On Wings Of The Morning (28 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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31
Georgia
Liberal, Kansas—July 1944
 
I
t was the height of summer, but when my alarm went off, it was still dark. I groaned and, with my eyes still closed, pulled my arm out from under the blanket and groped the nightstand in search of the clock. Finding it at last, I punched a button to stop the irritating, metallic clang of the bell and held the clock face close, squinting to see the time.
Three-thirty in the morning? Why in the world had I set the alarm for such an ungodly hour? Then I remembered. There was a new batch of trainees on base and Hemingway, who liked to let people think he was related to the famous author but wasn't, liked to roust the trainees from bed extra early on the first day. “Just to remind these hotshot flyboys that this is a military operation,” he'd say with a swagger and laugh, which his toadying junior officers would quickly echo.
It was ridiculous, I thought. These boys had already been through their boot camp. They'd proven their mettle; there was no need to treat them like a bunch of raw recruits. But that was the way Hemingway wanted it, and since he was the base commander, that was the way it would be.
I snapped on the bedside lamp and groaned again. My eyes felt like they were glued shut. I heaved myself into a sitting position on the edge of my bed. But somehow, in my blind search for the alarm clock, the lamp cord must have gotten wrapped around my arm because when I sat up I accidentally tugged on the cord, and the lamp crashed to the floor and broke into about fifty pieces. Great. That lamp probably cost three bucks, but as soon as my landlady saw the damage, it would undoubtedly become a cherished family heirloom that would cost me half a week's pay to replace. I sighed, got up to find a broom, and stepped on a shard of the broken lamp. The gash in my foot wasn't deep, but it hurt like the dickens. I limped to the bathroom, leaving a trail of bloody left footprints behind.
Snapping on the bathroom light, I peered into the mirror and said to my reflection, “Georgia June, this is not going to be a good day.”
 
Things looked brighter after I bandaged my foot and had a cup of coffee. I made it extra strong, using up the last of the precious can of real coffee that Delia had somehow gotten hold of and sent me for Christmas. I think that was back when she'd been dating a supply officer. It tasted so good, and I knew I was going to need it today, not just to get myself moving on this early day but to give myself the energy to face a new group of students.
Don't get me wrong; I loved my job. Because I spent so much time in the classroom, only taking up students for their occasional flights to check their navigation skills, I didn't get as much flying time as I would have liked. But I'd found a little private airfield just over the Oklahoma state line run by a fellow named Whitey Henderson that had a couple of old biplanes for rent, and on Sundays I'd hitch a ride out to the airfield and take one up for a spin. Flying in an open cockpit was wonderful. I really
felt
like I was flying, like I had wings of my own, like an angel peering down on a worry-worn world from the edge of heaven and wondering what all the silly fuss was about. Still, I didn't fly frequently. Between teaching, correcting tests, tutoring students who needed extra help, and planning for upcoming lessons, I didn't have the time. And even if I had, I suspect I still wouldn't have gone very often. Flying, as I'd discovered during those months when I'd been ferrying planes, gave me too much time by myself, too much time to think. And I didn't want to think. I didn't want time to feel lonely, or sad, or anything else. I just wanted to do my job and live my life as it was, not wondering what I was missing or why.
By that standard, my instructor's job at Liberal Army Airfield was nearly perfect. Of course, dealing with Hemingway wasn't always a walk in the park, but I'd met his kind before, and, one way or another, I dealt with them. But the job itself was great. There was always something interesting to do, and I relished the challenge. The trainees weren't used to the idea of a female instructor, and while most of them tended to be merely skeptical, there were always one or two who were openly hostile, challenging my authority and trying their best to disrupt the class. But once they realized that I really did know my stuff, the men would buckle down and get to work. Most of them were good, hard-working guys who'd come to Kansas for one reason: to become better pilots, get into combat, and help win the war. And if a female instructor could help them reach that goal as thoroughly and quickly as a man, it made no difference to them.
Of course, there were exceptions. I'll never forget Mick Deering, a real charming piece of work with the personality of a rabid wolverine and an I.Q. to match. He marched into the C.O.'s office and said he flat refused to be taught by a woman. And can you believe it? The colonel patted him on the shoulder, said he understood, and assigned him to another instructor!
Then the old man called me into his office and hollered at me, saying that he'd seen it coming, that he'd known from the first that having a girl teach “his men” was a recipe for disaster, and that if it had been up to him, he'd never have allowed me to set foot on his base. “I don't care what load of road apples the brass in Washington are trying to sell!” he barked, his red face a scant three inches from mine. “A United States military base is no place for a female unless she's cleaning something, bandaging something, or typing something! I am making a note in your personnel file, Mrs. Welles. I've got my eye on you. You are clearly unfit for this job, and the sooner I can prove that to those fools at headquarters who sent you here in the first place, the better it will be for me, for my men, and for the U.S. Army Air Corps!”
