Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Libby climbed into the new PT-19, straight off the assembly line. “Just like breaking in a new colt.” She wished she had a large pen to autograph the cockpit. “First flown by Libby Conners—female pilot.” She even imagined drawing a little heart over the “i” in her name, just for fun. Then she wondered if women—Rosie the Riveters—had made the plane. We should all sign them.

  Within a matter of minutes, the group of six planes was heading southwest toward Chattanooga. As the designated navigator for the trip, it was Libby’s job to keep track of their position on the series of maps called sectionals. They were pleated like an accordion and tied to her leg so they wouldn’t get blown out of the cockpit.

  On the sectionals, Libby had drawn a line from their origin to destination. The line passed between checkpoints on the map—roadways, a cluster of power lines, the bend in a river, a small town.

  I guess this is one way to see the country.

  Libby’s PT-19 ascended to three thousand feet, and the Appalachian Mountains appeared beneath her like thick wrinkles in a quilt that need to be smoothed. Farther on, the ground was patchworked, the squares and rectangles varying in shades to make a colorful pattern—with the farmers’ windmills like pins in the seams.

  While it had been cold on the ground, the wind rushing past the cockpit at over a hundred miles an hour instantly chilled Libby to the bone.

  Lotta good this long underwear is doing now. She was sure the temperature was below ten degrees.

  “Aloha, oye’ ” she sang with a smile, remembering that Rose awaited her return. She thought of Ewa Beach and the hot sand. Thought of the picnics on the lawn, under the palms trees, engulfed by the smell of papayas … but it only made her colder.

  As she glanced at the other primary trainers dotting the sky around her, Libby wondered how the other pilots fared. It seemed to be getting even colder. Her face felt numb. Her jaw chattered, and she couldn’t even sing anymore.

  Libby’s heart began to race, and for the first time, she wondered if she could really do this. All she wanted was to touch down at their first destination to warm up. But the trip had only begun.

  Libby looked down at the highway they followed. Bucking a headwind, the light and underpowered trainers actually seemed to be moving slower than the vehicles on the road beneath them.

  Her teeth clattered, and she tried to keep her mind occupied, thinking of all the things she wanted to tell Rose. The news, or rather lack of news, about Dan. The media blitz about the WAFS. Her mother’s visit.

  The trip to Chattanooga took eight hours, and the light had nearly faded from the sky by the time they arrived. Libby was too tired to look around. The scenery mattered little compared to getting warm.

  As soon as she landed, Libby tied down the plane and used the seat belt to hold the stick so the wing surfaces wouldn’t move. As a group, they closed the flight plans, watched the line boys fill the tanks, and checked their parachutes into a locker.

  It was a slow, tired group who finally found a Western Union office to send their RONs back to New Castle.

  “The whole time I was flying, all I could think about was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and a hot, hot cup of coffee,” said July.

  “I’ve been thinking about a pig roast and mango-guava juice.”

  All eyes turned to Libby.

  “Hey, remember, I used to live in Hawaii! Days like this make me ready to return.”

  Libby, July, and four of the newer pilots staggered to a bus that had been reserved to pick them up. With numb fingers they pushed their B-4 bags down the aisle, slumping onto the frigid seats.

  As the bus taxied them around town, six sets of eyes eagerly looked for a nice place to eat, but it was too late. Everything was closed.

  “There goes my chicken and mashed potatoes. Let’s hope the hotel will at least serve breakfast in the morning.”

  Libby was grateful when they finally found their hotel.

  “Hey, are y’all those lady pilots? Well, I’ll be.” The desk clerk handed out their keys.

  “Yes, we are.” July’s voice quavered. “The famous, tired, cold, hungry women pilots.”

  Libby was too tired to talk. She thanked the boy and labored up the stairs to her room.

  The first thing she did was crank on the radiator. Her teeth chattered as she tackled the cold zipper on her flight jacket. Tomorrow they’d be taking the train back to New Castle. Tomorrow she’d see Rose. But tonight all she could think about was a hot bath.

