“Oh,” I replied knowingly. “You’re one of those. Well, you’d better get going, Flyboy. Didn’t you hear? Avenger is off-limits to male pilots. Even male pilots with ‘emergencies.’”
“What are you talking about?” He frowned, a deep crease appearing between his eyebrows.
“Yeah. Don’t play so innocent.” I smirked. “The first couple of weeks we opened we had dozens of guys like you—fellas who touched down saying they had an emergency when all they were looking for was a chance to check out the girls and chase some skirt. After that, an order went out saying that no more men could land at Avenger—not unless they had real emergencies. Come on. You’d better fire up your engines and get out of here before somebody writes you up.”
I heard a noise and looked up to see one of the base mechanics trotting toward us. It was Joe Palka. I recognized him from a distance because, as usual, he had a cigarette clutched between his teeth. I never saw him without one. Joe was a little fresh, but he was a pretty good mechanic. He ran up to the young pilot and, a little out of breath with a lit Lucky bobbing up and down as he spoke, said, “You the one that called in the emergency?”
The pilot nodded, and Joe said, “Yeah, the tower called the shop and said to come over and check it out. She just stalled?”
“That’s right. At about fifteen thousand feet. I tried everything I could think of to start her back up, but nothing worked. I’d just passed you a few minutes before, so I radioed in to your tower. Thought maybe I could glide her in. I banked hard right to circle back, and then, when I tried the engines again, they started up. She seems fine now, but it’s a long way home. Maybe your boys can check her out for me.”
Joe puffed on his cigarette and pulled his nose at the same time, thinking. “Well, there’s no way we’re going to get to it tonight, that’s for sure. I’ve got six jobs ahead of you and none of ’em can wait. That means you’re going to have to stick around until Monday. The shop is closed on Sunday.”
The pilot furrowed his brow and said in a voice that was almost desperate, “Look, I’ve got to get back by nine o’clock on Monday morning. It’s important. Can’t you just give her a quick once-over? Maybe it’s something simple.”
Joe lifted both hands and shrugged off the request. “Sorry, pal. No can do. I already told the tower to call your base and let ’em know you’ll be here at least until Monday—maybe the day after. Better head over to our commander’s office and see if they can’t find you a bed and something to eat. Georgia can show you where to go.
“Don’t look so gloomy, Lieutenant.” Joe grinned. “A lotta guys would give their right propeller to be stranded at Avenger. There’s not another base like it in the whole Air Force. It’s hotter than Hades, centrally isolated, and—did I mention?—hotter than Hades. But the scenery! Mister, the scenery here is something else. Isn’t that right, Georgia, honey?” He winked and gave me a leering glance. I stuck out my tongue at him.
“Ignore him, Lieutenant. He’s been breathing gas fumes all his life. It’s affected his brain.”
Joe laughed out one side of his mouth, careful not to lose his Lucky in the process. “Boy, you said a mouthful, honey! I was due to muster out next month but I just re-upped for three more years. There’s gotta be something wrong with me!
“Well, I gotta run. There’s a busted manifold out there with my name on it. I’ll get to your plane as soon as I can, Lieutenant.” With that he trotted off again in the direction of the mechanical shops, holding his hand up without looking back, extending his fingers in a farewell salute.
The pilot just stood there looking at Joe’s receding figure with an expression of irritation on his face. “Great,” he muttered to himself and scuffed the toe of his boot hard against the ground like he wished he had something, or someone, to kick. “That’s just great.”
I cleared my throat to get his attention. “Do you have a flight bag? Why don’t you grab it, and I’ll take you over to the office.”
“I didn’t bring anything. I wasn’t exactly planning on being here. That’s a brand-new P-38,” he said, jerking his head toward the plane. “We just got her from the test pilots, and everything checked out fine. There shouldn’t be a thing wrong with her. Heck, maybe there isn’t. Maybe I should just start her back up and head for home,” he mused.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You want to fly a plane whose engines cut out on you at fifteen thousand feet without having a mechanic find out why? You must be one important lieutenant if you’re needed at base so bad that you’ll take that kind of risk with your life, not to mention a plane that cost the government thousands. Who are you? General Eisenhower traveling incognito?”
