Radar Girls

by Sara Ackerman

  It was true. The WARDs had been transitioned to most other roles at Little Robert, aside from those of Nixon and Major Oscar and the liaisons. But up until now, no one felt they were ready or even capable of vectoring aircraft. But men were being siphoned out of the islands and into the Pacific at an alarming rate, and as with most things, necessity sometimes dictated.

  Betty spoke up. “Oh, we can hack just about anything they throw at us, so you fellas needn’t worry.”

  Walker gave a quick salute, then his eyes flashed to Daisy. “I don’t doubt that.”

  A perceptible satisfaction spooled around her. Every single word that came out of his mouth felt meant for her and only her. She wanted to hold on to the feeling.

  “A lot of people think that women are bad at science and numbers, but that’s just plain wrong. You tell your pilot friends they are in better hands than they’ve ever been,” Tippy called from the back.

  Skinner turned bright red.

  Joyce added, “And we’ve only just begun!”

  A line of perspiration showed up on Nixon’s upper lip, or maybe it was coffee, and he looked ready to bolt. Walker looked like he could use a little support right about then, but all Daisy could offer was a small smile. By volunteering to talk to a roomful of women, he knew he was stepping into a dangerous hive. The air buzzed with girl power.

  “Can I see a show of hands, how many of you are military wives?” Walker asked.

  Betty, Jane, Doris, Rita, Marilyn, Vera, Stella and Opal raised their hands high.

  He nodded. “Thank you, and how many others have loved ones out there, fighting? Maybe a family member or friend?”

  Since much of the town that Daisy grew up in consisted of Japanese and Filipino plantation workers, she didn’t know anyone in the war. Except for Walker. Did he count as a loved one? Hands shot up around her. Her mouth went dry. For some reason, she felt like this was a test, that he was speaking only to her and wanted to see her reaction. Her hand felt heavy as a bowling ball. If nothing else, Walker qualified as a friend. Daisy raised her hand. Their eyes met and for what felt like a whole day, he didn’t look away. She tried, but found she couldn’t, either. The spot underneath her ribs hummed.

  Skinner seemed to sense something had happened and took over. “So, I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake here. Now, going forward, you’re gonna see a lot more air traffic, but nothing I can talk about specifically. My friend Walker here has a little story for you.”

  Walker ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not going to lie to you. Being a pilot can be scary as hell. You’re up there all alone—or with one other guy—just you and the sky, until suddenly your plane is being riddled with gunfire. Immediately, you bank a turn so your wings are almost vertical and you beeline it for the ocean, straight down until you think your plane is going to come apart.” He gave a sad laugh. “They tell you the wings will cave at 300 knots, and your airspeed is now close to 350 but the wings hang tight. The Zero is still on your tail, and now you fly straight up into the sun, praying to the Lord above that you don’t stall out. After corkscrewing through the sky, you come back around and finally get a shot in that takes him down. You feel nothing but relief that you get to live another day. You can breathe again, until you realize you don’t have enough fuel to get back to land. You don’t see any other planes around and it’s getting dark. What do you do?”

  When he finished speaking, Daisy realized her own breathing had nearly ceased. All the other women in the room hung on his words. Fluff raised her hand and waved like an eager first-grader.

  “Yes?” Walker said.

  “Radio for help. Mayday, mayday, mayday! And you would tell them the type of plane, how many of you there are, the nature of your problem, your location, that kind of thing,” Fluff said.

  They had recently learned that you said “mayday” three times in a row. This was the kind of thing that Fluff latched onto, though she still couldn’t plot to save her life.

  “And what if you’ve lost track of your bearings and there’s no land in sight. What do you tell the controller?” Walker asked.

  “Um.”

  “You should still be able to guess which way the islands are, based on the sun and the wind, and you would head that way,” Lei suggested.

  “But you’re almost out of gas,” Walker said.

  Daisy raised her hand.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Miss Wilder?”

