Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  The room burst into applause. Libby clapped the loudest.

  Nancy pulled up a seat, and dinner continued. Laughter and conversation swirled in the air as they discussed ways to find more pilots and the types of planes they might possibly be flying. The women agreed that flying was not only a mental and physical challenge but also a spiritual experience.

  Libby looked around the table and grinned. This time she didn’t see competition. She recognized sisters.

  Rose has to meet these women, Libby thought. She would absolutely love this …

  Dan crawled to the overflowing waste bucket, his body convulsing as the little rice and fish he’d managed to choke down now forced itself back up. He wiped his face, moaned, then crawled over to where Gabe slept on the dirty floor. The man next to Gabe screamed out in pain. He suffered from beriberi, a deficiency of vitamin B1. The man jumped to his feet and stomped on the ground, attempting to stop the tingling of electric shocks in his feet and legs.

  Mercifully, the hatch had been opened to let in fresh air and light. Dan looked around, cursing the Japs for turning them into animals whose every waking thought centered around the food and water lowered to them twice a day.

  Dan attempted to ignore the stomping man. Tried to ignore the sounds of five hundred men breathing. It grated on his nerves to the point that sometimes he wondered if he could stand it one more night.

  He curled onto his side and instead tried to focus on the footsteps of Jap soldiers moving above him, letting last night’s dream replay one more time.

  He’d been healthy and strong once more, and to his captors’ surprise, he’d climbed out of the hold, grabbed the neck of the guard, and squeezed until the Jap stopped breathing. As he did, cheers rose from the weak and dying below. Joining in were the cheers of the dead—Oliver, José, Paulo—the friends he’d lost. Then their voices rose in one huge cry for vengeance.

  If it weren’t for the hatch being opened for a few hours during the day, the men would have completely lost track of time. The hold was twenty feet high with no electricity; their eyes, now used to the darkness, were blinded every time the metal door above creaked open.

  Seasickness added to their misery. The ship never ceased rocking. It sometimes creaked so loudly Dan was certain it would break apart. And with less than five square feet per man, soon the entire floor of the hold was covered in filth.

  A week ago there’d been the sky, trees, ground, the fence surrounding the perimeter of the camp, bodies continuously buried and clouds that seem to weep for them. Now no air, no sky, no ground to bury the bodies. Instead, the strong among them handed their dead up to the Japs, who tossed them into the sea, like the rest of the trash on the ship.

  Shouts burst forth in Japanese. “Sensuikan! Submarine.” A siren shrilled through the air. The ship’s engines revved even harder and waited.

  Panic seized the faces of the men around him, and some fell to their knees in prayer. They were locked inside a ship that sailed alone under the Japanese flag, with no life jackets, no chance.

  It might be over soon. One direct hit and they’d be at the bottom of the sea, never to suffer again.

  I’m sorry, Libby. Dan pulled the tattered photo from his sock and caressed her smile. I tried. I did all I could to make it home.

  Twenty-Five

  JACQUELINE COCHRAN TO

  HEAD TRAINING OF WOMEN PILOTS

  Miss Cochran, long an outstanding flier, will be in charge of a program designed to create a pool of trained women pilots from which will be drawn, as needed, personnel for noncombatant flying purposes, to release as many men pilots as possible for combat and other important duties.

  Formation of the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron, under the command of Mrs. Nancy Harkness Love, which was announced September 10, is part of the program for the utilization of this additional reservoir of trained pilots, it was explained.

  Excerpt from the Washington Post, September 15, 1942

  Libby scanned the room, noting the gray filing cabinets and bookshelves lined with aviation books and manuals. Eight groggy women pilots had walked across the airfield in the cool predawn hours, and now they were packed into Nancy’s office like sardines in a can.

  When Libby walked in, she noticed a bouquet of tulips on Nancy’s neat desk centered between a black, three-line telephone and a blotter. Nancy stood behind her desk, but Libby could barely see her through the heads of the women.

