Cynthia Cartier - Wings

This was the second class of female flyers he had brought into the fold of military aviation, and he had hit a zone. “You have in front of you a list of the planes you will train on. Starting today you will continually transition from one plane to the next. Those of you who are assigned to ferry commands after graduation, will fly bombers or basics and fighters from base to base for training or from the factory floor to U.S. harbors. Planes delivered to the coast will be shipped overseas. The hardest working, the most skilled among you will move these planes at the bottom of the page.”

Liddy studied the list and heard Doubt snicker.

“These are fighter planes, pursuits. These planes are designed to pursue the enemy in battle. Transition to pursuits as well as the bombers will take place at additional training facilities where WASPs train and study alongside male cadets. Those of you good enough to be assigned to ferry pursuits or bombers, will get to crack open a few more books after graduation.”

The class listened intently as Captain Charles talked about what they would be studying: flight theory, communications, navigation, weather conditions and the History of Aviation made up part of the list. Liddy had to lock her neck to keep from looking at the planes out the window. Sometimes you just have to do one thing to be able to do another.

Scoping out the ropes and sizing-up the other trainees were part of the first week of training. The baymates debriefed each other every evening, reporting on what was what, who was who, from where, and what their flying background was. Some of the women had just enough hours to get into the program, while others had logged a hundred hours or more in the pit.

Most of the female pilots in the country who had more than five hundred hours in their log books had been recruited, before the WASP program, by Nancy Love for the Woman’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron. Before a program had been established in the United States to utilize female pilots for non-combat military flying, Love had assembled this elite group of women. She took them to England where they were allowed to ferry planes for the war effort.

The WAFS were very experienced pilots. The majority were well educated from well-to-do backgrounds. But a WASP trainee couldn’t be put into a mold. These women were as different as a cat is from an elephant. They were experienced aviators and novices, rich and poor, young college graduates and married women in their thirties.

The original Army sponsored program established by Jackie Cochran was the Woman’s Flying Training Detachment. As opposed to the WAFS, it was developed to train average female flyers to not only ferry planes, but to do other non-combat flying for the military. General ‘Hap’ Arnold made the decision that the two programs should merge if they would both be serving in the states, and the WASP was born. But, in their minds, the women who had been WAFS remained WAFS, even though they all did the same flying for their country.

Joy Lynn and Louise had learned to fly in a Civilian Pilot Training Program, Marina and Bet had received private instruction, and Calli’s Steven had taught her. Her roommates knew Liddy’s father had taught her to fly, but she didn’t go into detail beyond that. It was a big stew pot of women, but the main ingredient was that they were all pilots who wanted to fly to serve their country.

After supper, the baymates had staked out a group of chairs and sofas in the rec hall and sat back for their nightly reports. Songs that drew the gal’s hearts to memories of home, fun and sweethearts drifted through the fabric panels of the big floor radio. The girls shared the skinny on what they’d learned about the base, the program and the other trainees.

Jenna Law walked in carrying on with some of her classmates, and Joy Lynn set her elbows on her knees and leaned in toward the gals. In a hushed voice she said, “Did any of you see Jenna Law up today?” Joy Lynn whistled quietly. “I was impressed, and I don’t impress easily. That was some smooth junk. Don’t know I’ve ever seen a straighter dive.”

“That’s one confident lady.” Louise raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

“I don’t think there’s one bone that can be shaken in that broad.” Joy Lynn sat back and twirled her hair.

“She’s nice,” said Bet. “She showed me how to keep my chute straps from sliding, and she got me a couple of seat cushions to move me up in the pit.”

“She may be nice as long as you don’t mess with the rules, huh, Liddy?” asked Marina.

“I’m glad she helped you, honey.” Liddy squeezed Bet’s knee.

“Hey, Bailey, you know how to play ping pong?” Joy Lynn kicked at Bet’s feet that she had propped on the sofa table.

“I have three older brothers. What do you think?”

“I’ll take you on then.”

Joy Lynn and Bet picked up the paddles and went at it. And Liddy snuck off to the canteen. Liddy had discovered that the canteen wasn’t much of a hot spot. It was small, a little shabby and quiet. It became her place to be semi-alone, as any aloneness was a rare state since she boarded the train in Missouri. She wasn’t accustomed to having people around all the time and there were moments, many moments, she missed Crik’s place and her little trailer.

She’d close her eyes and listen to hear the sounds of the farm when everything slept, or the tires of the Dodge, jumping from rut to rut on the dirt roads and no one in the car but her. Even in the air she was accompanied by an instructor. She craved the day when training would move past solos, and she would have her time in the sky to herself again.

Before she slipped away to the canteen, Liddy took pen and paper from her locker to write home before lights out. She wrote to Daniel and Celia, and she jotted off a note to Rowby. She would tuck it away until she heard word from Daniel where she should mail it. She was careful to make sure it was light and friendly. She knew how natural it would be for him to make what he wanted of it. And then she wrote to Jack and Crik again:

The first few weeks of training were just the beginning of a long line of exhaustion hangovers. Each day got tougher and ended with the women dragging themselves into their bays and flopping into bed. And the following day was always a struggle to drag themselves out again. It wasn’t unusual to wake up full of confidence one morning and then run on empty the next. That was the gauge that determined the spring in their step.

The women’s interest in a look in the mirror faded until they no longer visited the spot at all. Marina hadn’t opened her paint bag in weeks, and the thought of having pearls rubbing against her sweaty skin made her feel claustrophobic.

The inspections were another weight. The quarters were to be neat and tucked at all times. Sinks had to be dry and polished, shoes lined up, beds wrinkle free, nothing in the trash can and no dust. The list went on.

Joy Lynn was collecting demerits like coins, and both sides of the bay were put on restriction for her transgressions. The twelve women were confined to the base for two weeks, which was supposed to teach everyone a lesson. The disciplinarians didn’t know that the grounding would have had to last for at least a month to have had much of an impact. When two or more girls get together they have a way of finding fun, no matter where they are. Joy Lynn’s housekeeping did improve somewhat, but it was the others picking up her trails that really kept her and the rest of the bay in the clear.

Liddy, Bet, Louise, Carla and Ruby were stuck with Gant for phase one. None of them really minded though. He turned out to be an excellent pilot and his tone had leveled to a rumble. Each morning he would lead them through the day’s agenda with as much patience as he could forge. “I expect you to have this checklist down by tomorrow,” he growled one day.

“We memorize it?” Bet whispered to Liddy.

Gant stepped in front of Bet. “No, Bailey, you have to know it. And the flight forms have to be filled out for every flight: name of pilot, time, class, flight, signature. Got it?”