On Wings Of The Morning (15 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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17
Morgan
Sweetwater, Texas—March 1943
 
T
he pretty trainee had been right. I felt better after a shower and some food.
I also felt bad about talking to her that way, but I was so frustrated. Getting stranded in Texas meant that I was going to miss my own flight check on Monday morning. Unlike these trainees, a failed or missed check didn't mean I'd be sent home, but it did mean I wouldn't be able to graduate from my training on time. I'd be cycled back to the class that was behind mine. That would tack on a full month to my training. I shouldn't have been so mean to that girl, but you could hardly blame me for being grouchy.
The mechanic had been right, too. It was hot as blazes, like Dillon at the peak of summer. The food they'd served at dinner was good—pork barbeque, potatoes, corn bread, stewed okra, and banana pudding—and I ate heartily, but it did nothing to lift my spirits. I brought a glass of iced tea back to the visitors' barracks. The ice melted before I got halfway there, but the tea was still cool. I sat down on the stoop in front of the barracks to drink it, hoping to catch a breeze, and wondering how I was going to pass the time until morning.
I thought about writing to Virginia. It had been more than a week since I'd done so, but it was too hot and, truthfully, I just didn't feel like it. She'd sent three letters since I'd last written. Each one read pretty much like the one before it, full of details about what she'd done that day and what she'd worn that day, petty gossip about her enemies and petty complaints about her friends, and, always, not very subtle hints about a proposal. In fact, sometimes they weren't even hints. Her last letter had come right out and asked if I ever planned on asking her to marry her and even accused me of having another girlfriend.
I knew I should write her, reassure her, but I didn't know what to say. Probably, when the war was over, I should marry her. She'd been waiting so long. She'd been excited when I'd come back stateside for my P-38 training. She thought I'd be able to get some leave time to come to Oklahoma. Maybe time enough for a quick visit to the justice of the peace. I probably could have if I'd pushed for it, but the truth was, I just didn't want to go home. Lots of guys went off with a weekend pass and came back with a wedding band. Just a couple of months ago, Virginia had written to tell me that Frank Hodges had swept into town, married Ethel Garland, and hopped a train the next day so he could meet up with his battalion and ship out for England. No, even though it would have been nice to see Mama, Grandma, and Ruby, I wasn't ready to ask for a weekend leave to Dillon.
So, for the time being at least, here I was, stranded somewhere west of Abilene, and, having fruitlessly circled my brain around all the problems that I was faced with, I came back to my first question: how was I going to keep myself occupied until morning?
I took a sip of my now lukewarm tea and pondered the issue. Then, as if in answer to my question, a group of girls dressed in matching blue blouses and regulation-looking skirts rounded the corner of my barracks, laughing and talking. A pretty, petite brunette led the group, the same trainee who had blessed me out while showing me to the base offices.
I got up from the stoop and stepped into her path.
“Hi,” I said sheepishly. “Remember me?” She glared at me with those huge brandy-brown eyes like she wished she didn't.
“I don't think I ever really introduced myself.” I stuck out my hand and hoped she'd take it. “Morgan Glennon. I was stationed with a fighter wing in the Pacific until a few months ago, but they sent me back home to train in P-38s.” My hand hovered, unclasped, in empty air. I drew it back awkwardly, feigning the need to push my hair out of my eyes. The trainee just kept glaring at me, but one of her friends, a tall girl with an Eastern accent, stepped in front of the girl and stuck out her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Or may I call you Morgan?” I said that Morgan would be fine. She said her name was Pamela and then introduced me to the other girls, Fanny and Donna Lee, before continuing.
“And, of course, you've already met my friend, Georgia Welles, Avenger Field's own little Miss Congeniality.” She elbowed her friend and said, “Georgia! Don't be rude. Say something to the man.”
“That's all right. I can't say as I blame her. We didn't get off on a very good foot this afternoon.”
“So we heard.” Fanny giggled. “Georgia said she tried to show you a little WASP hospitality and you told her to take a hike!”
“Of course that was right after she'd called him a masher and accused him of faking engine failure just so he could prey on innocent lady pilots,” Donna Lee said practically but with a trace of a smile. Then, looking to her friend, she said, “Georgia, you can't blame him for being sore after you were so snippy.” Georgia's wide eyes got even wider. She opened her mouth as if she were ready to tell Donna Lee exactly what she could do with her clumsy attempts at diplomacy, but I interrupted before she could utter a word.
“No,” I explained to Donna Lee. “It was all my fault. Really. I was upset and took it out on Georgia. You see, I'm due at my base for my final flight check in the morning, but since I'm stuck here, I'm going to miss it. I won't be able to finish with my class. They'll send me back to the next group, and I'll graduate from the program a month late.” I glanced over at Georgia and saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes.
“A whole month!” Fanny exclaimed. “If somebody told me I was going to have to spend an extra month here while the rest of you girls went on and got your wings, I'd probably pop somebody right in the kisser! You poor guy!” she said sympathetically.
I nodded my head slowly and tried to look like exactly that—a poor guy: ignored by flight mechanics, friendless, stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do on a Friday night but sit on the stoop of the visitors' barracks drinking lukewarm tea, nursing my regrets. I sighed melodramatically and gave Georgia a sideways glance.
She tipped her head, showing she was on to me, and laughed. “All right already. All is forgiven. But why didn't you tell me that in the first place? I wouldn't have been so hard on you.” Before giving me a chance to answer, her friend Pamela piped in.
“Why don't you come down to the Tumbleweed with us? It's not exactly the Coconut Grove, but it'll be more fun than hanging around here all night.”
I looked for permission at the pretty one. “Is that all right with you?”
She considered a moment. “Why not?” she said with a shrug. “The more the merrier.”
 