He glared at me. I hadn’t meant to come off as sarcastic, but, honestly, I’d never heard of anything so crazy. And the way this guy was grumbling you’d have thought he’d just been sentenced to life in Sing Sing instead of a couple of nights at an all-girl air base. Of course, my initial greeting probably hadn’t helped. I hadn’t exactly made him feel welcomed.
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be so smart. And I apologize for giving you a hard time about landing here. My mouth gets the better of me sometimes. Let me walk you over to the office, and they’ll get you fixed up with whatever you need. You’ll feel better after a shower and some food. Come on.” I motioned with my head and started walking in the direction of the base offices.
He sighed and started following. “Yeah. Guess there’s nothing I can do about this tonight.”
“You know, a bunch of us are going into town tonight. My roommates and I just passed our flight checks so we’re going to go celebrate. It’s just a little roadhouse, but the beer is cold and cheap. If you want to come along, we can give you a ride.”
“No, thanks,” he said, his voice was flat. “I just want to get my plane fixed and get out of here, so if you’ll just point the way to the commander’s office, I think I can take it from here. I’ve already got a girlfriend back home. I’m not looking for another one.”
What a jerk!
“Well, that’s good, because I’m not looking, either! I’m married !” I held up my left hand and waggled my ring finger in his face. “Who do you think you are, anyway? Clark Gable? I was just trying to be nice to you, but—funny thing! ”—I smacked my forehead with the flat of my hand—“The urge is gone!
“The office is over by the flagpole,” I pointed to the right. “Captain Dean is in charge of billets for visitors.” I turned on my heel and stomped off, but not before shouting over my shoulder, “And I hope he puts you in the barracks with the rattlesnake nest under it! I’m sure you’d feel right at home!”
17
Morgan
Sweetwater, Texas—March 1943
The pretty trainee had been right. I felt better after a shower and some food.
I also felt bad about talking to her that way, but I was so frustrated. Getting stranded in Texas meant that I was going to miss my own flight check on Monday morning. Unlike these trainees, a failed or missed check didn’t mean I’d be sent home, but it did mean I wouldn’t be able to graduate from my training on time. I’d be cycled back to the class that was behind mine. That would tack on a full month to my training. I shouldn’t have been so mean to that girl, but you could hardly blame me for being grouchy.
The mechanic had been right, too. It was hot as blazes, like Dillon at the peak of summer. The food they’d served at dinner was good—pork barbeque, potatoes, corn bread, stewed okra, and banana pudding—and I ate heartily, but it did nothing to lift my spirits. I brought a glass of iced tea back to the visitors’ barracks. The ice melted before I got halfway there, but the tea was still cool. I sat down on the stoop in front of the barracks to drink it, hoping to catch a breeze, and wondering how I was going to pass the time until morning.
I thought about writing to Virginia. It had been more than a week since I’d done so, but it was too hot and, truthfully, I just didn’t feel like it. She’d sent three l
etters since I’d last written. Each one read pretty much like the one before it, full of details about what she’d done that day and what she’d worn that day, petty gossip about her enemies and petty complaints about her friends, and, always, not very subtle hints about a proposal. In fact, sometimes they weren’t even hints. Her last letter had come right out and asked if I ever planned on asking her to marry her and even accused me of having another girlfriend.
I knew I should write her, reassure her, but I didn’t know what to say. Probably, when the war was over, I should marry her. She’d been waiting so long. She’d been excited when I’d come back stateside for my P-38 training. She thought I’d be able to get some leave time to come to Oklahoma. Maybe time enough for a quick visit to the justice of the peace. I probably could have if I’d pushed for it, but the truth was, I just didn’t want to go home. Lots of guys went off with a weekend pass and came back with a wedding band. Just a couple of months ago, Virginia had written to tell me that Frank Hodges had swept into town, married Ethel Garland, and hopped a train the next day so he could meet up with his battalion and ship out for England. No, even though it would have been nice to see Mama, Grandma, and Ruby, I wasn’t ready to ask for a weekend leave to Dillon.
