Radar Girls

by Sara Ackerman

  Major Hochman touched his hat in a salute to the bulldog man. “Nixon, I’ve got your next shift here.”

  Nixon glanced at the clock on the wall behind him, then said, “God help us, boys, we have a truck full of Bettys here to take over for you. Brief them on your current plots. You’re relieved of duty.”

  Technically, there was only one Betty, but no one was about to correct him.

  “Highly trained and ready for work, sir,” Major Hochman said.

  The men stood and pushed out chairs, took off their headphones. One young fellow saluted the women, then motioned them over. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen and had an angry field of pimples on his cheeks, but he bounced around with enough cockiness for them all.

  He pointed to a marker on the map, north of Ka‘a‘awa. “This here is a transport, bearing West at 250 knots, bound for Kˉan‘eohe. Confirmed friend. Any of you hotshots want to take it on?”

  Fluff stepped forward and reached for his poker. “I will.” The blue uniform suited her, conforming to her tiny waist, and enhancing the sea blue of her eyes. Her confidence caught Daisy off guard, and apparently it did the same to Colonel Nixon, who was suddenly standing next to them.

  “What kind of aircraft is she?” he asked Fluff.

  “Um. Let’s see. I guess it depends on what you are transporting—”

  Fluff looked up toward a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling and twirled a lock of hair around her finger, obviously stalling. If only he had asked her a question about William Shakespeare or Walt Whitman.

  “Flying Fortress, sir,” Daisy said, unable to help herself.

  Nixon looked her up and down, his eyes level with her mouth. “Was I asking you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How did you arrive at that, Miss...?”

  “Wilder. Daisy Wilder. Because those are the transports that have been landing here. And because of her speed.”

  He spoke coldly. “You happen to be correct, but you are also out of line.” Then, so all could hear, “Ladies, a few ground rules will keep you out of trouble. First, if you don’t know the answer to something, the proper answer is ‘I don’t know, sir, but I’ll find out.’ Second, don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking to someone. And third but not last, if you think like a man, speak like a man and act like a man, you should do fine.”

  Fluff rolled her eyes and looked to be fighting a laugh. Daisy gave her a stern look. She was familiar with Nixon’s type, and you didn’t want to cross them. In her experience at the ranch, there were two kinds of men: those who liked women and those who didn’t. No amount of smarts or competence could change that fact.

  “Oh, and one more thing—don’t touch my coffeepot.” He then motioned for a few other men to come down from the balcony. “This is Captain Owens, our pursuit officer. He handles the intercepts when we can’t identify a flight as friend. And this is our signal corps radar officer, or who we call Major Oscar. He’s in charge of keeping our radar coverage optimal and coordinates with all the Oscars out there. And Lieutenant Dunn here is my second-in-command. These are my right-hand guys. Now get to work.”

  Major Oscar, a.k.a. Major Judd, was all arms and legs with hunched shoulders, but his smile lit up the room. “Any radar questions, direct them my way.”

  The women scattered like buckshot around the table. Other men in the room offered a mix of welcome and this is my territory and flirtation. One in particular did not budge from his seat until Major Oscar stood behind him and coughed. “Joe, I know this is tough, but we have to give these ladies a chance,” he said.

  Joe set down his stick and slowly stood. As he passed by, Daisy heard him mutter damn skirts. It was men like him who made her want to excel at this gig. Private Beers didn’t appear to share his disdain, and pleasantly showed them how to adjust their headphones. He began to explain the grids and codenames, but Major Hochman said, “Thank you, Private, but these ladies know the drill.”

  The room smelled like fresh-cut timber, burnt coffee and chalk. Phones rang off the hook. It was somewhat dingy, with all the windows boarded up, but at least they had a little more space to move around in. And although the room was unfamiliar, the table was just a larger version of their training table. Daisy swapped places with a private named Reed, who had a marker off the coast of Wai‘anae.

  “This is a squadron of fighters. F4F Wildcats. They go out several times a day for training when they’re at Pearl,” he said.

  “Navy?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  It might be Walker. Strange that she could know his exact position in space and time. She pictured him up there in his suit and leather helmet, eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of the enemy. Those eyes. They undid her in a way that felt very dangerous. “Ma’am?”

  She snapped out of it. “Yes?”

  “There’s a call coming in. Would you like to be the first to answer?” he said.

  Where at all possible, wire lines were used over radio. And it had been explained to them that it depended on their position around the plotting table, and if they were idle or not, who would take an incoming call.

  All eyes were on her.

  She picked up. “Army, go ahead, please.”

  “Flash—Rascal, this is Oscar. Do you read me?”

  “Loud and clear, Oscar.”

  A whistle came through the line. “Now, wait a minute. Who is this speaking?”

  Apparently not all the Oscars had been informed.

  “This is Signal Corps Command Center and you’re speaking with Rascal badge number twenty-two. I’m ready to take your reading.”

  He must have placed his hand over the mouthpiece, but Daisy could hear him anyway. “What the dickens, Jim, there’s a female on the other end of the line. What do I do?”

  Another voice said, “These are the new recruits they stuck us with. Be a gentleman and give her the info.”