It took every ounce of self-control I had not to tell that old coot of a colonel just what I thought of him, but I knew if I did, that would be just the excuse he'd need to transfer me, or maybe even have me drummed out of the WASP for good. I stood there at attention in front of his desk and took everything he had to dish out, but it wasn't easy. I was furious.
Two weeks later I took no small satisfaction in hearing the news that Deering had washed out because he'd failed both a flight check and a test in navigation. He ended up in the infantry.
It still made me smile to think about it. I took another sip of coffee and spied the pile of envelopes that my landlady had shoved under the door—my mail. The room I was renting wasn't really a legal apartment, just a bedroom over my landlady's garage. It was expensive and drafty, but within walking distance of the base. I didn't have a mailing address of my own, so the postman left everything at the main house. Whenever she got around to it, the landlady climbed the rickety wooden stairs to my room and stuffed the mail under the door, the crack underneath being wide enough to admit letters, blasts of cold air, and the occasional rodent.
I picked up the pile of mail and flipped through the envelopes. There was a flyer from the local dry goods store about a sale that had been over three days ago, letters from Delia and Pamela that I decided to read after work, and a strange-looking envelope from Waukegan Oil covered with stamps and notes for forwarding addresses. Clearly, it had been tracking me for some time. Curious, I tore open the envelope and pulled out the notice inside.
“What the heck?” I asked myself. It was a bill for the airfield's heating oil from the previous winter. I frowned as I saw the angry red stamp that said “
NINETY DAYS PAST DUE
.
REMIT PAYMENT IMMEDIATELY
. Why hadn't Stubbs paid the oil bill? In his last letter, he'd said everything was fine, that business continued to be slow but we were keeping up. I bit my lower lip as I read the statement again. There must have been some sort of misunderstanding, I decided. Besides, this bill had been chasing me around for so long that Stubbs would surely have paid it by now.
In the background I heard the gentle tick-tick of the clock and looked up. Four-thirteen. I had to be on base in seventeen minutes. Hemingway insisted that all the instructors be present, standing in a respectful line behind him when he gave his “welcome to hell” speech to the incoming trainees. Later, I'd drop Stubbs a line and ask about the oil bill, but right now I had to get to work. I left the mail on the table, took a final gulp of coffee, wedged a piece of stale donut between my teeth to eat on the way, and buttoned my blue battle jacket as I ran out the door.
Ah,
I thought,
the glamorous life of a lady pilot.
32
Georgia
Liberal, Kansas—July 1944
 
M
y first instincts were correct. It hadn't been a good day. I'd gotten to work three minutes early, but that still made me the last instructor to arrive for Hemingway's speech. He glared as I stepped onto the platform and took my place alongside the others. Then he neglected to introduce me, just let me stand up there looking like a fool, walking right past me as if I didn't exist while he announced the names and positions of everyone else who was standing up front. Afterwards, he'd walked over, sneering, and said that he expected every member of the staff to be on time, and that if I was too busy primping and fussing to arrive to the meeting on time, then I'd best not come at all.
Fine,
I thought as I stood there.
You want to play it that way? Next time I'll set my alarm clock for two-thirty, arrive an hour early, and be standing on the platform checking my wristwatch when you walk in the door.
On top of that, there was a blond troublemaker from Alabama in my class, Carlton Pickett, who had the potential to be a first-class Deering. And later, unable to get that oil bill off my mind, I'd tried to use the pay phone at the base to call Stubbs only to have the operator tell me that the number had been disconnected. I insisted that she must be wrong, that the number couldn't have been disconnected because it was a business, and I was the owner, but the operator just kept repeating, “I'm sorry, ma'am. The number is no longer in service,” in that annoying, nasal twang that seemed to be a job requirement for women who wanted to work for the American Telephone and Telegraph Company.
“Thank you, Operator. You've been so helpful,” I said sarcastically before banging down the receiver.
What in the world could be going on in Waukegan,
I wondered. Then, I'd had one more class with the new trainees, plus a three-hour navigation flight check with a pilot who hadn't passed the first time and was having a second and final chance to move on to the next phase of training. For the next few hours, I'd have to put worries about Stubbs and my business back in Illinois out of my mind. However, the second I landed and signed off on my student's evaluation form (he'd passed with flying colors), I headed back to my apartment. It had been a long day, and it wasn't over yet.