So, for the time being at least, here I was, stranded somewhere west of Abilene, and, having fruitlessly circled my brain around all the problems that I was faced with, I came back to my first question: how was I going to keep myself occupied until morning?
I took a sip of my now lukewarm tea and pondered the issue. Then, as if in answer to my question, a group of girls dressed in matching blue blouses and regulation-looking skirts rounded the corner of my barracks, laughing and talking. A pretty, petite brunette led the group, the same trainee who had blessed me out while showing me to the base offices.
I got up from the stoop and stepped into her path.
“Hi,” I said sheepishly. “Remember me?” She glared at me with those huge brandy-brown eyes like she wished she didn’t.
“I don’t think I ever really introduced myself.” I stuck out my hand and hoped she’d take it. “Morgan Glennon. I was stationed with a fighter wing in the Pacific until a few months ago, but they sent me back home to train in P-38s.” My hand hovered, unclasped, in empty air. I drew it back awkwardly, feigning the need to push my hair out of my eyes. The trainee just kept glaring at me, but one of her friends, a tall girl with an Eastern accent, stepped in front of the girl and stuck out her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Or may I call you Morgan?” I said that Morgan would be fine. She said her name was Pamela and then introduced me to the other girls, Fanny and Donna Lee, before continuing.
“And, of course, you’ve already met my friend, Georgia Welles, Avenger Field’s own little Miss Congeniality.” She elbowed her friend and said, “Georgia! Don’t be rude. Say something to the man.”
“That’s all right. I can’t say as I blame her. We didn’t get off on a very good foot this afternoon.”
“So we heard.” Fanny giggled. “Georgia said she tried to show you a little WASP hospitality and you told her to take a hike!”
“Of course that was right after she’d called him a masher and accused him of faking engine failure just so he could prey on innocent lady pilots,” Donna Lee said practically but with a trace of a smile. Then, looking to her friend, she said, “Georgia, you can’t blame him for being sore after you were so snippy.” Georgia’s wide eyes got even wider. She opened her mouth as if she were ready to tell Donna Lee exactly what she could do with her clumsy attempts at diplomacy, but I interrupted before she could utter a word.
“No,” I explained to Donna Lee. “It was all my fault. Really. I was upset and took it out on Georgia. You see, I’m due at my base for my final flight check in the morning, but since I’m stuck here, I’m going to miss it. I won’t be able to finish with my class. They’ll send me back to the next group, and I’ll graduate from the program a month late.” I glanced over at Georgia and saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes.
“A whole month!” Fanny exclaimed. “If somebody told me I was going to have to spend an extra month here while the rest of you girls went on and got your wings, I’d probably pop somebody right in the kisser! You poor guy!” she said sympathetically.
I nodded my head slowly and tried to look like exactly that—a poor guy: ignored by flight mechanics, friendless, stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do on a Friday night but sit on the stoop of the visitors’ barracks drinking lukewarm tea, nursing my regrets. I sighed melodramatically and gave Georgia a sideways glance.
She tipped her head, showing she was on to me, and laughed. “All right already. All is forgiven. But why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? I wouldn’t have been so hard on you.” Before giving me a chance to answer, her friend Pamela piped in.
“Why don’t you come down to the Tumbleweed with us? It’s not exactly the Coconut Grove, but it’ll be more fun than hanging around here all night.”
I looked for permission at the pretty one. “Is that all right with you?”
She considered a moment. “Why not?” she said with a shrug. “The more the merrier.”
Pamela wasn’t kidding. The Tumbleweed Roadhouse not only wasn’t the Coconut Grove, it wasn’t even the Hy-Life Tavern, the only bar in Dillon.
