“Would they be happier if I stayed home and knit socks? Of course”—she laughed and raised her hands in front of her “—one look at my knitting and they’d probably be just as happy to let me pilot airplanes. The nuns tried their best with me for ten long years and I still can’t darn a sock or sew on a button.”
I looked at her and couldn’t help but smile. At first glance, I’d thought she was hard and standoffish, but underneath she really was a sweet girl and a very pretty one. Even in the middle of frustrated attempts to get off this air base, I’d noticed that right off. Now, with the moonlight shining on her hair and her eyes sparkling in laughter, I decided she just might be beautiful.
“Well, maybe you weren’t the problem. Maybe it was the nuns. I’ve never met any myself—my hometown is so small that we don’t even have a Catholic church—but my old buddy Tony Campezzio, used to tell some horror stories about the ruler-wielding sisters in his elementary school.”
“Oh, the sisters are like any teachers, I suppose—some good and some not so good. My guess is your friend Tony deserved whatever he got,” she said with a chuckle. “I had some good teachers growing up, but Sister Agatha taught sewing, and she never liked me, not from the first day.”
“Well, there you have it!” I smacked my hand against my leg to emphasize my point. “Sister Agatha never liked you, so you never liked sewing. The right teacher makes all the difference. Bet my Mama could teach you. She makes quilts, but not like anything you’ve ever seen before. Her quilts are like paintings.”
“Wow.” Georgia replied, but flatly. I could tell she wasn’t convinced.
“I’m not kidding. My mother is an artist. And she’s patient. She could teach you for certain.” A little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“What?” I asked. “You don’t think I’m telling the truth.”
Georgia shook her head. “No, not exactly. It’s just that every boy thinks his mother is the greatest.”
“Well, why shouldn’t I?” I teased, mocking indignation. “That’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it? Mom, apple pie, and the American way?”
Our conversation was interrupted as Pamela shouted, “Hey!” from the porch of the roadhouse where she and the others were waiting. “Could you two walk any slower? Come on already! I need a drink!”
Georgia sighed. “My master’s voice,” she said with a tolerant smile. “Come on.”
Bottle caps crunching metallically under our feet, we trotted up to the porch of the roadhouse where the rest of the group was waiting. Pamela pulled open the heavy door, and when she did, a wall of sound—guitars, fiddles, and the stomping of dozens of pairs of boot-shod feet dancing the Cotton-Eyed Joe—hit me square in the face. The floor, except the dance area, was carpeted with a blend of sawdust and peanut shells. A neon sign over the bar that said LONE STAR: THE NATIONAL BEER OF TEXAS and a single yellow spotlight trained on the band provided most of the illumination. The place smelled like beer, bacon grease, and cigarette smoke. It was a real dive, but, judging from the number of patrons that crowded the dance floor and lined up at the bar, a popular one.
Donna Lee spotted an empty table, littered with empty beer bottles left behind by the previous occupants, and waved us over to it. Fanny and Pamela started clearing the debris from the table while Georgia and I went in search of three extra chairs. Shouting to be heard over the noise, Georgia leaned toward me and said, “I wouldn’t order any food if I were you, but if you do, make sure it’s deep fried!”
In spite of Georgia’s warning, I did order food but stuck to the chicken-fried steak, which was pretty good. I took turns dancing with the girls. I’m not exactly light on my feet, but it was fun. Before long, local boys, some in uniform and some not, found their way to our table and asked the girls to dance—all except Georgia, who indicated her refusal by a quick wave of her wedding ring. Other than one quick turn with me, and that was only because the other girls urged her to, Georgia didn’t dance all night—not until a grinning, gap-toothed cowboy with a battered Stetson in his hand approached.
Georgia smiled and said, “Love to, Tex,” and went off to join the other couples dancing to a sentimental country waltz.
Fanny and Donna Lee were still on the floor. Pamela sat next to me, resting between dances and downing her fourth Lone Star of the evening. “Who is that guy?” I asked.
Pamela gulped down a swallow of beer. “Him? Oh, that’s Tex. Nobody says no to a dance with Tex.”