I brought a big pile of paperwork home with me, thinking I'd get to it right after I wrote a letter to Stubbs asking about the oil bill. After that, my plan was to heat up a can of soup for dinner and climb into a hot bath before bed.
The walk home was short, but the fresh air did me a lot of good. It would have been cheaper, not to mention warmer and cleaner, if the WASP had been militarized and I could have lived on base, but sometimes it was nice to be able to walk away from the job at the end of a long day, even if only for a few hours.
It was a warm day, so when I got home I mixed up the cold coffee I had left from the morning with a little milk and sugar and poured it over ice. I peeled off my battle jacket and sat down at the table with my glass, thinking that sipping iced coffee would help me keep a cool head while I figured out a diplomatic way of asking Stubbs if things were falling apart in my absence.
The stack of mail lay on the table where I'd left it that morning. I picked up the pile, hoping to find a clean sheet of stationery, and one envelope slipped and dropped to the table—the letter from Pamela.
I was hot and tired. Pamela's letter was a welcome distraction, so I decided to read it first and write Stubbs later. My dining table/ kitchen counter/work desk didn't come supplied with anything as elegant as a proper letter opener, but a butter knife did the job just as well.
Dear Georgia,
 
How are you? I haven't heard from you in a while, but I know you've been busy with your new duties. Still, send up a signal flare every once in a while, so I know you're still alive.
I'm not sure how to ask you this or if it's any of my business, but I was wondering if you've been in contact with Morgan Glennon? I got the feeling that there was more going on between you two than you were willing to admit. You know, he and John knew each other from basic and they keep in touch from time to time. I didn't know if you'd heard anything, but Morgan is missing in action. John just heard about it so I wanted to make sure you knew. If I hear anything more, I'll keep you posted.
John will be home for dinner any minute. I've got to dash. I'll write again soon. You do the same, all right?
 
Love,
Pamela
My hands shook as I reached for the glass of iced coffee and took a drink, hoping to swallow back the lump in my throat. I read the letter again, searching for more information about what might have happened or details about the search, but there was nothing, nothing but the cold, hard fact that Morgan was missing and the surprising anguish brought on by the news.
“Why are you so upset about this?” I asked myself aloud, wiping tears from my cheeks with the back of my hands. “You barely know him! It's not like you're in love with him!”
I stood up and took a couple of deep breaths, determined to get hold of myself. It was ridiculous, letting myself fall apart like this over someone I didn't love and who had made it very clear he didn't love me. What in the world was wrong with me? I was acting just like when I'd heard about Roger. That was it, I decided. This had brought back the pain of losing Roger, the shock of opening the letter you never expected or wanted to receive, the feeling of utter helplessness, of not knowing but fearing the worst. That was it. It was because of Roger. But that wasn't all it was.
Anxiety clutched at me, and for a moment, I thought I was going to be sick. I took several more slow, deep breaths trying to calm myself, but it didn't work. I started pacing, ten steps from one side of the room to the other and back, but that just made me feel more apprehensive, like a tiger pacing back and forth in a cage. I'd never taken up smoking, but at that moment, I wished I had. At least that would have given me something to do with my hands, some way to smother my thoughts and suffocate my fears.
I couldn't bear it anymore. I had to find something to do. Without bothering to grab my purse or put on my jacket, I opened the apartment door, ran down the wobbly wooden steps that led to the street, and started walking, not knowing where I was headed and not caring.
Liberal is a nice town with pretty tree-lined streets and tidy homes boasting even tidier gardens. Usually I enjoyed walking through my neighborhood in the evening, watching children playing games of kick-the-can in the twilight while their mothers enjoyed a few moments of rest sitting on the front steps, occasionally being called upon to settle some disagreement about the rules or who had reached base first. But I didn't notice any of that tonight. I just walked, without looking right or left or considering where I should go or what I would do when I got there. I don't know how long it took, but eventually I found myself downtown.
Walking had helped me calm down a little, but my stomach was still churning with anxiety and, I realized as I spied a sign for the Midway Café, hunger. Other than coffee, that stale donut was the only thing I'd put in my stomach all day. I decided to go inside and get something to eat.
It was a busy place. The air was filled with the smell of frying beef and bacon, the hum of conversation, and the clatter of cutlery on ceramic plates. But when I came in, everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me for a moment before finally returning to the business of eating. Clearly, this was a café that thrived on the business of regulars. I felt very conspicuous. I was just about to leave and walk home with an empty stomach when a waitress wearing a white uniform and thick glasses yelled in my direction, “Booths are all full, hon. Grab a place there at the counter. I'll be right with you.”
