On Wings Of The Morning

by Marie Bostwick

  “Yeah, I hear you there,” he agreed and puffed sagely on his cigarette. “I wish they’d just make up their minds and send me somewhere. Anywhere. At this point I’d be happy to get posted to Siberia. Anything’s got to be better than sitting around here and waiting.”

  I nodded agreement, and we sat in the dark for a minute, thinking our own thoughts while Patterson finished his smoke. “Well, if you’re sure you’re all right,” he said, crushing his cigarette butt into the pickle-jar lid he used as an ashtray, “I’m going back to sleep. ’Night, Morgan.”

  “Good night.”

  Patterson wasn’t lying about his sleep habits. Within three minutes he was out and snoring. I lay awake for the rest of the night, fending off sleep and the camouflaged cloud of dreams that lurked on the other side of consciousness.

  When morning finally came I got dressed and carried on with the mind-numbing routine of a pilot without orders or airplane. I did some push-ups, ate, reorganized my footlocker, finished the letter to Virginia, and then headed over to the Post Exchange to see if I could find a wedding present for Mama and Paul, finally deciding on a cut-glass flower vase.

  There wasn’t much to choose from. The vase was a little fussy for my taste, but I knew Mama would like it. She’s always loved flowers and grew a small cutting garden next to the big one that was just for corn and vegetables, so we had bouquets on the table all summer long. But, like most everybody else in Dillon, she put her flowers in quart mason jars left over from the canned goods we’d consumed over the winter. Mama would think this vase was positively elegant. But Paul? Well, if Mama was excited about the present, I was sure Paul would be, too. What he wanted most was for her to be happy.

  I walked back to the barracks. As I was coming into our room, Jake was coming out, grinning and waving a very official-looking sheet of paper. “Hot damn! They’re here, Morgan! We’ve got orders at last!”

  I ran inside and ripped open the envelope that was lying on my bunk. The more I read, the happier I felt—no, overjoyed was more like it. I dug my wallet out of my pants pocket and opened it to see how much money was left. “That’ll do,” I said, satisfied that I had sufficient funds for my rapidly hatching plan. I stuffed the wallet back into my pocket, grabbed my orders, and headed out the door.

  “Hey, look at this!” Jake demanded excitedly, pointing to his orders. “They’re sending me to London! I’m going to Europe! Where are you going?”

  “If it all works out the way I’m hoping, to the commander’s office, a long-distance phone booth, San Diego, and New Guinea—in exactly that order! See you later!” I ran out the door, leaving my bewildered roommate behind.

  Less than an hour later, I was making good on the second proposed leg of my journey. Mama didn’t have a telephone, but the church did. I placed a long-distance, person-to-person call from Lieutenant Morgan Glennon to Reverend Paul Van Dyver. It only took a few minutes, but it seemed like forever before the operator came back on the line saying, “I have the Reverend Van Dyver on the line, Lieutenant. You have three minutes. Go ahead.”

  “Hello? Morgan, is that you?” The line crackled with static, and the voice on the other end sounded tinny, like we were calling through cans connected by miles of string, but I would have recognized that Dutch accent and carefully pronounced English if I’d been calling from the bottom of the ocean. It was definitely Paul.

  It was so good to hear his voice that I just about jumped for joy right inside the phone booth. “Are you all right?” He sounded worried.

  “I’m fine! Don’t worry, nothing bad has happened. I just wanted to call you and say congratulations. About the wedding, I mean. I think it’s wonderful, Paul.”

  “Oh, I’m so pleased you approve, Morgan. Your mother has made me the happiest man on earth. But,” he said, his delight suddenly tempered by Dutch practicality, “you should have just written us a letter. Long-distance is so expensive! This must be costing you a fortune.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Listen, I don’t have much time. I just got my orders. They are sending me back to the Pacific, to New Guinea, but the troopship that’s taking me there won’t leave until the twentieth. I’ve got to hang around here for a few days so they can go through the medical routine—you know, physicals and shots and all that, but I just talked to my C.O. He is going to give me a three-day pass so I can go to San Diego a little early. I’ve been saving up some money. I was going to send it to Mama, but there’s enough here for me to buy train tickets for the two of you to come out here! I’d love to have a chance to see you before I ship out. What do you say?”