  Nancy began in a businesslike tone. “More pilots will be arriving throughout the week, and you’ll all be starting out the same—from ground zero.

  “In addition to meeting with the examination board, each of you will have to do a flight check with the instructor. They’ll grill you on things like the stick, pedals, rudder, gauges, the concept of lift—kindergarten stuff. Any questions?”

  “I have a question.” Annabelle raised her hand. “When’s lunch?”

  Laughter filled the room. Libby had discovered that Annabelle, though tall and slender, had an even bigger appetite than her own.

  Nancy’s voice held a hint of amusement. “Ladies, there’s a lot of work before lunch. In fact, within the hour, reporters will be arriving to interview all of you.” She held up a blue flight suit that looked like a circus tent in comparison to the size of the women. “You’ll change into these for photos. Life wants you to look as ‘pilotlike’ as possible.”

  “But those are men’s flight suits,” Ginger complained. “We’ll look like a bunch of apes with our sleeves hanging to the ground.”

  “Well, there will be no official uniforms until we prove we can pull this off,” Nancy said. “And … if you haven’t heard, it’s just been announced that Jackie Cochran will begin a new program to train new women fliers. But the first step will be proving the current pilots—you ladies—can pull it off. If all goes as planned, hundreds of trainees will be looking up to you as examples—literally.” Nancy passed the uniforms around the room.

  “One size fits all.” July held hers to her shoulders. “Texas-size.”

  The women lined up to use the latrines situated behind the main office to slip into the flight suits. Betty was the first to go in.

  “Oh, ladies.” They could hear Betty’s voice through the closed door. “How thoughtful … special sinks to hand-wash our undergarments.”

  Laughter filled the hall.

  When they were all dressed in their flight suits, with sleeves and legs rolled up, the line of women walked out to the tarmac where a small group of reporters and photographers waited.

  For the next several hours, they posed. Mostly they stood rigid in front of airplanes, trying to look like the tough pilots they were. For one shot, a cigarette-wielding photographer placed a map on the silver fuselage of the PT-19A trainer and had Libby pose as if studying it. And, of course, they took several pictures of the girls circled admiringly around their mentor, Nancy Love.

  Libby rubbed her cheeks, realizing they were actually sore from smiling.

  “Miss Conners.” A young female reporter strode up, tucking her pencil behind her ear. “I read about your exploits in Pearl Harbor. Any way we can get a few photos of you alone … inside one of those planes?”

  Libby glanced at Nancy, who waved her on. She climbed into the plane.

  “Okay, Miss Conners. Lean out and smile.”

  She did the best she could, sitting up on one knee to peek out of the cockpit.

  “Great. Now wave at your fellow pilots,” the photographer instructed.

  Libby grinned and waved at the group. All of them waved back, except Ginger. Instead she tilted her face to the sky and checked out a formation of bombers passing overhead without so much as a glance in Libby’s direction.

  Later that day, the eight women were led one by one into the colonel’s office for interviews with the examination board.

  “Miss Conners, please enter. I’m Colonel Baker.” In addition to the colonel, several flight instructors and Nancy Love sat around the light-colored w
ooden table. They flipped through her flight log and asked a few questions. Libby smiled politely and answered. It was easy to see this was a mere formality.

  “Well, Miss Conners, I’m pleased to say that as long as you pass your flight examination, you’re in. Your four weeks of WAFS training will begin shortly.”

  “Thank you, Colonel Baker, Mrs. Love.” She took the hand of each and gave it a warm handshake.

  I’m in! Libby felt as if she were once more soaring over Oahu as she walked to the ready room where the other women waited. There was no need for them to ask how it had gone when they spotted the grin on her face.

  Annabelle leapt from her seat and grabbed up Libby in a warm hug. “I’m so excited. I knew you’d make it. I’m in too. Just think—we’ll be flying planes for the military! My kids are going to be thrilled, and my parents, too. I have extra paper, if you want to write to your family.”

  Libby felt her smile fade. “My mom’s dead. But my dad would love to hear from me.”