“Really?” I took a second look at the lanky, not especially handsome cowboy, who I’d just realized only had two fingers on his left hand, and wondered what the attraction could be.
“Jealous?” Pamela asked but broke into laughter before I could respond. “Don’t be. Tex is just a harmless old farmhand, but a patriotic one. He meets all the trains in Sweetwater and drives the girls out to the base. It’s his contribution to the war effort. He’s a sweet old thing. Doesn’t hardly even drink, except his one beer on Saturday night, but he sure does like to dance. He’s pretty good at it, too!”
Pamela was right. I watched as Tex guided Georgia around the floor with all the style and confidence of an Arthur Murray teacher, “He’s got me beat, that’s for sure. I’d just wondered about him since Georgia turned down everybody else. It’s sweet the way she won’t dance because she’s married, but I don’t see where a couple of dances would hurt anything. Her husband must be the jealous type. Where’s he stationed, anyway?”
Pamela’s persistently present smile faded. “She didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Georgia’s not married; she’s a widow. Don’t tell her I told you, but her husband was a bomber pilot. He was shot down over the Atlantic. She was crazy about him. They owned a little airfield and flight school in Illinois, and Roger—that was his name, Roger Welles—was the one who taught her to fly. He did a good job, too; she’s one heck of a pilot.
“She joined the WASP just a couple of months after he was killed. If it had been me, I think I’d have stayed home and cried and felt sorry for myself, but not Georgia. She joined up and took her husband’s place. She’s something. She doesn’t talk about Roger much, but I know she misses him. She still wears his ring; it helps keep the wolves at bay. If they knew she wasn’t married, half the instructors on base would be after her. But I wish she would start dating a little bit. Sometimes she seems so sad. She almost never goes out with us, and when she does, it’s out of loyalty—somebody has got to make sure we all get home without disgracing ourselves.” Pamela’s smiled returned. “She’s a good friend.”
The waltz ended, and Tex dropped Georgia back at our table and excused himself. A little out of breath, Georgia smiled and said, “That Tex is some dancer!” as she flopped into her chair and took a drink from a half-empty bottle of Coke.
A tall man, who I’d learned was a flight instructor by the name of Dave Kalinowski, came up and asked Pamela to dance. “I’ll be right with you,” Pamela said. “I’ve just got to run powder my nose first.”
Dave grinned and said he’d meet her at the bar, then excused himself. “Dave must really have a thing for you,” Georgia said to Pamela, shouting to make herself heard over the music. “Isn’t this the fourth time he’s asked you to dance tonight?”
“Fifth,” Pamela reported, “but who’s counting? I think he’s a doll.”
“You’d better watch it,” Georgia advised. “If you get caught dating an instructor there’ll be hell to pay.”
Pamela dug a lipstick out of her purse and stood up. “We’re not dating. We’re just dancing. But it would be kind of fun if we were. And he’s Polish! That would drive my mother simply crazy!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, that doesn’t exactly seem like the foundation for a lifetime of bliss.”
Pamela winked wickedly over her shoulder as she headed off to the ladies’ room. “Maybe not, but it’s a start!”
Georgia laughed and shook her head. “She’s something else, i
sn’t she?”
I nodded agreement. We sat in silence, listening to the band, and I tried to think of a topic of conversation. I almost asked her about her husband but thought better of it. If she’d wanted me to know about him she’d have said something; and, besides, Pam asked me not to.
Georgia suddenly said, “Hey, Morgan. I’ve been thinking about your plane. You say the motor cut out, but when you turned so you could land at Avenger, it started again?”
“Yeah,” I said slowly, wondering what she was getting at. “I banked her hard, and when I tried to start her again, she fired up right off.”
Georgia rested her chin in her hand, covering her mouth, her eyes glittering with calculations. She stayed in that position for a long minute, and then, grinning from ear to ear, jumped to her feet, swallowed the dregs of her Coca-Cola, and started looking for her purse and keys.
“You going somewhere?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “And you’re coming with me. I’ve got an idea, and if I’m right, we just might be able to get you home in time to take that flight check after all!”