  “That is a wonderful idea, Morgan. But don’t use up your money on train fare for us. I was thinking of taking your mother on a trip after the wedding. This will be perfect.” I started to protest, but Paul interrupted. “No, Morgan. It’s a very generous offer, but I insist. Eva is going to be my wife. I can take care of her. However, if you would like to buy us dinner in San Diego, I will be happy to accept.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “It’s a deal. I can’t wait to see you and Mama together! But, Paul. Just one thing ...” I hesitated, thinking how to phrase my question. “Are you sure you want me tagging along on your trip? I mean ... well, it is your honeymoon and everything.”

  On the other end of the phone, Paul laughed a big, booming laugh. “Oh, yes, Morgan. I know I can speak for your mother when I say that she would be thrilled and delighted to have you tag along on our honeymoon. And I feel exactly the same way.”

  21

  Morgan

  Baxter Field, Arizona—May 1943

  I’d passed my last flight check with no problems. My papers were in order. My gear was packed. Mama and Paul’s train was due to pull into San Diego on the morning of the twentieth. I’d bought a bus ticket that would get me to San Diego in plenty of time to meet them. At least, that was the plan.

  Three days before I was set to leave, I went in for my final physical. The doctor poked and prodded and listened, then scribbled down a few notes on a chart without ever asking me a question or even murmuring a quizzical “Hmmm.” He had about as much bedside manner as a meat inspector looking over a side of beef. I sat on the exam table wearing nothing but my shorts and shivering while he took his time writing up his notes. I tried looking over the clipboard and reading his notes upside down, but it was no use. He wrote in such chicken scratch, I probably couldn’t have read them even if they’d been right side up. I sure felt sorry for whatever nurse had to read his writing. Finally, he put down the pencil and said, “That’s it, then.”

  “All through? Thanks, Doc. You were making me nervous there for a minute.” I hopped off the table and pulled on my undershirt.

  “Nothing to be nervous about, just an ear infection. I’m putting you in the hospital until it clears up.”

  I was thunderstruck. For a minute, I honestly thought he was joking, but when I looked at his face, I realized he was dead serious. “An ear infection? You’re going to put me in the hospital for an ear infection? What are you talking about? My ear doesn’t even hurt.”

  The doctor shrugged and scratched his nose. “Maybe not now, but it will. It’s red and filled with fluid. I can’t clear you to fly until it’s healed. A thing like that could affect your equilibrium, you know.”

  “Come on, Doc,” I said. “You’re not really going to put me in the hospital over this, are you? My mother is coming all the way from Oklahoma to meet up with me in San Diego. You’ve gotta let me go!”

  The doctor shook his head. “Can’t do it, Lieutenant. You’d better call your mother and see if she can’t come here instead. When are you supposed to meet her?”

  “Thursday. I’m leaving to meet up with her on Tuesday. I’ve got a ten o’clock bus.”

  The doctor said, “Well ...” slowly, like he was considering something, and for a second I thought he was going to relent. Instead he said, “You might be over it by then. No guarantees, but it’s possible. I’ll see you again at nine on Tuesday, a
nd if it’s better, then I’ll discharge you in time to make your bus.”

  “But,” I argued, “there’s no way it’ll clear up by then. Not in three days! I used to get ear infections all the time when I was little, and they never got better in less than a week. Doc,” I pleaded, “you’ve got to let me go! I won’t be doing any flying until I get to my new post, anyway. It’ll be nearly a week until I leave San Diego and at least another week on a navy troopship until I get to New Guinea. It should be better by then, and I’ll have the doctor at my new base check me out before I get within a mile of a cockpit. I swear!” I held up my right hand, Boy Scout style, as a pledge of my good faith.

  “Calm down, Lieutenant. I’m going to put you on penicillin.” He smiled, as if he had just handed me a Christmas present and was waiting for a thank-you note, but when I didn’t say anything, he frowned, “Penicillin. The new wonder drug. You haven’t heard of it?”

