“Yes, sir.”
“The cadet’s name?”
“Beaumont, sir.”
“Two demerits for Beaumont.” He walked on to the next bunk, as if Alpharetta no longer existed.
“I see I’ll have to take you in hand,” Mary Lou confided that evening at mess. “But I thought your college days would have prepared you for the community washroom.”
“I didn’t stay on campus, Mary Lou. I was a day student.”
“And how did you get back and forth to school? By bus?”
“We had a chauf—” Alpharetta stopped suddenly. “By car.”
“Oh, one of those—poor little rich girl driven back and forth by the old family retainer.”
“No, it wasn’t like that at all.” Anxious to change the subject, Alpharetta said, “But I’ve learned my lesson—about the showers. I won’t get caught last in line again. You just watch.”
“That’s the spirit, Red.”
Training began in earnest, the women spending sixteen hours a day divided among the classroom, with problems in meteorology and navigation, and the hangars, taking apart and reassembling the airplane engines, and the cockpits of the BT-135, made Consolidated-Vultee, with their two-way radios—crafts referred to as “the Vibrators” because of the sound made by their propellers. And through it all, the women known as Cochran’s Convent because of the severity of the rules that governed them, worked hard, despite the disparagement of the civilian male pilots assigned to train them.
“Flying is a man’s job,” Gandy Malone grumbled each day to anyone who would listen. “They got no business sending these dames down here for us to waste time on. The sooner we wash ‘em out, the sooner we can get back to training the men.”
Gandy began a methodical persecution of each woman assigned to him. And on the afternoon that Beaumont and Brandon reported to him, he felt particularly pleased with himself.
There was something that riled him about Brandon’s confident swing as she walked across the field. She looked much more of a challenge than the small redhead beside her, and he’d always enjoyed a challenge.
As Alpharetta and Mary Lou neared the place where Gandy Malone stood beside the training plane, Mary Lou, with eyes straight ahead, spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Look at the old geezer, waiting for us. He’s already planning something dirty, mark my words.”
“Don’t make him angry, Mary Lou. You remember what happened to Lark yesterday.”
“I can take care of myself. But I worry about you. Don’t let him push you around, Red.”
Alpharetta sighed. How could she keep her flying instructor from taking advantage when she couldn’t even defend herself from her friend?
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“Right-o.” Glancing around quickly, a satisfied Brandon saw the stubborn resolve in Alpharetta’s face. She hoped it would be enough to get her through a miserable afternoon.
“Pull up your wing, dammit,” Gandy shouted through the radio to Mary Lou. “Now go through the maneuver again, Brandon. And this time, act as if you know how to fly.”
Alpharetta listened to the abuse meted out by Gandy Malone, who had rushed up the steps to the tower. She not only felt sorry for her friend in the air, but fearful for herself. In a few minutes, she would be the object of his derision. And she didn’t look forward to it.
“Brandon, do you read me? Brandon?” There was no reply to Gandy’s voice. He could have been talking to the moon for all the attention paid to him.
Alpharetta put her hands into her coverall pockets and looked anxiously upward at the plane. With a mind of its own, the plane climbed in altitude until it was almost out of sight of the base. Then, it banked, made a 180-degree turn, and with full throttle, came soaring toward the hangar.
“You’re losing altitude too fast. Pull up, Brandon. You’re going to hit the hangar.”
Gandy ran down the steps. He fell to the ground as the plane barely skimmed over the buildings on the base, causing the windows to rattle. The noise brought Major Grier from his headquarters, and within a few minutes his jeep drew up beside a livid Gandy Malone.
“What’s going on, Malone?” he questioned.
“Radio contact broken, sir,” he said disgustedly. “And she’s too far away to see any ground signals. We’ll just have to pray she has enough experience to get the plane to the ground by herself.”
“Who is it?”
“That Brandon woman.”
Alpharetta saw an amused spark light up the major’s eyes. “I don’t think you need to worry, Malone. She’ll come down when she’s good and ready.”