  The train ride was uneventful, and with each passing mile Libby’s excitement about getting back to New Castle grew.

  As she tramped into the barracks that night, she stopped short at the doorway, tossing her bag inside. Her wide smile faded when she saw Rose and Ginger sprawled on Rose’s bed, lying side by side. Photos were spread before them, and a box of tissues was snuggled between their shoulders. Two heads of black hair were twinlike from behind, and when they turned toward her, Libby saw two sets of red, puffy eyes.

  “Hey, welcome back.” Rose dabbed her face with the tissue. “We were just swapping stories, although Ginger has a lot more to share. She was married to Josiah for nine years, and look.”

  Rose held up a photo of a little girl in a white dress with a swishy skirt. The curly haired youngster smiled into the camera with a wide grin. Her two front teeth were missing.

  Libby’s throat tightened, and she kneeled on the floor next to the bed.

  “They died in a car accident. Our truck was struck by another vehicle going too fast. Just like that—”

  Libby took the photo in her hand. “What was her name?”

  “Lillian,” Ginger said in the softest voice. “She was eight.”

  Libby handed it back. “I’m sorry I never asked. I—”

  Ginger wiped her face, then waved a hand in Libby’s direction. “You really didn’t have a chance to ask, the way I was acting.” She glanced toward the photo of Dan on the wall. “I never asked you either.”

  Ginger patted Rose’s hands. “I’m glad for Rose. She told me about your fiancé and about Jack. And she forced me to spill my guts about the accident. It was hard but healing in a way.”

  Libby unzipped her leather jacket and hung it on the hook on the back of the door. “I guess we all have stuff we need to deal with.” She sat on her bed, pulling her legs to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I don’t know why we try to be so strong all the time.”

  “I think it’s because we’re women pilots.” Ginger tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. “We have to prove ourselves, show that we can do a man’s job. But I think sometimes …” She sighed. “Sometimes we forget what being female is all about. We miss out on the close friendships that women do so well.”

  “So why don’t we make a pact?” said Rose. “That we’ll be tough when we need to be tough, and weak when we need to be weak. That we’ll laugh but not be afraid to cry. Deal?”

  “Deal,” said Libby and Ginger together.

  Thirty-Two

  CARRIER TOOK FLIERS TO WITHIN 800 MILES

  OF JAPANESE CAPITAL: NONE OF 16 PLANES

  RETURNS; 64 OF 80 MEN CAME THROUGH

  Telling at last the story of the daring American raid on Tokyo a year ago last Sunday, the War Department revealed last night that the intrepid United States airmen took off from the aircraft carrier Hornet and bailed out or crash-landed in Asia.

  The long-withheld account of the devastating attack was made public with an official warning to the Japanese homeland that further “attacks still lie ahead.”

  Of the 80 Army Air Force men taking part, five were interned in Russia, eight are prisoners of Japan or are presumed to be, one was killed, two are missing, and the rest made their way safely into Chinese territory. Seven were injured in landing but survived.

  John G. Norris, Staff Writer

  Excerpt from the Washington Post, April 21, 1943

  Natsuo spoke low. Low enough that the pilot before him had to strain to he
ar his every word. And somehow his voice seemed detached, as if it wasn’t his own.

  “Are you telling me you dropped bombs over our country, and yet you know nothing?”

  Natsuo slapped the red-haired pilot’s freckled face, sending him crashing against the bamboo walls of the interrogation room. The afternoon sun crept in through slits in the bamboo, casting striped shadows on the brawny American.

  “Where did you take off from? Who was your commanding officer?”

  The man struggled to a kneeling position. His bloodied, swollen lip turned up in a defiant smirk, but he said nothing. Natsuo turned his back. It was strange to see such a strong, healthy American again. It was easy to think of the skin-and-bones, filthy prisoners as less than human, but this man reminded him of—

  No. He wouldn’t let his thoughts go there. He slammed his hand against the wall next to the prisoner.