  She hated lying to Annabelle, but it was easier than answering the hundred questions the truth always brought up.

  Annabelle covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry, Libby; I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Libby gave Annabelle’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It was a long time ago.”

  After the last of the interviews was complete, the jeeps arrived to take them across the airfield to the hangars. Libby’s eyes widened as she spotted the rows of aircraft, from trainers to bombers and everything in between. She glanced at the B-17 on the runway and estimated that half a dozen cadets could fit inside it. Her mind immediately went back to the last time she’d been in a B-17. It had been cracked open on the airstrip at John Rodgers—fire, smoke, and men pouring from its side.

  A few wolf whistles met the fliers as they approached the hangars. A group of pilots-in-training marched past, and Libby felt their eyes pursuing her, even with the baggy flight suit hanging on her frame.

  “Ignore them, gals.” Betty tossed her blonde hair. “The men on this base are off-limits. Not that we’re interested in measly privates anyway.”

  The warm air was on their backs as they approached the hangar filled with Fairchild PT-19A trainers, painted in shiny silver. A new crop of journalists and photographers awaited their group.

  “Now I know how Judy Garland feels with all the press attention.” Annabelle twirled her braid. “Wait till my kids get a load of their ol’ mom on the front page of the New York Times.”

  As the group circled the trainer, a stocky bald man wandered up to them. “I’m Jim Cook, one of your instructors. We’re going to do a short flight test today. I’m aware that most of you have been instructors before, so it should be easy. Who wants to start?”

  Ginger raised her hand, but the photographer turned to Libby.

  “Miss Conners. What about you?”

  Libby glanced at Ginger. “No, really. Why don’t we give someone else a chance. I think Ginger—”

  Ginger shrugged. “No, go ahead. It’s obvious your fame precedes you.”

  The cameras flashed as Libby grabbed the parachute pack and slid on the helmet and goggles. With quick steps, she circled the plane for inspection. The PT-19 had two open-air cockpits. The student sat in the front cockpit and the instructor in the back. The instructor’s job was to help with the controls and give advice through the headset.

  Libby climbed onto the hard seat, buckling in, as the instructor climbed in behind her. Libby plugged in the headset. “Can you hear me, Mr. Cook?”

  “Loud and clear. And please call me Jim,” the male voice answered. “The plane’s all yours. Take ’er up.”

  She moved through the motions as she’d taught her students a hundred times. Remove control lock. Flip master switch to check fuel gauges and run flaps down to full extension. Turn fuel selector to ON position.

  As her sweaty hands readied the controls, Libby realized it had been over a year since she’d flown one of these larger planes.

  Just like riding a bike. It all comes back once you get on.

  When Libby gave the thumbs-up, one of the other WAFS cranked the propeller and pulled the wheel chocks away. Soon Libby was guiding the plane down the runway, then maneuvering it flawlessly into the air.

  “Good work, Miss Libby. Can you do a few forty-five-degree turns?”

  Libby followed his instructions; then she worked through some additional turns, climbs, and descents. It felt strange to be the student once more, knowing her every move was being critiqued. And it wasn’t only her flying being judged. From now on, her every move would be representative of the WAFS program.

  Jim’s voice crackled through the headset. “Not bad. Women don’t have as much upper body strength. I’m actually surprised by how well you are able to maneuver the plane.”

  “Really?” Libby turned the plane in a slow figure eight. “I’m not sure why. An airplane responds the same whether a man or a woman is flying it, don’t you think?”

  The instructor chuckled. “I suppose you have a point there. Go ahead and take her down. Let’s see if you can land as well as you fly. And take it slow … I’m sure those newspaper people would like to take your photo coming in.”

  Annabelle stood at the door of the boardinghouse, acting as housemother, welcoming the girls as they entered.

  “Just think. Ladies flyin’ for the army. Yes, ma’am.” She laid a hand on Libby’s shoulder. “I think your face is frozen into a permanent smile.” She grinned. “Hurry now, ladies. Freshen up. We need to get over to the officers’ dining hall.”

