On Wings Of The Morning

by Marie Bostwick

  “That is something,” Morgan replied sincerely. “They sent me to school for almost as long as you went, and I only came out knowing how to fly P-38s.”

  “Well, it’s a little different. You’ve got to fly them in combat, so you’ve got to know that plane inside and out. All I have to do is get them up in the air and land them again. Nobody’s shooting at me while I’m trying to do it.”

  The waitress brought our dinners. I took a bite of my hamburger and let out a groan of pleasure. “Mmm. I am in heaven! This is the best hamburger I’ve ever had.”

  Morgan was enjoying his steak, too. “This is great! You’ve got to have a bite, Georgia,” he insisted, and before I could protest he cut off a big piece of meat and put it on my plate. He was right. That steak was delicious. I shared half of my burger with him, and we kept talking while we ate. I’d never had red wine before. At first I didn’t care for the taste, but after a couple of sips it didn’t seem as harsh, I liked the way it felt, warm and rich as it went down my throat. I relaxed a little and stopped worrying about how out of place I must look among all the white tablecloths and fancy silverware.

  Morgan picked up the conversation where we’d left off. “You might not be flying combat, Georgia, but you really are a terrific pilot. After you rescued me at Avenger, I already knew you’re a better mechanic than I am, but I’m thinking you’ve got me beat when it comes to navigation, too. You did a heck of a job getting us here today.”

  “Oh, but that’s the training again,” I said honestly. “The whole idea behind the WASP was to use women as ferrying pilots, so they spent a lot of time working on our navigational skills. Any WASP worth her wings can get you from Allentown to Albuquerque on the beam, flying in the middle of one radio tower signal to another, and if that fails, we just follow the railroad tracks. It might not be quite how the crows do it, but tell a WASP where you want to go, and, one way or another, she’ll get you there.”

  Morgan sat there for a minute without saying anything, just smiling at me. I started to feel a little funny and wished I hadn’t gone on so. After all, I didn’t want him to think I was flirting with him. I picked up my fork and took another bite of the steak. “This really is good,” I said.

  “You really do love flying, don’t you?” Morgan asked without a trace of flattery in his voice. The honesty of his tone put me at ease again.

  “The planes are either boiling hot or freezing cold. They keep me so busy that I almost never get eight hours sleep at a stretch. When I do sleep, it’s never in the same place two nights running. This is the first hot meal I’ve had in four days. Then, of course, there are the joys of being a woman in a man’s world in the ultimate male occupation—with grouchy officers and other pilots who think that a girl pilot is some kind of affront to nature, air bases with no facilities for women, not to mention”—I continued in a slight whisper that I hoped no other diners would hear, holding out my arms to show my flight suit in its full masculine glory—“the challenge of completing long, solo flights wearing this stylish number, which wasn’t exactly designed with the female figure in mind.”

  Morgan cracked up at this last. “Yes, I can see where that would be a problem.”

  “I’m not kidding,” I said with a smile. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten to the end of a long flight and called into the tower just praying I’d get priority in the landing pattern. You can’t exactly radio in saying you’re declaring a powder room emergency.”

  Morgan laughed even harder, and I joined in, enjoying the sound of our combined mirth. A few of our fellow diners began looking at us with renewed curiosity. Gosh, I thought as I wiped tears of mirth from my eyes, it feels so good to laugh with someone. I haven’t done that in so long.

  “But, yes,” I said, getting back to his original question. “Even with all that, this is the best job I’ve ever had. I wake up every day and almost have to pinch myself so I can believe it’s true! Heck, if I had to, I’d probably pay the government to let me be a WASP. Don’t get me wrong: I’m sorry it took a war so all this could happen. I’d hand in my wings tomorrow if it would mean bringing our boys home, but as long as there is a war, I’m just glad to be able to do a little something to help.”

  “Well,” Morgan said, “I’m sure your husband is proud of you. It must feel good to know you’re helping him to get home that much quicker.” He looked at me, waiting, I was sure, for me to tell him all about Roger.