  “Here we go, Rascal, I hope you’re ready for this. 1–bimotor–5–very low—seen—Opana station—N–2–W.”

  Daisy quickly translated in her head, One bimotor plane was seen flying very low five miles north of Opana observation post heading west.

  And so it began.

  * * *

  The WARDs worked in six-hour shifts at Little Robert around the clock. If the Oscars sounded surprised when women first answered, they soon adjusted. Most of them, at least. A loud-talking one with a funny accent refused to give Fluff coordinates.

  “Look, lady, lemme talk to your boss. This bird is out of pattern and I got a bad feeling,” he’d said.

  “Call me Rascal, and I am perfectly capable of handling the situation. We’ve been trained thoroughly,” Fluff responded.

  “I want to talk to a man.”

  “You’re out of luck, then, because right now, I’m all you’ve got.”

  He hung up and promptly called back on another line. This time Lei got him. “Oscar, you can call back as many times as you want. We are all women here. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  He finally gave in, but not happily.

  Soon, though, the calls became business as usual. Plotting air and surface craft accurately was everyone’s first priority. The longer time passed without an invasion, the tenser people became. Frayed nerves could be seen everywhere, from the band of men with rifles combing the streets in Waialua to the talk that all of the local Japanese families in Hawai‘i would be rounded up and shipped off to Moloka‘i. Walker, who had grown up with Japanese neighbors and classmates, said, “That’s the dumbest, most ignorant thing I’ve heard so far. These people are Americans.”

  Moloka‘i already had the burden of housing the leper colony on Kalaupapa, and now this. On such a small island, where would they all go? Never mind the fact that most of them were loyal American citizens.

  “I guess that’s what happens when you have people makin
g decisions from halfway around the world,” Daisy answered.

  Walker was back flying again, and his schedule had him on night duty, so the Montgomerys’ butler, Mr. Bautista, drove her and Peg in most of the week—part of the Montgomery contribution to the war effort. Though Peg was out again today with another bout of asthma, poor thing. It had become clear that the woman was either on top of the world, or with one foot in the grave. No in between. A little bit like Daisy’s mother. She was tempted to bring it up with Walker, but didn’t dare.

  Mr. Bautista had been working for the Montgomerys as long as she could remember. He spoke with a heavy Filipino accent and had a contagious laugh. He spent half the ride grilling her about the war, asking questions about her work that she couldn’t answer and the other half telling stories about his time on the sugar plantation. With Peg not around, his whole demeanor changed and he seemed far more relaxed.

  “Miss Peg says you do important work.”

  How much had Peg told him?

  “All military work is important,” she said.

  “You flying planes, like the mister?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s not that exciting.”

  “Driving submarines?”

  She laughed.

  “Maybe breaking Japanese code?”

  “Mr. Bautista, we do clerical work in an office, mainly answering phones. That’s all I can say. Can we change the subject, please?”

  He grinned. “You girls are up to something, I know it. Miss Peg, she walk around like she big lady in town now.”

  Surely Peg knew better, but Daisy could just imagine her, feeling even more important than she already did.

  “Just doing our small part.”

  * * *

  Daisy and Fluff both found themselves a half hour early at the Palace. Skies had cleared and morning light brushed the horizon with lazy strokes of pink. They went for a walk around the block to pass the time. Fresh air and sunshine had never felt so good.

  “What do you think about Colonel Nixon?” Fluff asked.

  “At first I thought he was going to make our lives miserable, but he hasn’t been that bad. How about you?”

  Fluff picked a yellow plumeria and stuck it behind her right ear. “He’s hard to read. I was certain he hated me that first day, but now I’m not so sure. It’s Lieutenant Dunn who’s interesting. Though his confidence can be a bit much. I catch him watching me a lot, and he makes no effort to hide it.”

  “That’s no good.”

  “He’s probably just not used to having so many gals around all the time.”

  “Still, he shouldn’t be—”

  Her words were obliterated by the wail of an air-raid siren, loud enough to send vibrations running up the backs of her legs and through her spine. They both covered their ears and ducked into the closest doorway, which happened to be the YWCA on Richards Street. Fluff clutched Daisy’s arm and looked into her eyes with pale terror. “Is this it?”

  The next instant, a dark sedan pulled to stop and the door swung open. “Get in!” said Lieutenant Farrow, one of the nice young officers who had been helping drive them to Little Robert each day.

  They followed orders and he tore off before Daisy even had her foot in the door. At King Street, he made a right without even slowing down.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Fluff yelled.

  “Air-raid sirens. That means air raid.”

  Obviously.

  “I mean do you have any insider information?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Daisy scanned the skies. Coconut trees and clouds. A flock of pigeons. No Japanese planes in sight—yet. She wasn’t sure what would be worse. An air raid or an invasion. Probably an invasion because then you would be face-to-face with the enemy, hear their voices, taste their spit. Lieutenant Farrow began to swerve like mad through Chinatown, nearly taking out a few pedestrians.

  Pretty soon, Fluff had her eyes squeezed shut.

  “Watch out!” Daisy screamed, as they narrowly missed an old woman carrying a bunch of bananas.

