.

  Before he died, Roger flew dozens of successful bombing raids. He personally trained scores of private pilots who went on to become some of the best flyers in the military. Would we have won the war without Roger? Yes. But how much longer would it have taken? How many lives did Roger save by putting his on the line? There’s no way to tell, but I know he did his part and then some.

  And yet there were no monuments to honor his memory, no child to bear his name, but, somehow, I would make sure he was remembered. I owed him that and so much more.

  He taught me to trust. He gave me wings. I loved him so.

  PART TWO

  13

  Georgia

  Sweetwater, Texas—December 1942

  I stepped off the train at the Texas and Pacific station and found myself ankle-deep in West Texas mud. As I would soon learn, it didn’t rain very often in Sweetwater, but when it did, it poured. There wasn’t a porter in sight, so I took off running, lugging my bags. By the time I reached the protection of the station’s overhanging eaves, I was drenched. With every step, muddy water squelched from the stitching of my shoes.

  Great, I thought. Four dollars for new pumps and a precious shoe ration right down the drain. That’s what I get for trying to make an entrance.

  I looked around, hoping to spot a taxi or even a bus, but the only vehicle in sight was a battered 1932 Dodge pickup. The pickup door opened, and a tall man, made taller by a high-crowned Stetson, got out. He came toward me in big, loping steps, like a kid crossing a creek by leaping from stone to stone. Rain poured a little waterfall over the brim of his hat. “You going to Avenger?”

  When I said yes he grabbed my bags, tossed them in the back of the truck, and covered them with a piece of canvas. Supposing that this must be the West Texas version of mass transit, I followed, not even bothering to run through the rain. I couldn’t get any wetter than I already was.

  The windows of the truck were fogged up. The tall Texan pulled a faded bandanna from his pocket, wiped off a dinner-plate-sized peephole on the window, and started the engine.
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br />   He gunned the motor and took off so fast that the rear of the truck fishtailed in the mud. Startled, I grabbed the door handle, but after a second the tires found some traction and the ride evened out. The cowboy was still driving too fast for my taste and for the weather conditions, but he seemed to know where he was going, and it wasn’t like I had a whole lot of other options, so I relaxed my grip on the handle, looked out the window, and tried to enjoy the ride.

  “Yeah,” he said as if answering a question I’d neglected to ask, “we don’t get a whole lot of rain here, but when we do ... whoo-whee,” he made a whistling sound through a gap in his front teeth. “It’s a gully washer.”

  “Well, I’m glad you were at the station. It would have been a pretty miserable walk.” At that, he made a sound like he was sucking something off his teeth and gave one quick nod of his head. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it seemed a friendly enough response. “So, do you do this for a living? Are you the town taxi driver?”

  He grinned. “No, ma’am. I got a regular job. Don’t take no money for this. It’s kind of my hobby. Wanted to go into the service, but they wouldn’t take me on account of my hand. Had a run-in with a buzz saw when I was younger.” He raised his arm and for the first time I noticed that his left hand was missing three fingers. “The man at the induction center said I couldn’t handle a gun, and I said it was news to me because I’m about the best shot in this county, but he wouldn’t listen. So I decided if they wouldn’t let me fight, least I could do was help out by meetin’ the trains and takin’ pilots over to the airfield. ’Course, up until now they was all men. Then I heard tell that they was switchin’ to women. Didn’t believe it till ya’ll started showin’ up last month. Girl pilots! Dozens of ’em!” He whistled again. “Makes doing my patriotic duty a whole lot more in-terestin’.

  Reaching forward, I laid my left hand, which still bore my wedding band, conspicuously onto the dashboard.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am.” the driver assured me. “I saw right off that you was married, but there’s plenty that ain’t. ’Course, they’ll keep you girls so busy with trainin’ that I don’t suppose you’ll get to town much. On top of that, I’ll have plenty of competition. A beat-up old cowhand like me don’t stand much chance against these flyboys.”

  Up until now I’d been listening with only half an ear, peering through the fogged up windows and wondering if there were any trees in Texas, but the mention of male pilots got my attention. “I thought you said that Avenger was an all-female training base? That’s what I’d been told.”

  “It is,” he assured me, “but word has got out to the other bases. Suddenly every pilot within two hundred miles is havin’ engine trouble when they get in range of Avenger. There’s been a whole lot of emergency landings since you girls got to town.” He grinned even wider and shot me an appraising look from under the brim of his hat. “Well, can’t blame a fella for tryin’. Tell the truth, I kinda wondered what a bunch of girl pilots would look like, but I’ve picked up near every one of you from the station, and, mostly, ya’ll are real nice-lookin’ girls.” He didn’t bother to mask the surprise in his voice.

  “Well, thanks,” I said.

  Missing the sarcasm in my tone, he said, “You’re welcome,” as if he’d just paid me the highest of compliments.

  He took a sharp left turn onto a narrow road and said brightly, “Here we are! Avenger Field—home of the Women’s Air Service Pilots Training Division. If it all works out, in four months you’ll be a WASP, flying airplanes for Uncle Sam. ’Course, about a third of trainees wash out before graduation. Leastways, that’s how it was for the men. Who knows? With girls it might be more.”