The three watched while the plane maneuvered back and forth, going into nosedives, pulling up in a graceful chandelle, and presenting a visual display that would have made the most daring combat pilot proud. Then, as if suddenly tired, the plane leveled off, came in smoothly for the landing, and taxied up almost to Gandy’s feet.
Mary Lou Brandon climbed out of the cockpit with a serious expression on her face. She pulled off her flyer’s helmet and faced her instructor. “You’d better do something about the radio, Malone,” she said sweetly. “I couldn’t hear a word you were saying.”
Too angry to acknowledge the woman, he shouted at Alpharetta. “All right, Beaumont. Get on your parachute and climb into the cockpit.”
Somehow, Gandy Malone didn’t seem so formidable after that. With quiet assurance, Alpharetta took over the controls, adjusted her goggles, and tested the radio. The official voice from the tower came in loud and clear. “BT in take-off position. Clear to go.”
The major, standing beside Mary Lou, watched the procedure with interest. And Gandy, subdued for once and conscious of the major’s scrutiny, became civil in his instructions. Even the timbre of his voice had suddenly changed.
“Take her up, Beaumont. And watch the nose.”
Hoisting the old plane into position, Alpharetta took off, soaring into the air with a grace that denied the plane’s limitations. Over the barren, dusty acres she flew. For the first time since she had left Atlanta, she felt the thrill of being aloft. The experience removed her from the pain of the past few weeks, for in the cloudless sky, she was another being—floating through space, riding the wings of the wind, without a care. It was a healing experience, and she was sorry when the instructor signaled for her to return to earth.
Below, the other woman pilot watched with a pride in the way Alpharetta handled the plane. With a new respect for her friend, Mary Lou Brandon realized that the small red-headed Alpharetta Beaumont could take care of herself from now on.
Chapter 6
Unaware of the young American woman aloft in the same plane his British cadets had once flown, Wing Commander Sir Dow Pomeroy of the Royal Air Force was at that moment making a reconnaissance flight over Mount Etna. Montgomery’s troops below had reached an impasse on the eastern side of Sicily, where they were unable to breach the defense of the Germans.
The plans for the Allied invasion had been laid skillfully. They called for the establishment of beachheads on both sides of the island, with British and American armies moving rapidly from opposite directions toward the port of Messina, to keep the Germans from escaping across the strait to Italy.
But no one had allowed for national pride—in pitting Patton’s brand-new U.S. 7th army against Montgomery’s veteran British 8th army. It had not sat well with the Americans when the egotistical Montgomery had demanded the road assigned to Patton, relegating the U.S. 7th to guard duty of his left flank while Monty took the island. Pomeroy had an uneasy feeling that if the situation were not resolved to everyone’s satisfaction, it would bode ill for future joint endeavors, or even the remainder of this one.
With a sense of frustration, the wing commander gave his pilot the signal to return to Tunis. And on the way, his mind turned to another worry, the letter from his fiancée, Meg. She’d written:
I went to see your father yesterday, just as you requested. Poor dear, he’s s
o upset about his ruined rose garden now planted with rutabagas and Brussels sprouts. Even plowing up the front vista almost to the door to accommodate the corn was not nearly so devastating to him. He even jokes about the view to Father, saying our marriage will not unite two great houses of England, merely two government corn crops. I do hope you will be able to visit him soon. He maintains the proverbial stiff upper lip so well, but I know that deep down he misses you terribly. And so do I—miss you, darling…
An unidentified plane spotted off his left wing tip brought him back to the problems of war close at hand. The pilot, reacting immediately, veered into the cloud bank and left the second aircraft behind.
Early the next evening, Dow Pomeroy sat opposite a frowning U.S. Army Air Corps major and took a swallow of bourbon. He set his glass on the umbrella table and gazed out toward the azure sea, visible from the marbled terrace of the white palace that served as headquarters for Allied Air Operations.
“Well, Pomeroy, how do you expect the Americans to feel?” the major inquired. “Montgomery got his pick of the seaports. Patton’s army was dumped on the rocks. Now Montgomery has decided he needs Patton’s road to Messina, too.”