  I shook my head, and he looked at me as if I’d been living under a rock.

  “It can clear up all kinds of infections—and fast. I don’t know if it’ll take care of that ear of yours by Wednesday, but it might. We’ll just have to see.” I started to argue again, but he wasn’t listening to me anymore. He stood up, handed me a prescription and an order, and opened the door to the examining room.

  “Report to the hospital, Lieutenant. The faster you get started on this, the faster you’ll get out of there.”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumbled morosely.

  Before closing the door, he said, “Lieutenant, don’t look so depressed. You’ll either make your bus to San Diego or not.” With a fatalistic shrug, he added, “If you don’t, it’s probably because you were meant to be someplace else.”

  At that moment, I could have smacked him with pleasure, but it turned out there was something to what he said.

  Doyle McMillan was the officer in charge of the control tower at Baxter Field. On Tuesday I burst into his office, furious and frantic.

  “Hey! Watch it, Glennon! What are you trying to do? Kick down my door?”

  “Doyle,” I said, without taking time to apologize, “you’ve got to help me! You got to let me have a plane!”

  “Whoa!” He held up both hands in a halting gesture, a touch of irritation in his voice. “I don’t gotta do anything. Especially when it comes to lending out government property. What’s the big problem ?”

  I took a deep breath and tried to speak slowly and patiently. The last thing I wanted to do was tick off Doyle, but I had to convince him. He was my last chance for getting to San Diego in time to meet up with Mama and Paul. “I was supposed to catch a bus to San Diego this morning to meet my family. The doc wouldn’t let me go unless this ear infection cleared up. He said he’d check it out this morning, and if it was better he’d let me leave—”

  “Hey,” Doyle interrupted, “if you don’t have medical authorization to take up a plane, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “No! You don’t understand! I got to the infirmary, and they left me sitting in the waiting room for an hour. The doc cleared me, but he was so late that I had just enough time to run all the way to the bus stop and see the bus pull out without me. You’ve got to let me have a plane. My mom’s train is pulling into the station in twenty-two hours. Cut me a break, Doyle! I haven’t seen her in two years!”

  Doyle sighed and tapped his pencil on the desk, thinking. “Gee, that’s rough,” he said, and for the first time during that frustrating morning, I felt a surge of hope. Though Doyle was only one step ahead of me in rank, he wielded considerable power. If anyone could get me a plane, he could—that is, if he was willing to help. The sympathetic look on his face told me that just might be the case.

  “You’re shipping out to the Pacific soon, right?” he asked and then, without waiting for an answer, mused, “A guy ought to be able to see his own mother before he goes off to fight for his country.” He bit his lip, still considering, and reached for a clipboard that was sitting on the edge of his wooden, government-issue desk.

  He flipped through a few pages, mumbling to himself as he did. I just stood very still, watching him, praying that my ticket to San Diego lay somewhere in that pile of paper. Three minutes felt like three hours. Finally, he put down the clipboard, but even before he spoke I could tell that the news wasn’t good.

  “I’m sorry, Glennon, but honestly, there’s nothing here I can let you have. Everything with wings is spoken for. If I gave you a plane that was meant for somebody else they’d bust me down to airman by lunch.”

  “Please, Doyle! You’ve got to help me!”

  “I’d like to,” he said. “Really I would but ...” He broke off and suddenly his face lit up, looking for all the world like there was a big lightbulb of an idea floating over his head.

  “Wait a minute!” He grabbed the phone and started dialing. “There’s a factory that makes cargo planes about thirty minutes from here. Lots of them end up in San Diego. I’ll see if they’ve got any being delivered today. It’s a little irregular, but if they’ve got a ferry pilot that wouldn’t mind bringing a passenger along, you might just be set! I’ve got a friend over there,” but before he could finish the sentence, someone picked up on the other end. McMillan’s face brightened. “John? Hey, buddy! It’s Doyle. Listen, I need a favor ...”

  In less than an hour, Doyle himself was dropping me off at the factory. We were met by his friend John, who rushed me quickly through the factory gates, then to the runway.