  Not ma’am.

  “If you were within range, your plane would be tracked by one of the radar stations, and we’d have you plotted on the board. One of us would know your exact location, in which case we would send a rescue team straight away, so you could ditch if you had to.”

  He smiled. “Exactly. That’s why it’s so important for you to be accurate and to know your stuff. We depend on it. There will also be times when you need to direct bombers and fighters into blacked-out airfields through voice direction. You’ll be their eyes and their ears, so to speak.”

  Walker and Skinner went over a variety of other scenarios that the women might encounter, and how they could help the pilots. Hearing it from his mouth—the cold and solitude of being in a fighter or a bomber—brought the weight of the WARDs’ roles to life in a way that markers on a table never would. The lesson was sobering and inspiring and made Daisy want to memorize every relevant parcel of information. She vowed that on her watch, none of these boys would be lost.

  When it came time for them to leave, Daisy felt the urge to stand up and hug him. An unusual reaction, but Walker seemed to cause all kinds of unusual reactions. As he walked out, she waited for him to glance her way, but he kept his eyes on the floor, leaving no opening for even a wave or a smile.

  After the pilots were gone, Nixon drilled into them what he called the phraseology of flight. He had a tendency to add ology to the ending of words. As it turned out, he’d had been a freshly minted pilot in the Great War, in the 95th Aero Squadron, the first American pursuit squadron on the Western Front. Their mission was to rid the skies of enemy aircraft and escort bombers and reconnaissance flights. Needless to say, he knew a thing or two about air combat and the meaning of fear.

  Vectoring was similar to plotting, only you were talking a pilot through the sky and to a destination. “So even though flight time is distance divided by speed, you have to take into consideration both magnitude and heading and wind. Air speed is hugely affected by wind. And here in the islands, we have plenty of it,” Nixon told them.

  “The trade winds,” Fluff said.

  “Most of the time. And don’t forget, we say met, not weather. Speaking of, is there a WARD in the room who can recite the military alphabet for me?”

  Thelma made a valiant attempt, but got hung up on King. Tippy couldn’t get past Oboe. Then Fluff stood and in a loud, clear voice, rattled them off. “Able, Baker, Charlie, Dog, Easy, Fox, George, How, Item, Jig, King, Love, Mike, Nan, Oboe, Peter, Queen, Roger, Sail, Tare, Uncle, Victor, William, X-Ray, Yoke, Zebra.”

  Daisy wanted to stand and clap, but Nixon just said, “Correct.”

  He then went over such terms as continue present heading or turn left heading one zero zero, which meant that the pilot was expected to turn to the desired heading. “Now, keep in mind, when you speak to pilots on heading, you say each number individually. It’s two-eight-zero, not two eighty. Got that? And nine is always niner.”

  They learned more checklists and calculations that were rather technical, even for Daisy. Fluff and a few others kept raising their hands for clarification.

  “I’m never going to get this straight,” JoAnn finally said.

  “With an attitude like that you aren’t,” Nixon shot back.

  “You’re right, sir. Sorry about that,” she mumbled.

  He went on. “The boys on board get five hundred hours of navigational instruction. They know their stuff. You need to
know yours, too. Pure and simple, vectorology is providing navigational guidance to aircraft,” he said.

  Fluff, who had been taking notes diligently, set her pencil down. “Excuse me, sir, does this mean we can call ourselves vectorologists?” She was dead serious. If Nixon was ever going to smile, it would be now, but he only pressed his lips together and said, “You need to earn the title.”

  By the time they wrapped up training for the day, Daisy was feeling the effects of a poor sleep—stiff neck, heavy eyelids and foggy thinking. She went to her cubbyhole to gather her purse and gas mask, and saw a piece of folded yellow paper sticking out. Girls filed in around her, reaching for their own things. She hesitated to open it with everyone around, but curiosity won out. Beneath the note was a pink plumeria. No one was paying any attention, so she stuck the flower behind her right ear and opened the paper. The writing was neat and boxy, like an engineer’s or architect’s.

