On Wings Of The Morning (20 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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22
Georgia
San Diego, California—May 1943
 
S
an Diego is a navy town, so the residents were used to seeing men in uniform, but when Morgan and I walked into the Gaslight Steak House, all eyes were upon us.
The waitress handed us menus and left. I opened mine, peered over the top of it, and whispered to Morgan, “So, you think they don't get a lot of lady pilots wearing flight suits four sizes too big for them in here? I told you I should have changed before we went to dinner. They're going to be staring at us all night!”
“You think it's you they're looking at? Naw. I think it's me. We're so close to where the movie stars live, they've probably mistaken me for Errol Flynn. Happens all the time,” he said with a world-weary sigh.
“Errol Flynn? More like Groucho Mark,” I teased, returning the jab. “But, seriously, we should have gotten cleaned up before going out to eat. I feel self-conscious with all these people staring at us. Maybe we should have just gone to the U.S.O.”
“What? And have donuts for dinner instead of a nice, juicy steak? And if we were at the U.S.O. I'd have to spend my whole evening chasing off all the flyboys who would be fighting for a dance with you,” Morgan said. “Especially once they got an eyeful of you in that swell outfit.”
I made a face and clunked Morgan on the head with my menu. “Very funny.”
“Ouch! Is that any way to treat a guy who's trying to give you a compliment? Not to mention taking you out to dinner—”
I interrupted him. “Morgan, this isn't a date, and you're not taking me out to dinner, remember? We're just eating together because we don't know anyone else in San Diego. When the check comes we are splitting it right down the middle. That's what you agreed to.”
Morgan held up his hands in surrender. “I know. I know. It's not a date.”
The waitress returned to take our order. Morgan ordered a T-bone, but I just asked for a hamburger. Since it was a special occasion, we each decided to try a glass of red wine.
“If we're splitting the check down the middle, it looks like I'm going to be getting a deal. Are you sure you don't want a steak?” Morgan asked.
I shook my head and took a sip of water. “I'm not that hungry.”
“Really? You should be, after flying all the way here. I've got to tell you the truth, Georgia, I wasn't sure a little slip of a thing like you would be able to handle that bomber. What do you weigh? Maybe a hundred and ten pounds?”
“Hundred and seventeen,” I corrected. “Probably a hundred and fifty if you count the flight suit.”
“And now you're flying twin-engine cargo planes?” Morgan whistled admiringly. “You've learned a few things since last I saw you.” I couldn't help but blush a little. It felt good to earn another pilot's respect, especially one as good as Morgan. During our flight, he'd told me about his experiences in the Pacific, but only after I prodded him. Twelve combat kills was an impressive record; most pilots would have let you know about that before they even said hello, but not Morgan. I liked him more because of it.
“Well, you may only weigh one hundred and seventeen pounds,” Morgan continued, “but the first hundred must be pure muscle. If I'd had to manhandle that monster all the way to San Diego, my arms would be feeling like spaghetti right now.”
“Who says they don't?” I laughed and reached for a hot roll from the basket the waitress had left on the table. “When we were at Avenger they must have made us do a million push-ups, and now I know why. I only graduated a month ago, but I've already flown more different planes than most pilots handle in a lifetime—fighters, dive bombers, pursuit planes, you name it.” I knew I was bragging, but I couldn't help feeling a little proud. Sometimes, when I'd walk up to some big behemoth of an airplane and realize that I was going to get behind the wheel and actually take her off the ground, I could scarcely believe it myself.
“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.

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