18
Morgan
Avenger Field—March 1943
The night sky was dark, strewn with white-bright stars on a field of black velvet. It reminded me of home. For a moment I stood motionless, remembering boyhood nights in Dillon spent staring at the stars and dreaming of being a pilot—and now I was one. Amazing.
“Found it!” Georgia yelled from somewhere inside the open hangar and flipped a switch, unleashing a flood of light from three spots mounted on the exterior wall. She emerged from the hangar pulling on a laddered scaffold. I ran over to help her wheel it into place next to the plane.
“Explain to me again what we’re doing?” I asked.
“Trying to fix your airplane,” she said flatly, as though speaking to a none too bright child. “You would like to get back to your base before you miss your flight check, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure. Yeah.” I hesitated, pretty sure my next sentence would rub her the wrong way. “But, I mean ... how do you think you’re going to fix her? You’re a pilot, and I’m sure you’re a good one, but that doesn’t exactly make you a mechanic, does it? I mean, we’ve all had a few engine maintenance courses, but ...”
She rolled up the sleeve on her blouse and started unscrewing the wing-tank bolts as she said in an annoyed tone, “I’ve had more than a few maintenance courses. Back home in Illinois, at the airfield my husband and I ran, I used to help our mechanic, Stubbs Peterson, all the time. Stubbs knows everything there is to know about airplanes. He worked with Claude Ryan, the man who built the Spirit of St. Louis. Stubbs and I have worked on all kind of planes.
“Here. Hold these bolts,” she commanded, then stuck her head down inside the dark mechanical recesses of the plane. “It’s too dark. I can’t see. Can you dig a flashlight out of that toolbox and hand it to me?”
I rummaged around and found the flashlight. “Georgia—and understand that I mean no disrespect—I’m sure your mechanic friend taught you a lot, but what kind of airplanes could you really have been working on at a little private field in the middle of nowhere? Sixty-horsepower Cessnas? These P-38s are the latest, twin-engine fighters! I’m sure your friend, Stubbs, was a first-rate mechanic in his day, but to compare the Spirit of St. Louis with a P-38 is like comparing a Sherman tank to a Model-T!” I didn’t even bother to mention the fact that she was fussing around with the gas tanks even though I was pretty sure this was an engine problem.
She wasn’t listening. “The valves all look good and tight,” she mused. “Hand me a wrench.” While I rifled through the toolbox, she continued.
“Don’t be such a worrywart. I know this is a complicated machine. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. But I kept thinking about what you said to Joe, about it maybe being something simple—something obvious that would be easy to fix. That gave me an idea. If I’m wrong about it ... well, we’ll just close her back up and no harm done. But, if I’m right ...” She shrugged her shoulders. “What have you got to lose?”
She peered down into darkness, trying to see past the complicated tangle of hoses and wires that connected the wing tanks to the engine. “I still can’t see,” she complained. “Can you hold the flashlight? Shine it right there on that drainage valve.”
While I beamed the flashlight onto the spot she’d indicated, she loosened the valve, then reached in and triumphantly pulled out a grimy ball that turned out to be a wad of paper.
“Here’s the culprit!” she exclaimed. “It was keeping the gas from feeding out evenly. That’s why your motor cut out. The engine wasn’t getting enough fuel.” She smoothed out the gasoline-soaked paper. “It’s somebody’s grocery list! Look at this—eggs, milk, pears.... Whoever was working on the tank must have put this down for a second, turned their back, and accidentally knocked it into the tank. Probably they went to the market, turned their pockets inside out looking for the list, and then got in trouble when they came home because they forgot the milk!” She laughed, and I was reminded again of just how beautiful she was.
“Georgia, you are something else,” I said admiringly. “Forgive me for ever doubting you. But how did you know it was a piece of paper stuck in the valve? I mean, what are the chances of something like that happening?”