  I popped a piece of steak into my mouth, chewing slowly and trying to keep my face blank while buying myself some time to think.

  When it came to men as a whole, my opinion of them hadn’t changed much since I was a little girl, watching in disgust as, one after another, Delia’s swains declared their lust to be love and, once they’d gotten their fill of what they came for, walking out the door, leaving Delia clutching handfuls of broken promises with no path before her but the one which led to the next bed and the next heartbreak. It was Delia’s own fault. She let them take advantage of her, I knew, but she just couldn’t help herself. Delia needed to believe the fairy tale, but the men knew exactly what they were doing. I’d learned from my mother’s mistakes, and, subconsciously at least, I’d made a pact never to let myself entirely trust men—not until Roger came along.

  Now, sitting across the table from Morgan, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, God might have made at least two men worth trusting.

  I could tell Morgan liked me, too—that he more than liked me. If he knew that I wasn’t, as he believed, a married woman, I was pretty sure that he would allow his feeling for me to go beyond friendship. And how did I feel about him? My mind lit up with snapshots of our brief time together, standing outside the barracks in a starlit night as he shared his faith; his frank admiration and collegial respect for me as a pilot; the memory of his playful humor; his confidence and complete lack of self-consciousness as he strode into a fancy restaurant in the company of a woman wearing a lumpy flight suit; our hours of conversation as we’d flown today; and, even better, the quiet appreciation as we sat side by side in companionable silence sharing the fulfilling, indescribable joy of flight.

  Yes, I liked Morgan. I liked him very much. I looked across the table again, warming myself in the steady glow of those amazing eyes and feeling the warmth spread from my face to a place in my heart that had been cold for so long.

  I swallowed and started to speak, forming the words in my mind as I prepared to tell him the truth about Roger, but as I did, another picture flashed in my memory. It wasn’t a memory in the true sense of the word, but an invented one, the picture I’d formed in my mind of Roger, sitting alone on the edge of his bunk, holding my picture in his hand, leaving a print of love for me to find, putting his last letter into an envelope, holding it close for a moment before getting up and walking out to meet death. Roger. He had loved me.

  It had taken months of courtship and even more months of marriage before I had truly loved him back. The amount of time I’d spent with Morgan didn’t even add up to a day.

  The words that had been forming in my mind crumbled at this touch of reality. I barely knew Morgan. However much I liked him and despite how serendipitous our meeting might have seemed, the truth was that in three days Morgan would be on a ship headed for the Pacific. In all probability, I’d never see him again. It was ridiculous and disloyal of me to let wine and loneliness seduce me into saying things I’d regret tomorrow.

  I looked Morgan in the eye and told him the truth. “Roger is the love of my life.”

  Disappointment flickered in Morgan’s face. He started to say something, but before he could, the waitress came to the table and apologized for bothering us. She was holding a rolled-up magazine in her hand and wanted to know if she could ask me something.

  “Sure,” I answered, relieved at her interruption.

  “Are you one of those lady fliers? One of those ... what do you call them?” she mused, screwing up her face and trying to remember.

  “WASP? Women’
s Air Service Pilots?”

  “That’s it!” she cried, her face lighting up. “Are you one of them?” I nodded, and she grinned.

  “I thought so!” she exclaimed and unrolled the magazine she’d been holding. It was a copy of Life, and there was a picture of a young woman with her hair in pigtails sitting on the wing of an airplane, wearing a flight suit just like mine.

  “May I see that?” I asked. The waitress happily complied. “Look at this, Morgan! It’s all about the WASP. That’s Shirley Slade on the cover! I know her. She was in a couple of classes behind mine.” I flipped through the pages, scanning the photos for familiar faces. “Where did you get this?”

  “It just came out today. Would you mind signing it for me?” She pulled a pen out of her apron pocket and held it out to me. I looked at Morgan, not quite certain of what I should do, but he just grinned.

  “But I’m not in any of the pictures,” I said. She shoved the pen into my hand just the same.