  Wilder,

  In case I don’t get to say goodbye, well...goodbye, a hui hou! Stay out of trouble and take care.

  Yours truly,

  W

  P.S. I’ll miss our drives.

  * * *

  He had started to write something else, that began with you, and then crossed it out. Without thinking, she held up the letter to her nose and sniffed. Eyes closed. Was that sea salt and horse she smelled? Or just her vivid imagination conjuring up things? An image of Walker riding down the beach in his faded blue jeans came to mind, causing a swirl in her chest.

  “What’s that?”

  Peg was standing two feet away, looking like a rat had gotten loose in her hair. Poor woman was always trying some new style and never quite succeeding. Daisy quickly folded the paper shut. Had Peg seen the writing?

  “Nothing.”

  “Where’d you get the flower?”

  “I picked it on my way in.”

  “Flowers aren’t part of the WARD uniform. If we want to be taken seriously, we need to show them that we mean business. Show them that we’re just like them,” Peg said, with an annoying air of authority.

  “Then why go through all the trouble styling your hair and wearing all that makeup? You think that is any better?” Daisy said.

  Peg frowned. “A certain standard of feminine grooming is necessary.”

  “You contradict yourself. And we aren’t just like them, but we’re as good if not better. And I take this job more seriously than anyone, so I don’t think one little flower will have any effect on my performance,” Daisy said, proud of herself for taking a stand.

  Peg turned toward her cubbyhole, and Daisy thought she was done, but she continued. “By the way, don’t think that you have a chance with my brother. He has a tendency of being charming to everyone and in the process hearts are broken. Save yourself the trouble.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Daisy said, with half a mind to wave the note in her face. “But it’s not me you need to worry about, it’s Walker.”

  Peg frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Daisy said, then lowered her voice. “And while I have your attention, it sounds to me like you’ve been going around boasting about our new job. Both Mr. Bautista and Dex and JB seem to know more than they should. Whatever happened to our sworn secrecy?”

  Peg’s face went slack. “How dare you insinuate something like that. I haven’t breathed a word.”

  “Well, you’ve said something, because they both asked me about our hush-hush and important work. I’d watch your step there,” she said, turning a shoulder and marching off without waiting for a response. To hell with Peg.

  * * *

  The following morning in Little Robert was chaos. This mission that they had been hearing about for days now was clearly underway. The Enterprise was shipping out. Calls were coming in from Oscars around the island faster than the WARDs could pick them up. The women scrambled to keep order on the table. Dunn circled like a shark, assisting those who had questions.

  “Can someone get more markers? We need more markers,” he called.

  The Enterprise appeared to be heading southwest, but beyond that, no one could say where she was going. Everyone had their hunches, though. “Somewhere in the wild blue Pacific, where the sea swallows the sky,” Fluff said.

  “Wherever she goes, I hope she kicks some serious butt,” Betty said, to no one in particular.

  Her husband, Chuck, had come by the house last night—despite strict rules about no men in the WARD quarters—to say goodbye. The minute he walked in the door, Betty sailed across the room and he lifted her up and swung her around. Chuck was tall and rugged with an easy smile and Daisy liked him immediately.

  “You gals take good care of my little B, will ya?” he said.

  Fluff said, “We have each other’s backs. Always.”

  “Lord only knows how long we’ll be away, but when we get back, I’m stealing her away for a few nights,” he said.

  Betty stared up at him. You could feel the love seeping out through their pores. “Daisy has a beach house she said we could use. The three of us are going to go stay there on our next two days off and I will scope it out,” she told him.

  He leaned in and kissed her. The two of them then disappeared into the bedroom while Daisy and Fluff did their best to continue preparing Betty’s “Death Casserole,” which was spinach and chicken dripping in mayonnaise and cheddar cheese. Her grandmother and great aunt baked it every time they went to a funeral, as it was always a sure thing. The unfortunate name had stuck.