  “Fine, so you will not tell me.” He turned to the guards by the door. “Go ahead. Hang him up!”

  The two guards snapped handcuffs on the American pilot’s wrists. Dragging him, they twisted his arms upward, wrapped their arms around his waist, and lifted him, dangling him from a peg on the wall. Though the pilot was tall, his toes barely touched the floor.

  Natsuo marched from the room, knowing that the longer the man hung there, the sooner he’d give in. Natsuo smiled. And if this didn’t work, something else would. While the Americans often proved strong in body—lasting beyond his perceived limits—they were weak in spirit.

  He walked down the hall to his private office, opened the top drawer of his wicker desk, and pulled out a slip of paper with Red Cross letterhead.

  Dear Mr. Johnson, he typed. I’m sorry to inform you that your wife, Abigail, has been killed in an automobile accident. Your children were injured but are expected to survive. We are arranging for your transfer. With much regret, General Arnold, Army Air Corps.

  Natsuo pulled the slip of paper from the typewriter.

  He’d wait at least eight hours. Then, when Lt. Solomon Johnson’s body was twisted in pain, Natsuo would read the letter “just in.” He’d also agree to the transfer home, on one condition—that Lieutenant Johnson provide a few minor details of the American aircraft carriers he’d been assigned to. A simple exchange—the life of a father who was needed by his children for air corps information that was mostly likely outdated.

  It was plans such as these that had moved Natsuo so quickly through the ranks. He had worked at the Mitsui coal mines in Omuta for only a few weeks before being transferred to Shinagawaku, recently renamed Tokyo POW Main. Natsuo discovered he “worked” best with the captured American pilots.

  Who better to hunt prey than one who knows their habits?

  Natsuo’s best hours of work happened in the still halls of the prison. Hidden, alert, like an owl in the night, he quietly listened to the secrets they shared in the dark. Stories of families and home helped Natsuo to discover their weaknesses. Still, there was one pilot Natsuo couldn’t wait to meet up with face-to-face. Daniel John Lukens. Or D.J., as Natsuo had once called him. It had been his luck to find his old friend’s name in the American paper, listed among the recipients of the Silver Star. The words behind D.J.’s name had said, “Location unknown. Assumed dead or missing in action.” But Natsuo knew exactly where he was.

  He had used the information from the newspaper as a starting point. The group who’d received the Silver Stars had taken part in the defense of the Philippines. And, he knew, the strongest of those survivors were now on mainland Japan. Natsuo had used his position to make a few calls, and his wit brought him success once again.

  Natsuo’s old pal was listed among the prisoners at Omuta. Working in the mines. In fact, Dan Lukens had arrived during the first day Natsuo had been stationed there. If only Natsuo had known that amongst that mass of filthy humanity was a man he’d once considered a friend.

  Had Dan seen him upon that platform?

  Did he see me in my uniform? See me in my glory?

  Natsuo had put in a request to return to Omuta. To Camp 17. He’d told the truth—there were pilots there who’d not yet been interrogated. Natsuo did not mention that these pilots hadn’t flown for nearly two years. He didn’t let on that the interrogation was of a personal nature only.

  Will you remember me, D.J.? As I remember you?

  The sound echoed in Libby’s mind again, the droning filling her ears, vibrating through her brain and catching a ride on her nerves until every part from her toes to fingertips trembled. It was the noise of a thousand planes filling up the Pacific sky over Hawaii. An endless sea of metal hornets, sucking away Libby’s breath with their dominance, until she knew none of those on the ground would outlive the planes’ destruction.

  Dear Jesus, save us all.

  “Libby?”

  A voice called to her, yet the droning grew louder, blocking out the voice.

  “Libby,” the voice called again. A female voice.