The Tumbleweed was way out on a dirt road east of town. The long, low building leaned slightly to the northwest and was topped off by a rust-laden roof of corrugated tin. If the Tumbleweed had ever had known the stroke of a paintbrush, which seemed unlikely, blistering sun and hard Texas winds had peeled off the evidence years before.
We’d come in two battered trucks that the girls borrowed from friends. I rode with Pamela, who took the wheel, and Georgia had the other girls with her. Pamela was a nice-looking girl, tall and blond, with a quick wit. I liked her right off. She asked if I had a girl back home. When I reported that I did, she snapped her fingers and said, “Nuts! No smooching for me tonight! Guess I’ll just have to settle for a turn around the dance floor.”
The parking lot was crowded. Georgia grabbed a spot near the door, but I had to park on the far end. As we drove in I heard a crunching sound under the tires that I thought was gravel, but when I opened the door of the truck and stepped out, I found the ground was covered, literally, with old beer caps. There were thousands of them. “When the sun goes down and it cools off a little, the cowboys like to buy a brew and drink it outside, standing around the trucks,” Pamela explained. “Somebody told me it was an old icehouse, that people used to buy their beer here because it was the only way to get a cold one. We’re walking on decades of beer caps—layers and layers of them. In another thousand years some archeologist will dig up this place and write a thesis on the beer-drinking habits of prehistoric man.”
We joined the others, who were waiting for us at a spot slightly closer to the door. Pamela gave a loud, and pretty realistic, impression of a wolf howling at the moon as we approached. Like her, the other girls were clearly excited, giddy with relief over passing their flight checks, and energized by the prospect of a night on the town. I knew exactly how they felt. I’d enjoyed many such celebrations with my buddies, especially with Fountain, who could turn any sliver of good news into an excuse for a party, but it was odd for me to think of girls acting like this, getting ready to tie one on just the way my flying buddies did.
Georgia was more subdued than her friends, but she appeared to be enjoying herself, or at least enjoying the fact that the girls were having fun. She walked near the back of the group. I fell into step beside her and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “So, are you the adult in charge of this crew?”
She grinned and nodded. “I guess so. At least, I’m the one that makes sure they all get back on base before roll call and with their garters still attached to their girdles. I’m not really a drinker. Don’t like the taste. I usually order one beer, drink half of it, and then switch to Coca-Cola.”
“I�
�m the same way. I don’t have anything against drinking; I just don’t care for it much myself. Still, it’s fun to come out and have a good time with your friends. They seem like real nice girls.”
“They are. The best. And they are terrific pilots, too. In another month”—she knocked her head like it was wood for good luck—“we’ll all graduate and start ferrying planes for the war effort.”
“Good for you!” I said. “We could sure use the help.”
Georgia turned to look at me with an expression of surprise. “Really? You think so? A lot of guys think it’s a waste of time and money to train women as pilots. They think we won’t be able to cut it. Even some of the officers and instructors at Avenger feel that way. We’ve passed the same classes and gone through almost the exact same training as male flight cadets, but a few of the men who are supposed to be helping us get ready to fly would still like nothing better than to see us wash out.”
“Well, that’s just stupid,” I said, and I meant it. “If a girl can pass the same training as a man, I can’t see any reason she shouldn’t fly. We need every combat pilot we can lay our hands on, and if women can help win the war by flying stateside so more guys can get into the fight, I can’t see why they shouldn’t. Heck, I’m grateful for the help!”
Georgia’s pace slowed slightly as we approached the door of the roadhouse, and I kept in step with her as the other girls forged ahead, eager to let the party begin.
“Well, you’re a breath of fresh air,” Georgia said and then puffed in disgust. “I just don’t understand the attitude of some of these guys. Here we are, every one of us is already a pilot with a minimum of seventy-five hours in the air, and most with a lot more and—my gosh! Why shouldn’t we fly if that will help end the war sooner? Everyone should do their part, and the way I see it, my part is flying airplanes because that’s what I know how to do and that’s what needs to be done.
On Wings Of The Morning Page 13