  In the officers’ mess, the ladies ate at a separate table, under the watchful eyes of dozens of men.

  “I feel like a caged tiger at the zoo,” Libby muttered to Betty.

  “Worse than that.” Betty peeked over the rim of her coffee mug. “I feel like I’m the one who will be pounced on, if they had the chance. I’m ready to get back and relax. How ’bout you?”

  After a long soak in the blue-painted bathroom of the boardinghouse, Libby threw on her flannel pajamas and sank onto the sofa in the common area. Betty sat in a recliner, painting her nails the brightest shade of pink Libby had ever seen.

  They chatted about the type of training they’d receive and the uniforms they’d be issued, and wondered if they’d be forced to make their beds the “army way” once they got into barracks.

  Annabelle unbraided her chestnut hair and brushed it out. “Do you think we’ll really move on base? I can’t imagine bathrooms with—”

  “The undergarment sinks?” July finished.

  The girls laughed.

  “There’s a lot to write home about—that’s for sure,” Betty said.

  “It’s no use writing my folks.” Ruth’s silk pajamas fit her curvaceous frame like a glove, and a satin eye mask was propped on her head.

  Libby hadn’t realized one could look so glamorous for bed.

  “Daddy refuses to answer my calls. Mother says he swears he’s sending the chauffeur for me. I told her I’m not leaving, and Dad can’t make me. I’m twenty-four, for goodness’ sake—not a little girl.”

  “Golly, my dad thinks this is the cat’s meow.” July’s face was scrubbed clean, and though her hair was pinned up in the same way as Ruth’s, on July it looked frumpy rather than chic. “I called him this afternoon. He scrimped and saved and sold extra cows to get me my lessons. He’s thrilled it’s paying off.”

  Ginger had come in during the last exchange, and she ambled into the center of the room, puffed out her chest, and held an imaginary cigar to her lips. “No daughter of mine is going to take part in a women’s ferrying unit … unescorted.”

  Laughter filled the room.

  “I’m with Ruth,” Ginger said. “My dad thinks this is about the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “What about you, Libby? What does your father think?” Annabelle lay on the carpet on her stomach with her chin propped on her fists.

  “My dad’s
a crop duster in northern California. I was flying with him from the time I could say ‘up.’ He always let me turn the key to the ignition.” Libby chuckled. “I used to think there was a sleeping dragon that stirred to life under the cowl.”

  Libby pulled her legs to her chest and leaned her head back against the sofa. “He’s going to be real proud. Every time we’d go up, he’d always say the same thing: ‘This is the future, Libby-girl. Let your dreams soar.’”

  There was silence for a moment; then Ginger spoke. “That’s a sweet story, Libby, really it is, but we’d better get some shut-eye. Morning’s going to come early, and if there are more photos planned, some of us better get our beauty sleep.”

  Libby didn’t respond, but like the others she rose and went to her room.

  Twenty-Six

  CURVES IN COVERALLS:

  WAFS WON’T HAVE NATTY UNIFORMS,

  SAYS DIRECTOR; THEY’RE STILL AN “EXPERIMENT”

  An East Coast Army Air Base, Sept. 16. Sorry, girls—if you join the WAFS, you won’t get any beautiful uniforms. It’s going to be coveralls for flying and “standardized” skirts for the classroom.

  However, there won’t be any curfew, and when the day’s work is done, you can dress as you please.

  You will get to bunk in brand-new quarters, originally designed for bachelor officers, and there will be full-length mirrors in the bathrooms, Venetian blinds at the windows, and a few scattered rugs to “feminize” the place.

  Mrs. Nancy Harkness Love, director of the WAFS, related these facts today in announcing that some 25 women pilots are expected to start training here Monday as qualified members of the newly organized Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron.

  In addition to Mrs. Love, five women pilots already have qualified, and it is expected about 20 more will be recruited this week.