  “Maybe we should consider calling it something else,” Fluff said to Daisy, who was chopping the spinach.

  “I thought the same thing. Now is not the time to be serving Death Casserole to anyone.”

  “Do you think Betty would be offended?”

  “She’d understand.”

  Fluff smiled. “What about Victory Casserole?”

  “Perfect!”

  “Speaking of perfect, those two make me homesick for a man. And not just any man. One that looks at me the same way Chuck looks at Betty.”

  Daisy slipped a cube of cheese into her mouth, savoring the sharp tang.

  “Your time will come. I have no doubt,” she said.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You and I are in the same boat. But I’m not in any kind of rush,” Daisy said.

  “Precisely. But see, you genuinely don’t care. And I do care and it’s hard to pretend that I don’t care, which makes me less attractive to the male species. It’s some invisible law of nature.”

  Daisy shrugged. “We’re going to have to work on it, then.”

  At Little Robert, once the bustle of the departing mission slowed, the women began honing their vectoring skills. Several squadrons of the Hawaiian Air Force, which had just been renamed the Seventh Air Force, remained at home to provide air defense for the islands, and drills were conducted where pilots radioed into Little Robert for navigation assistance.

  Daisy kept a cheat sheet next to her with the phraseology Nixon had taught them. The first practice plane she guided in was a supposedly injured P-39 fighter pilot coming in from northwest of O‘ahu, beyond Ka‘ena Point, to land at a blacked-out Wheeler Field. He was running low on fuel, too. Nixon stood behind her, coffee steaming onto the back of her neck. He seemed to have singled out Daisy for unknown reasons. Either he had no faith in her, or a whole lot of faith.

  “Can I just direct him to Hale‘iwa?” she asked.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because it’s closer as the crow flies, and there are no mountains to fly over.”

  Nixon leaned in and pointed to a spot on the map. “He can go through Kolekole Pass. Hale‘iwa has no medical facilities, so we don’t send injured men there.”

  Daisy hadn’t considered that. “Yes, sir.” />
  Whoever the pilot was, he was doing a fabulous job of feigning injury and being unable to see in the dark. Even though Daisy knew it was fake, her palms began to sweat.

  He moaned. “If I don’t land soon, I’m going to have to ditch. Help me, Rascal!”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Lieutenant Sanchez, ma’am.”

  “Okay, Sanchez, continue present heading. I’ll be here with you until you land safe and sound, and a medic will be standing by,” she said, glancing back at Nixon with a shrug, as she really had no idea what to say. But it sounded good.

  “Tell him he needs to be above angels two to get through the pass,” Nixon said.

  “Angels two?”

  “Two thousand feet. The pass is sixteen hundred feet but the mountains around it are four thousand. It’s his only shot at getting through,” Nixon said.

  No one had mentioned angels as a measure of altitude above sea level, but their training was a crash course and then some.

  “Just so you know, you’ll be flying through Kolekole, so I need you to listen carefully to my every word, lieutenant.”

  A burst of static, and then, “Roger.”

  “What is your present altitude?”

  “I’m at angels three.”

  “Perfect. Stay there.”

  They had learned that the higher you flew, the thinner the air was, and thus aircraft used less fuel at higher altitude. It had seemed counterintuitive, but so did a lot of things in Little Robert. Like Dunn and Nixon. Nixon was stern and gruff, while Dunn was personable and chummy, yet Daisy found herself avoiding Dunn and gravitating toward Nixon. Fluff was the other way around. She enjoyed the sugary compliments and was intimidated by Nixon’s serious nature. But something about Dunn raised Daisy’s hackles.

  As Sanchez and his P-39 neared the pass, Nixon said, “Have you compensated for the inaccuracies of the azimuth?”

  She’d been so nervous with him standing there, she couldn’t think straight. “Not yet.”