Dow shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “He’s in a poor position, Lawton,” he defended. “With no room to maneuver. He probably isn’t even aware of the inconvenience to you Americans.” Dow smiled suddenly, “Remember Monty’s the one who defeated Rommel in North Africa. Don’t you think he deserves some special consideration for it?”
“Patton won Mareth for him, Pomeroy. As for El Alamein, I’ll grant you that victory. Only he should have done it sooner, seeing he had access to all communications going in and out of Rommel’s headquarters.”
Pomeroy laughed. “Your nationality is showing, Lawton.”
Lawton grinned. “So is yours, Pomeroy.”
Seeing the aide approaching them, Dow said, “Shall we call a truce until after dinner?”
The Americans were clearly unhappy at the turn of events. For the British Alexander, in charge of Allied land operations in Sicily, had requested Patton’s army to give up the Vizzini—Caltagirone road, twenty-five miles inland, to the British. And the U.S. 45th Division was rerouted almost all the way back to the landing beaches, to start over again, allowing the enemy time to reassemble its defenses.
Marsh Wexford and the others who escaped through the dungeon route to the hillside beyond the villa, caught up with their division. And on July 16, the town of Agrigento was captured. By the next day, the airborne troops relieved the hard-fighting 3rd Infantry Division. In six more days, the city of Palermo was occupied. After an all-night march, Marsh, Gig, Laroche, and Giraldo arrived in San Margherita, and by the 23rd, with the surrender of Trapani, the 82nd Airborne Division had completed its Sicilian campaign.
In the shadow of the old convent on Mount Erice, the paratroopers, too specialized to be used for routine ground fighting, rested and cheered as Patton and his army swept over the island and finally captured Messina—Montgomery’s objective—only a few minutes before the British 8th army arrived from the other direction.
With the surrender of Messina, the battle for Sicily was over. But Heinrich von Freiker, with what was left of his panzer division, escaped through the straits to Italy, while Marsh and the other survivors of the 82nd Airborne returned to Africa to train for the next invasion.
At Avenger Field, Alpharetta graduated from the vultee trainer to more advanced aircraft, and her progress was duly noted with satisfaction by the commanding officer and grudgingly by Gandy Malone. In the classroom, she became known for the unusual ability to spot hidden targets in aerial photographs.
It was not so surprising to Alpharetta herself, trained as she had been from childhood by her father, with his hidden moonshine stills, until that way of life had been interrupted by the law and she had gone to live with her wealthy cousin, Anna Clare St. John.
The quiet, understated Alpharetta and the flamboyant Mary Lou Brandon temperamentally mirrored the two women responsible for the acceptance of women pilots for service—Nancy Love, the women’s liaison for the Air Transport Command, and Jackie Cochran, director of training.
Now, halfway through the training program, Alpharetta’s group had been measured for their first uniforms beyond the shapeless mechanic’s coveralls they’d been issued at first. And they eagerly awaited their arrival.
The official uniforms came on a Saturday morning. The six women in Alpharetta’s bay self-consciously dressed in the white shirts and general’s pants, or dress pinks, with overseas caps. Armed with a pass to town, they hitched a ride into Sweetwater in time for lunch at the Bluebonnet Hotel.
So used to being together twenty-four hours a day, Flossie and Happy, Lark and Agnes, Mary Lou and Alpharetta never gave a thought to pairing off with anyone else. Bound by nothing more substantial than the alphabet, they had grown in sympathetic spirit beyond all blood ties.
As Mary Lou Brandon straightened her cap before the mirror in the ladies’ room of the hotel, she glanced at Alpharetta by her side. “You know, Beaumont, I never would have chosen a Southern girl half my size for a friend back in Topeka,” she admitted in a surprised voice.
Alpharetta laughed. “I don’t have any friends like you back home either, Brandon.”
“But Lord, how you needed me those first few days. You really were a baby. Frankly, I thought you were going to get lost in the shuffle.”