Pamela wasn't kidding. The Tumbleweed Roadhouse not only wasn't the Coconut Grove, it wasn't even the Hy-Life Tavern, the only bar in Dillon.
The Tumbleweed was way out on a dirt road east of town. The long, low building leaned slightly to the northwest and was topped off by a rust-laden roof of corrugated tin. If the Tumbleweed had ever had known the stroke of a paintbrush, which seemed unlikely, blistering sun and hard Texas winds had peeled off the evidence years before.
We'd come in two battered trucks that the girls borrowed from friends. I rode with Pamela, who took the wheel, and Georgia had the other girls with her. Pamela was a nice-looking girl, tall and blond, with a quick wit. I liked her right off. She asked if I had a girl back home. When I reported that I did, she snapped her fingers and said, “Nuts! No smooching for me tonight! Guess I'll just have to settle for a turn around the dance floor.”
The parking lot was crowded. Georgia grabbed a spot near the door, but I had to park on the far end. As we drove in I heard a crunching sound under the tires that I thought was gravel, but when I opened the door of the truck and stepped out, I found the ground was covered, literally, with old beer caps. There were thousands of them. “When the sun goes down and it cools off a little, the cowboys like to buy a brew and drink it outside, standing around the trucks,” Pamela explained. “Somebody told me it was an old icehouse, that people used to buy their beer here because it was the only way to get a cold one. We're walking on decades of beer caps—layers and layers of them. In another thousand years some archeologist will dig up this place and write a thesis on the beer-drinking habits of prehistoric man.”
We joined the others, who were waiting for us at a spot slightly closer to the door. Pamela gave a loud, and pretty realistic, impression of a wolf howling at the moon as we approached. Like her, the other girls were clearly excited, giddy with relief over passing their flight checks, and energized by the prospect of a night on the town. I knew exactly how they felt. I'd enjoyed many such celebrations with my buddies, especially with Fountain, who could turn any sliver of good news into an excuse for a party, but it was odd for me to think of girls acting like this, getting ready to tie one on just the way my flying buddies did.
Georgia was more subdued than her friends, but she appeared to be enjoying herself, or at least enjoying the fact that the girls were having fun. She walked near the back of the group. I fell into step beside her and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “So, are you the adult in charge of this crew?”
She grinned and nodded. “I guess so. At least, I'm the one that makes sure they all get back on base before roll call and with their garters still attached to their girdles. I'm not really a drinker. Don't like the taste. I usually order one beer, drink half of it, and then switch to Coca-Cola.”
“I'm the same way. I don't have anything against drinking; I just don't care for it much myself. Still, it's fun to come out and have a good time with your friends. They seem like real nice girls.”
“They are. The best. And they are terrific pilots, too. In another month”—she knocked her head like it was wood for good luck—“we'll all graduate and start ferrying planes for the war effort.”
“Good for you!” I said. “We could sure use the help.”
Georgia turned to look at me with an expression of surprise. “Really? You think so? A lot of guys think it's a waste of time and money to train women as pilots. They think we won't be able to cut it. Even some of the officers and instructors at Avenger feel that way. We've passed the same classes and gone through almost the exact same training as male flight cadets, but a few of the men who are supposed to be helping us get ready to fly would still like nothing better than to see us wash out.”
“Well, that's just stupid,” I said, and I meant it. “If a girl can pass the same training as a man, I can't see any reason she shouldn't fly. We need every combat pilot we can lay our hands on, and if women can help win the war by flying stateside so more guys can get into the fight, I can't see why they shouldn't. Heck, I'm grateful for the help!”
Georgia's pace slowed slightly as we approached the door of the roadhouse, and I kept in step with her as the other girls forged ahead, eager to let the party begin.
“Well, you're a breath of fresh air,” Georgia said and then puffed in disgust. “I just don't understand the attitude of some of these guys. Here we are, every one of us is already a pilot with a minimum of seventy-five hours in the air, and most with a lot more and—my gosh! Why shouldn't we fly if that will help end the war sooner? Everyone should do their part, and the way I see it, my part is flying airplanes because that's what I know how to do and that's what needs to be done.
“Would they be happier if I stayed home and knit socks? Of course”—she laughed and raised her hands in front of her “—one look at my knitting and they'd probably be just as happy to let me pilot airplanes. The nuns tried their best with me for ten long years and I still can't darn a sock or sew on a button.”
I looked at her and couldn't help but smile. At first glance, I'd thought she was hard and standoffish, but underneath she really was a sweet girl and a very pretty one. Even in the middle of frustrated attempts to get off this air base, I'd noticed that right off. Now, with the moonlight shining on her hair and her eyes sparkling in laughter, I decided she just might be beautiful.
“Well, maybe you weren't the problem. Maybe it was the nuns. I've never met any myself—my hometown is so small that we don't even have a Catholic church—but my old buddy Tony Campezzio, used to tell some horror stories about the ruler-wielding sisters in his elementary school.”
“Oh, the sisters are like any teachers, I suppose—some good and some not so good. My guess is your friend Tony deserved whatever he got,” she said with a chuckle. “I had some good teachers growing up, but Sister Agatha taught sewing, and she never liked me, not from the first day.”
“Well, there you have it!” I smacked my hand against my leg to emphasize my point. “Sister Agatha never liked you, so you never liked sewing. The right teacher makes all the difference. Bet my Mama could teach you. She makes quilts, but not like anything you've ever seen before. Her quilts are like paintings.”
“Wow.” Georgia replied, but flatly. I could tell she wasn't convinced.
“I'm not kidding. My mother is an artist. And she's patient. She could teach you for certain.” A little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

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