  Butterflies with cactus prickles on their wings suddenly started fluttering in my stomach. The magnitude of what I was undertaking hit me full force. I had just left my home and business, bought a train ticket, and traveled all the way to Texas, only to arrive in a blinding rainstorm at what was surely the flattest, most desolate patch of real estate on God’s earth. I was tired, hungry, soaked right down to my step-ins, and sitting in a dented pickup truck with a seven-fingered Texan who’d just informed me I had a one-in-three chance of being sent home before I ever got my wings. What had I been thinking?

  The truck pulled up in front of the gate, and the tall Texan jammed on the brakes, making a curtain of mud fly up from under the tires. He looked at me expectantly. When I made no move to exit, he said, “Hey. I was just kidding before. You’re going to do fine. Just fine. They wouldn’t have asked you to come if they thought you’d wash out.”

  He glanced at my ring and continued, “And your husband. He must think you’ll make it or he wouldn’t have let you come. I s’pose he’s in the service too or you’d be home takin’ care of him. Bet he’s real proud of you. He’ll be prayin’ for you, just like you been prayin’ for him. Prayer does a powerful lot of good. I been a church goin’ man all my life, so I know,” he said seriously, “You’re going to do just fine.”

  I took a deep breath and blinked a couple of times. “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. He nodded, accepting this as a compliment.

  “Thanks for the ride, mister. I know you do this as a way to help out the war effort, but can I pay you something? At least let me pay for your gas.”

  He sucked on his teeth again. “Nope. But if you wanted to buy me a drink, a beer at the Tumbleweed Roadhouse costs two bits.”

  I pulled a dollar bill out of my purse and held it out to him. “Here. Have four.”

  “No, ma’am.” He waved off the bill. “One beer on Saturday night is all I need or want. I told you. I’m a churchgoin’ man.”

  I gave him a quarter, climbed down from the truck, and grabbed my bags. As he was getting ready to go I tapped on the window and he rolled it down.

  “Say, what’s your name, anyway?”

  “Tex,” he said with a “what did you expect” grin on his face. Then he tipped his hat, gunned the engine, and sped down the road, splattering mud all the way.

  14

  Morgane

  The Pacific—February 1943

  I squared my shoulders and knocked on General Martin’s office door.

  “Come in!” The grizzled, white-haired general sat at his desk, bent over a pile of papers and chewing on the end of a corncob pipe à la MacArthur. Another officer might have gotten a ribbing using the same pipe as the Supreme Allied Commander in the Pacific, but General Martin was a good egg, and we all respected him. Besides, he’d been smoking corncob pipes since MacArthur was a boy. As far as the men of the Thirtieth were concerned, it was MacArthur who was imitating Martin, not the other way around.

  I saluted, and the general gave me my ease. “Sir? You asked to see me?”

  “Yes. Take a load off.” I pulled up a chair and sat down a little uneasily. It wasn’t usual for a lowly lieutenant to sit in the presence of the base commander.

  “Relax, son. I didn’t bring you in here to bawl you out.” My jaw unclenched a little at this, but not much. “Morgan, you’ve been doing an outstanding job.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re not only a helluva pilot, you’ve earned the respect of your men. I know you got your field commission because we’d lost so many of our junior officers in combat, but you earned that rank and no mistake about it. You’re a natural-born leader. And, as of last week, you lead the squadron in enemy kills. However,” he said, taking the pipe from his mouth and tapping the stem against a personnel file that topped the stack of papers sitting in front of him, “your superiors are a little concerned about you.”

  He picked up the file and began reading from it, underlining the text with the stem of his pipe. “‘Lieutenant Glennon possesses outstanding leadership qualities, exemplary character, superior technical skills, and commitment to the mission. From the first, he has displayed an admirable personal courage. However, in recent weeks, Lieutenant Glennon’s willingness to undertake personal risk has moved from the realm of the coura
geous to the reckless and may present an unnecessary danger to himself and others.’ ”

  The room was quiet for a moment while I waited for the general to speak. He took his time before saying anything, his eyes still on the paper as he silently reread the file. “Captain Conroy’s quite a wordsmith, isn’t he? I’ve been in the service for twenty-eight years and I still can’t write a personnel report with anything like his style. But, all military jargon aside, there’s a fine line between bravery and foolhardiness, and Captain Conroy thinks you’ve crossed it. I tend to agree with him. Twelve kills? And you’ve only been here since June. That’s quite an impressive record, Glennon.”

  I cleared my throat. “Permission to speak, sir?”

  “Of course. I told you, you’re not here to get bawled out.”

  “It is true that I have a high record of enemy kills, but it’s been more luck than anything. For whatever reason, my section has come under fire more frequently than some others. When we have, I’ve tried my best to do my job, engage the enemy, and protect the craft I’ve been assigned to escort by neutralizing the threat. I haven’t gone looking for those Zeros, sir. They’ve come after me, and when they did, I took them on. That’s my job, sir.”

  “Morgan, when you’re assigned to escort a ship, your job is to defend them against the enemy, not go looking for them. Twice last month, when your group came under attack you engaged the enemy and took out one of their planes—very ably, according to this report. But then, after the Japs peeled off and headed for home and the ship you were assigned to protect was no longer in danger, you took off after them. Is that correct?” General Martin peered at me over the top of his black-rimmed glasses.