Agnes Cavanaugh, coming out of a stall, took a place at a basin. “I don’t know about that, Brandon. Beaumont sure did get noticed that first inspection—in her bra and step-ins. For days, the lieutenant looked at her and then back at us in those formless zoot suits. I think he was trying to decide if we all had the same kind of figure Beaumont does.”
“The major wasn’t averse to looking, either,” Flossie piped in. “No, Brandon, there was no way they were going to lose Beaumont.”
Having taken enough teasing, Alpharetta said, “I’m hungry. Let’s go into the dining room.”
Seated at a table between Doric columns that supported the decorated ceiling overhead, the six chatted happily while luncheon was served by Maria, a Spanish-speaking waitress. They tried to ignore the interested glances from the U-shaped counter, yet were only partially successful. The uniforms were too new for the women not to feel self-conscious. Over the steady hum of the ceiling fans, they talked.
“We could even go to a movie tonight,” Happy suggested. “and then be back at ten P.M. for Charlie to pick us up.”
“I need to buy some stockings,” Lark commented. “I have a run in my very last pair.”
“Why don’t you buy some leg makeup, instead?” Agnes inquired. “It’s much cooler.”
“I would if I could paint a straight seam. But I can’t.”
“Use your slide rule, idiot.”
The waitress, amid the laughter, removed the heavy china plates that had no food left on them, and then brought the tall, frosted glasses of parfait. Just as Mary Lou lifted her long-handled spoon to taste the iced dessert, her face turned white. She laid the spoon back on the table and abruptly stood up.
“I—Excuse me. I think I see someone I know.”
She brought him to the table to meet them. And the change in Mary Lou Brandon was electrifying. Gone was the brittle manner, and in its place was a softness that, despite the uniform, despite her height, highlighted a femininity that the woman had kept concealed until that moment. Only love could do this to a person. Alpharetta, aware of the transformation, felt a sudden emptiness.
“This is Kyle,” Mary Lou said. “Kyle Arrington. And this is my bay—Alpharetta, Flossie, Happy, Lark, and Agnes.”
“Hello, Kyle. Hi! How are ya? Howdy. Hello,” they chanted individually, and in one concerted breath added, “Sir!” like a chorus in a Greek drama, for he was in uniform—summer khaki—an army officer, and they were in uniform, too.
“My pleasure, ladies.” His white, even teeth shone in a dazzling smile, his good looks
enhanced by the dramatic tan.
“Beaumont, can I see you for a moment?” Mary Lou inquired.
“Certainly.” Alpharetta rose and followed Mary Lou to the far window where they could not be heard, while Kyle sat down at the table with the other women.
“Do you mind dreadfully if I don’t go with you? Kyle’s asked me to spend the rest of the day with him. But that sort of leaves you at loose ends.”
Alpharetta smiled. “Go with him, Mary Lou. I’ll be fine—with the others.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” Then thinking of the return trip to the base that evening, Alpharetta said, “Will Kyle bring you back to the airfield?”
“No. I’ll meet you in front of the hotel at 21:30 and ride in the jeep.”
“All right. I’ll see you then.”
Kyle stood as the two returned to the table. Mary Lou leaned over to retrieve her shoulder bag. Digging into it, she said, “Here’s the money to pay for my lunch.”
Alpharetta eyed the untouched parfait. “You’re not going to eat your dessert?”
“No. You may have it,” she replied, aware of Alpharetta’s fondness for ice cream. “I’ll see you later,” she said and, with a wave, left the hotel in step with Kyle Arrington.
“Where’s Brandon going?” Flossie asked Alpharetta as the redhead sat down again and reached for Mary Lou’s parfait glass.
Before Alpharetta had a chance to speak, Happy replied, “That’s obvious, isn’t it? With Kyle.”
The five soon left the hotel, and in the sleepy Texas town that was now bursting at the seams in wartime, they shopped, buying the items not available at the base.
Their uniforms were heavy, and by late afternoon each was sorry she had not worn a sundress into town. Thirsty, they walked into a drugstore, wedged themselves into a wooden booth at the back, put down their packages, and waited for the boy to come and take their orders.
On Wings of Fire Page 5