I complied, knowing that my sudden exit would occasion even more interest than my entrance. Besides, I really was hungry. There were three empty stools together, so I took the one in the middle, not wanting to sit next to a stranger. After a couple of minutes, the waitress returned and handed me a menu.
“Sorry for the wait. I had to go in the back and find one. Most folks around here already have it memorized, but you're not from around here, are you?” she asked, peering at me over the top of her black-rimmed glasses. It was more a statement than a question, but I answered anyway.
“No, I moved here just a few months ago. I work at the airfield.”
“Oh,” she nodded, curiosity satisfied. “You're a secretary.” Normally, I would have corrected her. One of the things I enjoyed about being a pilot was the reaction the news of my profession elicited, especially from other women, but I wasn't in the mood for any of that tonight. Wearing a simple pair of slacks with a white blouse, I could remain incognito, and tonight that was exactly what I wanted.
I looked over the menu, wondering what I should order. As if reading my mind, the waitress said, “Cheeseburger's good. Fries, too. They changed the grease in the fryer this afternoon.”
“That's fine.” I handed back the menu.
“Coke or Dr. Pepper?” she asked, as if those were the only beverages worth considering.
“Coke. And a glass of water, too, if you don't mind.”
“I'll put your order in and be right back.” She smiled and scurried off. Behind me, I heard the door open. The hum of diners' conversations continued without interruption, so I figured whoever entered must have been one of the Midway's regular customers.
Flashing a smile and waving as she disappeared into the kitchen, the waitress called out, “Hello, Pastor! Good to see you! Take a seat at the counter and I'll bring out your coffee and pie in two shakes.”
Behind me, a low voice with a trace of a foreign accent rumbled, “Thank you, Irma.” There were only two seats available at the counter, both of them flanking me. The gentleman sat down to my left. He was, as Irma had said, a pastor, and he wore a black shirt and clerical collar under his jacket. I nodded as he sat down but didn't speak to him.
I rested my chin in one hand and drummed my fingers on the counter with the other, hoping that Irma would hurry up with my Coke.
“Here you go,” she said, taking the drinks from the tray she balanced expertly on one hand. “A Coke and a glass of water. Shouldn't be too long for the rest of your order.” Then, turning to my neighbor, she continued, “And here you go, Pastor Van Dyver. Coffee and a piece of apple pie a lá mode. I cut you a nice big piece and gave you an extra scoop of ice cream.” She smiled as she put the food in front of him.
“Irma, you didn't have to do that.”
“I know, but you've got a big appetite. Though you'd never know it to look at you.” Irma was right; the minister was tall and skinny as a rail. “Don't worry,” she said with a wave of her hand, then looked over at me as if I were part of the conversation. “The boss doesn't mind. Ernie's always been grateful for the way you visited him every day when he had his gallbladder out.”
The pastor seemed a little embarrassed by the special consideration he was receiving. “Irma, that was over a year ago. Ernie's thanked me ten times over. I didn't mind. It was a pleasure talking with him.”
I wouldn't want to accuse a minister of lying, but that was a little hard to believe. How much of a pleasure could it be to visit with someone who was in the throws of a gallbladder attack? Irma grinned as if she was thinking the same thing.
“Just the same, Pastor, Ernie said I'm supposed to take good care of you, and that's what I'm going to do. Now eat that before the ice cream starts to melt,” she ordered cheerily before turning to me. “I'll go see where your cheeseburger is at.”
She called over her shoulder as she left, “Say, Pastor, this lady's new in town. You should invite her to your church.” I opened my eyes wide and glared at Irma, hoping she realized that her tip had just been cut in half. All I wanted was to eat my dinner in peace, not have some local preacher pressuring me to join his congregation.
As if reading my mind, the minister said, “Don't worry. I won't push you to come to our church—unless, of course, you'd like to. You'd be very welcome.” He smiled and stuck out his hand for me to shake, “I'm Paul Van Dyver.”
“Georgia Welles.”
“I pastor a small church over in Dillon.”
“Oh,” I said, relieved that he'd just given me an out. “That's quite a way from here, isn't it?”
“About ten miles south, across the state line into Oklahoma.”
“That's too bad, then. I don't have a car.”
Reverend Van Dyver's lips stretched into an amused smile, knowing an excuse when he heard one. “So, you're new in town? What brings you here?”
“I work at the airfield,” I answered without volunteering more. Like Irma, he'd probably assume I was doing some sort of administrative work. But he turned out to be more curious than the waitress.

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