“Oh. Well, I didn’t know for sure,” she admitted. “I didn’t think it was the engine itself because I heard you come in, and I stood right next to her when you taxied in. The engine sounded great; it was running like a top. But when you said that it started up again after you’d banked right, I wondered if maybe something wasn’t keeping the fuel from draining out of the right tank. See, it wasn’t completely blocked. If it had been, that would have been the end of you for sure. But, when you banked, you tipped the wing up enough so gravity started working for you and draining the gas down where it belonged. At least, I thought that could be it. It could have been a dozen other things, but I got lucky.”
“So did I. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Looks like you won’t miss your flight check after all. Of course, you’ll have to pass it to graduate with your class, but somehow I don’t think that’ll be a problem for you.” She smiled. “So, you’ll take off first thing tomorrow morning?”
“Yes. I suppose so,” I was surprised to realize that even though a few hours before I’d have given anything to leave, I really wouldn’t mind sticking around Avenger a little longer. “Best to get back before dark if I can.”
Georgia nodded but didn’t say anything. I stood there awkwardly for a moment before finally saying, “Well, thanks again for everything.”
Georgia said not to mention it and that she guessed we’d better head on back. I wheeled the scaffold back into the hangar while she put away the toolbox and doused the lights. We walked, side by side, down the path that led back to the barracks. We were quiet for a long time, but then I said, “Sorry if I ended up wrecking your evening, but I sure appreciate everything you did. You know, it’s only just a little past eleven. If you wanted, we could go back over to the Tumbleweed for a while. I hate thinking you missed the party on account of me.”
Georgia shook her head and waved off my apology. “No, that’s all right. The Tumbleweed really isn’t my cup of tea anyway. I think I’ll probably just turn in.” She added, almost sheepishly, “The other girls mostly sleep in on Sunday, but I’ve been getting up early and going over to this little church in Sweetwater. It’s kind of silly, I know, but ...” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes darted away from mine, as though she expected me to burst out laughing.
“I’ve always gone to church. I was raised on it,” I said. “I don’t think it’s silly at all.”
Georgia’s eyes narrowed, and she bit her lip, thinking. “No? You don’t think God seems kind of irrelevant in today’s world? That’s what Pamela says. She took some religion classes in college, and the professor said it’s all just superstition. She makes fun of me for wasting my Sund
ay morning in church when I could be catching up on my sleep. The truth is, I feel kind of dumb for doing it myself. I don’t know what it is I think I’ll get out of it.” She rolled her eyes, as if apologizing for her own foolishness before going on.
“When I was little I went to church but only because the nuns made me. Probably it would have been easier to believe back then—life was so much less complicated. Now I’d like to believe in God, but I’m just not sure if I can. I mean, if God is out there and in charge of everything, why does He let so many bad things happen? Why did He let this war happen? Why does He let so many good, decent men, get killed?” Her eyes filmed a little at the last. Probably she was thinking about her husband, but I wasn’t supposed to know about that, and I didn’t want to give away Pamela’s confidence, so I didn’t say anything.
“Oh! Look at me! You must think I’m crazy spending my time worrying about God and the universe!” She laughed and reached up to lay her hands on her cheeks that had grown pink with emotion. Her eyes were tearing.
I smiled, dug a handkerchief out of my pocket and handed it to her. “Not for a minute. Those are good questions. I think you’d be crazy if you didn’t ask. In my book, the only thing crazier than not asking would be letting somebody else dismiss the whole thing just because they’ve got Ph.D. behind their name. No offense to Pamela, she seems like a bright girl, but I don’t think I’d believe or not believe something just so my opinion could match up with some professor’s. I went to college for a while, and I can tell you, some of my teachers were brilliant, but some I wouldn’t trust to guide me across the street, let alone tell me the meaning of God and the universe!” I chuckled, and Georgia joined in, rubbing the end of her nose with my handkerchief.
“Seriously,” I continued, “it seems to me like this is the kind of a thing a person has to decide for themselves. I used to have the same kinds of questions you did. When I was little I’d ask my mama about that and later, our pastor, who was almost like a father to me. They gave me some things to think about, but I really had to figure it out on my own.”
On Wings Of The Morning Page 14