  “That doesn’t matter! Sign it anyway.” The waitress, who wore a name tag reading JUDY pinned to her blue and white uniform, chattered on enthusiastically while I did as she asked. “When you walked in wearing that outfit I told Harry—he’s the manager—” She jerked her head over toward the front counter where Harry was standing. He raised his hand in a sheepish introduction. “Anyway,” Judy said, “I told Harry that you must be one of those WASPs, but he didn’t believe me. He said there was no way the government would let girls fly their airplanes.”

  Morgan jumped into the conversation. “Not only that, they fly all kinds of different planes and deliver them from factories to bases all over the country. They do other jobs, too, dangerous ones, like towing targets for artillery practice and even testing planes that have undergone repairs to make sure they’re combat-ready. These girls are heroes.”

  It was kind of sweet to see the starry-eyed excitement of the young waitress. I thought this must be a little like how it feels to be a movie star, but I was starting to feel a little embarrassed, too, by all the adulation. I gave Morgan a look that meant “enough already,” but he didn’t take the hint.

  “Georgia here has flown more different kinds of aircraft in the last month than I have in my entire military career. Just this morning she flew a big cargo plane in from Arizona. No man could have flown it better. I just sat back and enjoyed the ride.”

  “There! You hear that? You owe me a dollar, Harry!” Judy slapped her hand against her thigh triumphantly and shot the hapless Harry a victorious glance.

  Harry sidled apologetically to our table. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “No offense intended. I just couldn’t quite believe it was true, Miss ... Miss ...”

  “Just call me Georgia,” I said, and gripped his outstretched hand. “And this is Morgan. He’s a combat pilot. He’s shipping out to a new post in just a couple of days.”

  “Is that right?” Harry asked. He beamed and extended his hand to Morgan. “It’s nice to meet you, Lieutenant. It’s nice to meet both of you.

  “So you’re shipping out in a couple of days? Listen, there’s no check for you two this evening. Your dinner is on the house. In fact”—he turned to the waitress—“Judy, why don’t you run into the kitchen and see if we’ve got any of the apple pie left. Bring them a couple of pieces, will you? And make sure you have Charlie melt some cheddar on top.”

  “Will do!” Judy answered eagerly and scurried to the kitchen.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Morgan assured him, and I agreed, but Harry wouldn’t be dissuaded.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, waving off our protests with a magnanimous gesture. A sudden clatter of noise from the kitchen interrupted his train of thought.

  He sighed wearily and started off toward the kitchen. “Sounds like I’d better get in there. You two just have a good time and don’t give another thought to the bill. It’s the least I can do. It’s terrible, the way this war is splitting up so many nice young couples like you.” He shook his head regretfully and, as a second clatter of dropped dishes rang out, he trotted off.

  “Thank you!” Morgan called to the manager’s retreating figure and then chuckled as he turned to me. “Can you beat that? He thinks we’re engaged!”

  I started gathering up my things. “Morgan, I’ve got to go.”

  The smile faded from his face. “Why? Just because of that? It was just an honest mistake, Georgia.”

  “No, no. It’s just that ...” I glanced at my watch. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I’ve got to fly in the morning, and I need some sleep. That wine went right to my head.” I slid across the seat of the booth and started to get up, but Morgan grabbed my arm.

  “Georgia, don’t run off. Sit down. At least stay and have dessert. Think how disappointed Judy and Harry will be if you don’t—espe-cially after they made Charlie go to all the trouble of melting cheese on your pie.” Morgan smiled.

  I told him again that I really had to leave. Morgan dropped his lighthearted tone and said seriously, “Georgia, you don’t need to be so nervous. I’m not going to try anything, really. It’s just nice spending time together. I like you. Why can’t you just stay for ten more minutes?”

  I couldn’t answer that question because I wasn’t really sure myself. I just knew I had to go. I stood up. “Morgan, I had a great time. I hope everything goes great with your mom and all. Make sure you take her to the zoo. They say it’s one of the best in the world. Maybe you can write me when you get settled in at your new base.”

  Seeing that I wasn’t going to be dissuaded from leaving, Morgan got up to say good-bye. He leaned forward, as if to kiss me on the cheek, but I stuck out my hand before he could get closer.