  They careened over the bridge in Kalihi. Beads of perspiration covered the back of his neck. He seemed intent on getting them killed before the Japanese did. Fluff held Daisy’s hand and they rode in silence, too scared to speak. Eventually, they made it to Fort Shafter and the moment they stepped out of the car, the sirens stopped.

  Just a scare.

  Fluff looked ready to collapse. “Lord, that was a doozy.”

  “Where did you learn to drive like that?” Daisy asked as she shut the door.

  He smiled as though nothing had happened. “A moving target is harder to hit. Remember that.”

  * * *

  It did not take long for the women to discover how true that statement was, because many of them could not even hit a stationary target. General Danielson thought that every WARD ought to know how to fire a .45-caliber pistol and arranged for shooting practice in the hills up behind Shafter.

  On a rare sunny morning, the women arrived at a large field at the base of the Ko‘olau mountain range, flanked by a rocky hillside on the left, and a forest on the right. From the sound of it, only a couple of gals knew anything about guns. Daisy being one of them. Four hay bales each painted with a big X were lined up as targets.

  Fluff frowned. “I’m worried I might shoot my foot off.”

  “Don’t aim at your foot, then,” Daisy told her.

  A couple of marines had been designated as teachers, and the main one, a stern-faced man named Sergeant Guthrie, showed them—in minute detail—every nook and cranny of the weapon. When he passed it around, Thelma reached out first to grab it, and her arm dropped under the weight.

  “It feels like a bowling ball,” she said, using both hands to hand it over to Peg, who could also barely lift it.

  “There’s a huge amount of pressure that happens when you fire, so the gun needs to be heavy enough to contain that,” Guthrie said, spitting out a wad of chewing tobacco.

  He then proceeded to show them how to stand, hold, aim and fire. With every shot, he hit the center of the X.

  “He makes it look easy,” Lei said.

  When it got to be their turn, Peg, Betty, Vivian and Fluff went first. The targets seemed awfully far away, and now the trade winds were kicking up a bit. On the first round, Vivian ended up on her rear end in the grass. A little dazed but laughing, she brushed herself off and stood right back up and tried again.

  “My hands are shaking so badly, I can’t even aim,” Fluff said.

  “Relax those elbows,” Guthrie barked.

  By the end of the round, only Betty and Vivian had even come close to the X, and only once each. Next up were Daisy, Thelma, Lei and Rita. And though Daisy felt fairly comfortable with a shotgun, the pistol turned out to be an entirely different beast. Without a shoulder to press the gun against, aiming was a whole lot more challenging. But at least she was able to keep her arms steady. On their first shots, she and Rita hit the hay bale, but missed the mark.

  Guthrie nodded. “Good job, ladies. Now make sure those front and back sights are aligned.”

  A couple of more tries, and Rita hit the bull’s-eye. “Like I said on day one, I’m a crack shot with a rifle. Just needed a little getting used to this little guy,” she said with a shrug.

  Thelma and Lei were not so lucky and their bullets kept whizzing past the hay bales.

  “I hope there aren’t any unsuspecting pigs in the bushes back there,” Fluff said from the sidelines.

  Or people, Daisy thought. She lined up another try.

  Moments later, a billow of dust erupted from the rocky hillside. Suddenly, Thelma was rolling around on the ground clutching her thigh.

  “I’ve been shot,” she screamed.

  Daisy, who was closest, ran over and moved Thelma’s hand aside. A large red welt had form
ed, with purple spreading out from the center.

  “The bullet must have ricocheted off the rocks. It’s just a bruise, no skin broken,” Daisy said, in her best horse-soothing voice.

  By the time Guthrie made it over to inspect the damage, Thelma was sitting up and had calmed down. Even still, she refused to look Daisy in the eye. The rest of the girls were all crowded around, peering down at her with concern.

  “Whose bullet was it that hit me?” Thelma said, looking directly at Daisy.

  “I think it was yours,” Daisy said, though she couldn’t be sure.

  “I’d hate to think it was someone else’s.”

  Fluff put her hands on her hips. “That bullet was definitely your own. I saw it.”

  A few others nodded in agreement and Thelma had no choice but to back off. But it was clear that Daisy would have to watch her back at every step. Some of these women she could trust, and some she couldn’t.

  9

  THE DRILL

  Sand hides things. Hoofprints, shells, crabs, tears. But the ocean does an even better job. Burnt airplanes and Japanese submarines, lost hopes and secret dreams. Every afternoon, after being dropped off by Walker or Mr. Bautista, Daisy put on her swimsuit, walked out to the beach and sat at the edge of the ocean, her body in dry sand, feet buried in wet. Sea-foam crackled and tickled her toes. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be out there, but no one was there to stop her.

  The ritual was to watch the sun slip into the ocean or behind the clouds, then swim as far as she could underwater. Over the shallow grooves of limu-covered rock, slipping between coral heads and across the fields of sandy rubble. Her goal was to make it to the outer reef without a breath. A lofty goal, but she could usually do it, except she’d noticed lately with all the time in the car and sitting around the table, her lungs rebelled.