  Libby’s body shuddered. She opened her eyes and dared to look up. Instead of the Jap planes over Pearl Harbor, Rose stood over her. Her hair was tucked into her pilot’s turban, her eyes bright. Then Libby remembered. She and Rose were hitching a ride in a B-17, heading to Long Beach, California, for their permanent assignments with the 6th Ferrying Group.

  It had been a busy few months with Libby sometimes traveling two weeks straight without making it back to New Castle. Some mornings she’d have to ask the hotel clerk what city they were in. Hotel rooms, airports, restaurants—it was a blur.

  They’d boarded the larger bomber, and Libby had thrown her parachute and bag into the waist gunner’s area behind the bomb bay, using the parachute as a lumpy pillow. She must have been tired, because she didn’t even remember the large gray beast lifting off.

  Rose stood above her, her body taking on the natural sway of the plane.

  “Do you still want to check out the cockpit?” Rose laughed. “You’ve been out for hours, but I understand. The purr of the larger engines always makes me sleepy too.”

  Libby stretched. “Yeah, I want to see what flying one of these big babies is all about. After all, you’ll be piloting one soon.” Libby brushed a hand over her face, smacking her lips. Sleep had deposited a wad of cotton in her mouth.

  Still her dream wouldn’t leave her.

  It was just a dream. The Japs are far, far away. We’re safe. They won’t make it this far.

  “Libby?”

  She opened her eyes and wondered how she had managed to fall back asleep again.

  “On second thought, maybe you’d better keep sleeping. I’ll tell the pilots you’ll catch it next time.”

  Libby tightened her lips, then raised her voice over the engines once more. “Sorry. No, I really want to see. I’ll be at the controls in a quick minute. Just need a drink to wash away this cotton mouth.”

  Rose nodded, then moved forward toward the flight cabin.

  Libby was thankful for this time spent with her friend, and the chance to be roommates—although she knew that might be changing soon. Rumor had it they’d soon be allowed to ferry almost every plane available, which meant more training schools scattered over the United States. Rose had let Nancy know that she was interested in piloting the big bombers, such as the one they now rode in. But as for Libby, her mind was set on the pursuits.

  “The faster the better,” she told the other WAFS, although secretly her motivation wasn’t the speed. She hoped instead to find a connection with Dan. To know what he’d experienced over the skies of Hawaii and the Philippines. To soar as he once did with the screams of the big Allison engines in her ears.

  Libby took a long drink of lukewarm water from her canteen. Then she stretched her body, despite its complaints, and planted her feet on the aluminum floorboards of the B-17. Yet, even when she stood, something inside told her not to go to the cockpit—not yet. A consistent inner nagging told her she needed to pray. The dream wasn’t just a coincidence. It continued to tussle with inner stirr
ings that Annabelle called the voice of the Spirit.

  I might not be in danger, but maybe Dan is.

  A year after the U.S. had surrendered the Philippines, they hadn’t received one word from him. In fact, the only news was that one newspaper clipping. Yet she knew—she believed—he was out there somewhere.

  Pray for him. The thought would not leave her. Pray.

  Libby inclined her back against the wall and felt the rumble of the engines. She pulled a slip of paper from the chest pocket of her flight jacket.

  Read these verses from Psalm 91 before you fly, Annabelle had written on a slip of paper. Use them as a prayer of protection. And know that I’m praying for you.

  Libby unfolded the paper, but it was Dan she now prayed these words for.

  He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

  I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.

  Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.

  He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

  Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day;

  Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

  A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

  She refolded the paper and slipped it into her pocket.

  Dan, I’m not sure what’s happening. But I wish you could know I’m praying for you. I hope you also understand that God is always with you … no matter what darkness you face.

  Feeling a new sense of peace, Libby stood and made her way to the cockpit. She eyed the mass of gauges and meters. The pilot and co-pilot sat in the front seats with a beaming Rose watching their every move.

  “Okay, guys.” Libby offered them a wide grin. “Show me what this big bird is all about.”