“When does it come out?”
“In the spring. If you call the store in March, we can set aside a copy for you.”
“Thanks.” Brady smiled at the woman. “We’ll be in touch.”
Then she caught CJ’s hand in hers and tugged her toward the door. Outside in the Texas sun they released each other and started along the sidewalk, shoulders brushing with each step.
“Do you think she was…?” Brady asked.
“Um, yes! She couldn’t take her eyes off you.”
“Nuh uh. She was watching you.”
“Nuh uh,” CJ echoed, laughing as she bumped Brady’s hip with her own.
Suddenly Brady sighed.
“What?”
“I wish I could kiss you, right here in front of the whole world.”
“I know. Me too.” But her stomach roiled at the thought.
Up ahead, a pair of MPs stalked toward them along the El Paso sidewalk, sunlight shining off their distinctive white helmets, their black arm bands unmistakable. If they were to catch her and Brady making out, would they arrest them and haul them back to base? It probably wouldn’t help their case to be caught carrying literature written by known homosexuals.
“Anyway, nobody said life was fair,” she said, quoting her father.
“I can’t believe you would say such a thing. Doesn’t that violate your vow of eternal optimism?”
“Optimism and realism are not inherently contradictory.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
They continued along the sidewalk, sparring lightly, bodies nearly touching. It wouldn’t take a genius to work out what was between them. The girl in the bookstore had figured it out immediately. What hope did they have of hiding it from the people they worked and shared quarters with?
As the MPs neared, Brady put more distance between them. CJ knew why, but the knowledge didn’t stop the disappointment that washed over her.
“Good afternoon, boys,” Brady said, flashing them a flirtatious smile.
They touched their helmets and returned the smile. “Ladies.”
Then they were past, and CJ found herself maintaining the distance purposely, even when Brady tried to drift closer again.
“What?” Brady asked.
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”
CJ hesitated. “You flirted with them.”
Brady sighed. “CJ, you and I are in a banned relationship, are we not?”
“Yes.”
“And the Articles of War are pretty clear about such relationships, right?”
CJ made a sound in her throat. “I understand why you smiled at them, but I don’t have to like it, do I?”
Brady looped their arms together, tugging her closer again. “Of course not. In fact, I’m glad you don’t.”
CJ felt herself sliding into Brady’s eyes, and she remembered the previous night when Brady had arced above her, face and skin lit by the flickering candle, the lights of El Paso far below them.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Brady murmured, her gaze dropping to CJ’s lips. “Otherwise we’ll be out of the Army long before the duration.”
Would that be so bad? CJ looked away and continued along the El Paso sidewalk, her arms and legs swinging in step with Brady’s. They still had a few hours before they had to be back on post, before they would have to say a chaste goodnight without any outward display of affection. That would be their life moving forward: sneaking around looking for places to be together, hoping they wouldn’t be found out even as they almost wished they would. While life outside the military might not be easy for gay people, at least they could enjoy as much privacy as they wanted in their own homes. Besides, Toby had said there were places for people like them.
Brady stopped to look into a shop window, and CJ paused beside her, studying their reflection in the glass. What was she worrying about? Brady loved her. The rest of the world—their families, their school friends, the war even—were too far away to matter. What mattered was the woman at her side, smart and funny and sassy, and the amazing future that lay before them.
Turning, Brady held out her arm. “Shall we?”
CJ took it, and together they strolled along the El Paso sidewalk, blending their voices to the tune of “Begin the Beguine.”
Chapter Fourteen
On Monday morning, CJ’s crew reported en masse to the Balloon Hangar at the southwest edge of the airfield. Not too long ago she had been new to the Transient Hangar, but this transition would be different. Instead of a lonely replacement soldier, this time she was part of a crew that had long since proven itself to its previous squadron but was now starting over with a group of mostly male, somewhat skeptical officers, ground crews and flight crews.
The Sixth Squadron’s commanding officer, Major Zachary Pederson, welcomed them with a neutral nod and passed them off to their new crew chief, Master Sergeant Harold Whimple, a dough-faced boy with a pleasant smile and receding hairline. Whimple gave them their assignment—Flight C—and introduced them to the other members of the squadron, the aforementioned dubious males. Once they had checked out tools from the tool shop, Whimple showed them their equipment lockers and gave them an extended tour of the area, including the two low wooden buildings that bordered the hangar.
“This,” he said, pausing before a door marked PILOTS ONLY, “is Flight C’s ready room. Your pilots report every morning at eight o’clock, Monday through Saturday, which means you do too.”
CJ and Toby exchanged a look. With drill, PT, mess and the long hike to the airfield to contend with, they were going to be sorely challenged to reach the Balloon Hangar on time each morning.