  “Thanks, John!” I hollered gratefully over the sound of engine noise and closed the door behind me, ready for takeoff.

  The pilot, who was busy giving the instruments a final once-over, didn’t look up when I came on board, but waved me forward. I stowed my gear and collapsed gratefully into the copilot’s seat. “Thanks, buddy. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  “No trouble at all,” said a voice from my dreams. The pilot looked up from the control panel. My eyes met Georgia’s, and when they did, I’m sure the surprise on my face matched her own.

  22

  Georgia

  San Diego, California—May 1943

  San Diego is a navy town, so the residents were used to seeing men in uniform, but when Morgan and I walked into the Gaslight Steak House, all eyes were upon us.

  The waitress handed us menus and left. I opened mine, peered over the top of it, and whispered to Morgan, “So, you think they don’t get a lot of lady pilots wearing flight suits four sizes too big for them in here? I told you I should have changed before we went to dinner. They’re going to be staring at us all night!”

  “You think it’s you they’re looking at? Naw. I think it’s me. We’re so close to where the movie stars live, they’ve probably mistaken me for Errol Flynn. Happens all the time,” he said with a world-weary sigh.

  “Errol Flynn? More like Groucho Mark,” I teased, returning the jab. “But, seriously, we should have gotten cleaned up before going out to eat. I feel self-conscious with all these people staring at us. Maybe we should have just gone to the U.S.O.”

  “What? And have donuts for dinner instead of a nice, juicy steak? And if we were at the U.S.O. I’d have to spend my whole evening chasing off all the flyboys who would be fighting for a dance with you,” Morgan said. “Especially once they got an eyeful of you in that swell outfit.”

  I made a face and clunked Morgan on the head with my menu. “Very funny.”

  “Ouch! Is that any way to treat a guy who’s trying to give you a compliment? Not to mention taking you out to dinner—”

  I interrupted him. “Morgan, this isn’t a date, and you’re not taking me out to dinner, remember? We’re just eating together because we don’t know anyone else in San Diego. When the check comes we are splitting it right down the middle. That’s what you agreed to.”

  Morgan held up his hands in surrender. “I know. I know. It’s not a date.”

  The waitress returned to take our order. Morgan ordered a T-bone, but I just aske
d for a hamburger. Since it was a special occasion, we each decided to try a glass of red wine.

  “If we’re splitting the check down the middle, it looks like I’m going to be getting a deal. Are you sure you don’t want a steak?” Morgan asked.

  I shook my head and took a sip of water. “I’m not that hungry.”

  “Really? You should be, after flying all the way here. I’ve got to tell you the truth, Georgia, I wasn’t sure a little slip of a thing like you would be able to handle that bomber. What do you weigh? Maybe a hundred and ten pounds?”

  “Hundred and seventeen,” I corrected. “Probably a hundred and fifty if you count the flight suit.”

  “And now you’re flying twin-engine cargo planes?” Morgan whistled admiringly. “You’ve learned a few things since last I saw you.” I couldn’t help but blush a little. It felt good to earn another pilot’s respect, especially one as good as Morgan. During our flight, he’d told me about his experiences in the Pacific, but only after I prodded him. Twelve combat kills was an impressive record; most pilots would have let you know about that before they even said hello, but not Morgan. I liked him more because of it.

  “Well, you may only weigh one hundred and seventeen pounds,” Morgan continued, “but the first hundred must be pure muscle. If I’d had to manhandle that monster all the way to San Diego, my arms would be feeling like spaghetti right now.”

  “Who says they don’t?” I laughed and reached for a hot roll from the basket the waitress had left on the table. “When we were at Avenger they must have made us do a million push-ups, and now I know why. I only graduated a month ago, but I’ve already flown more different planes than most pilots handle in a lifetime—fighters, dive bombers, pursuit planes, you name it.” I knew I was bragging, but I couldn’t help feeling a little proud. Sometimes, when I’d walk up to some big behemoth of an airplane and realize that I was going to get behind the wheel and actually take her off the ground, I could scarcely believe it myself.