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll write you,” he said in a disappointed voice. We shook hands a little awkwardly. “It was nice to see you again, Georgia. Thanks again for the lift. Maybe I can see you again before I ship out?”

  “Probably not. I’m flying all week, but I won’t be coming back to San Diego for a while,” I said. It wasn’t true, but the lie popped out of my mouth anyway. I was scheduled to return to San Diego on Saturday, the day before he left. Seeing the look of disappointment and confusion etched on Morgan’s face made me feel guilty. “But if I’m around,” I backtracked, not wanting to leave him feeling utterly rejected, “then, sure. Yes. Maybe we could have a cup of coffee or something.”

  Morgan looked at me, and I knew he knew I was lying. I said good-bye. Walking across the dining room toward the door, I could feel the heat of his gaze on my back, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t.

  The telephone rang and rang. Pick up! I commanded silently.

  There was a woman outside the phone booth, impatiently waiting her turn. She was a big, matronly lady. She wore scuffed tie-up shoes and a shapeless gray overcoat that seemed strangely at odds with her headgear, a black felt confection that dripped with clusters of cherries and red ribbon. I stood facing the telephone so I could pretend I didn’t see the woman, who tapped her foot impatiently as she waited, making the clusters of cherries bounce with every tap.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” the operator said in a bored voice, “no one is answering. You can try again later.”

  “Please, Operator! Just let it ring a few more times. It’s an emergency !”

  The operator started to protest just as the receiver clicked and a tired, somewhat confused voice on the other end said, “Hello?”

  “Long distance calling,” the operator twanged. “I have a collect call for Miss Cordelia Carter Boudreaux from Mrs. Georgia Welles. Will you accept the charges?”

  “Yes,” Delia said, and even as the operator informed us that we could go ahead, Delia interrupted her with a worried, “Georgia? Is that you? Is everything all right? Where are you?”

  “I’m in a phone booth.” I answered. “Everything is fine. I just ... I just wanted to call you. I wanted to hear your voice.”

  Not unkindly, Delia said, “Georgia, it’s two in the morning here. Are you sure you’re all r
ight?”

  “I’m sorry, Delia. I was out walking, and I just wanted to talk to you. I didn’t think about what time it was in Chicago,” I apologized. Then, without quite understanding why, I started to cry. “I’m sorry, Delia. I’m sorry I woke you. I just ...” but I couldn’t finish the sentence. The tears caught in my throat and mind and washed away everything I’d thought I wanted to say.

  “Georgia!” Delia said, the alarm in her voice trumping the usual studied calm of her drawl. “Georgia? What’s the matter? What is it?”

  I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t do anything but sob. My head dropped and rested against the wall of the phone booth, the rough grain of the wood scratching the skin of my forehead. My knees were weak, it was all I could do to keep them under me. Delia’s voice, insistent and anxious, radiated worry through the phone line, repeating the question, pleading for an answer. “What is it, Georgia? Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Delia!” I sobbed desperately, incoherently. “Delia! Mama! I ... I want.” But that was as far as I could go. That was all I knew.

  Outside, the woman who had been waiting for the phone booth, started tapping on the glass panels of the door, asking if I was all right in there. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t do anything but cry.

  “I want! Mama, I want!” I said again and again, helpless and despairing, begging her for an explanation, pleading for a word that would define and fill the emptiness that enveloped me. “I want ...”

  “Hush, Georgia. Hush,” Delia’s voice, soothing and deep, breathed comfort long-distance. “I know you do, baby girl. I know. Believe me, I know.”

  23

  Morgan

  San Diego, California—May 1943

  The train arrived on time. San Diego was the last stop, and there were so many people getting off that I didn’t see Mama and Paul at first. I kept scanning the faces of the passengers as the conductors helped them descend the steps and file onto the platform, where a gaggle of anxious Red Caps stood by with ready smiles and well-oiled dollies, ready to help cart away the luggage of anyone who looked like they could tip. One after another, smartly dressed travelers streamed out of the carriages. As the minutes passed, I started to get a little worried. Had they missed a connection?