“I know what you’re thinking, and I’ve already requested a couple of drivers from Transport for you,” Whimple added.
“Thank you, sir,” Jill said, speaking for them all. “That’s really generous.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’ll be working longer hours once the existing crews rotate out for overseas duty. Sometimes you’ll even be expected to go out on antiaircraft maneuvers and RON in the desert. Any problem for any of you on that front?”
They shook their heads quickly, exchanging grins. Antiaircraft artillery maneuvers that required them to remain overnight—RON—in the desert would make them the envy of the rest of Maintenance. Except Transport, maybe. Drivers and mechanics already had a pretty nice deal going, particularly when it came to off-post duty.
“Good,” Whimple said. “Then let’s meet your pilots.”
His crisp knock was answered by a tall, willowy redhead in shirt and tie but no cap. Or, currently, shoes. In fact, there were cotton balls stuffed between her brightly painted toenails.
“Come right in, Whimpy,” she drawled. “And who do we have here?”
Though they dressed in Air Corps officer uniforms, complete with insignia and wings, the WASPs weren’t regular military. Technically they were civilian personnel attached to the Army; salutes weren’t required. Still, there was something about the redhead that commanded attention, other than the faint blush her words had evoked in the crew chief.
“These are the new members of your engineering crew,” Whimple said as he brushed past her uninvited, waving the Wacs into the room.
Reggie went first, smiling assuredly at the handful of female pilots arrayed about the ready room. CJ followed, noting the women as well as their surroundings. The room had a curved ceiling and was decorated with desks, tables and chairs along with a couch. Two armchairs in a corner were currently occupied by a pair of WASPs with rapidly clacking knitting needles. A bookshelf lined with books whose covers depicted a wide range of aircraft sat near one armchair, as if encouraging casual reading, while the arced walls sported maps of the Southwest, pictures of military planes and instructive posters on formation flying: the Sneak Attack, the Scissors Movement and the Sisters Act, among others.
At one of the tables, three WASPs were busy with a card game. Two of the three folded their cards
and rose with friendly smiles to greet them. The third, a blonde with a swept-back do and a diamond ring on one of her pinkies, eyed them over the fan of her cards before reluctantly laying her hand face-down. Then a yapping sounded, and the blonde reached under the table.
“Shush, Spicket,” she said, pulling a fluffy-haired Pomeranian onto her lap. “They’re friends.”
“Spicket is our mascot,” the redhead told the staring GIs. “Being civilian has its perks.”
Soon the room was filled with the murmur of women getting to know one another. CJ found herself talking to a petite brunette pilot with a freckled nose and an affable smile.
“Nell Charles,” the pilot said, holding out a hand.
CJ shook it. “Caroline Jamieson.”
“Everyone calls her CJ,” Sarah put in, also shaking the WASP’s hand.
“Well, everyone calls me Chippy,” Nell confided, shrugging her shoulders as if to say, What can you do?
Nell, they learned, hailed from Lincoln, Nebraska, where she had gone to college and worked for a few years as a high school music teacher before the war. She listened to Sarah and CJ’s back stories, smiling easily, before turning to meet the others on the crew. Sarah and CJ moved on to Pinkie, the redhead, a former corporate pilot for the Coca-Cola Company. With more than a thousand flight hours to her name along with both civilian pilot and instructor ratings, Pinkie had been selected as commander of Flight C. As such, she said, she was particularly curious to know their backgrounds. The other pilots were slightly less forthcoming but similarly inquisitive, their questions centering mainly on the mechanics’ training and preparation. CJ couldn’t help wondering if the WASPs had subjected the male engineering crews in the Sixth to such a vigorous interrogation.
After a while, Whimple raised his voice above the din. “Hate to say it, ladies, but the tour must go on.”
Pinkie, Nell and Holly, another brunette card player, and Jo and Shirley, the knitting duo, bade them friendly farewells, but Em, the blonde with the dog, merely nodded as the engineering crew filed out of the ready room.
The Wacs talked among themselves as they followed Whimpy—Master Sergeant Whimple, CJ corrected herself mentally—out to the flight line for a tour of the squadron aircraft. Consensus was that Nell and Holly were the standouts when it came to friendliness, while Miss Emily Gardner Thompson, a Grosse Pointe debutante and recent Vassar graduate, stood out for her unsociable attitude.
“She’s a Seven Sisters girl, don’tcha know,” Jill said, rolling her eyes. Then she glanced quickly at CJ. “Sorry. I mean, they’re not all bad, are they?”
CJ frowned. Did the entire battalion know about her and Brady? Then she pictured Brady in the hotel room—their hotel room—and her frown faded. She couldn’t quite believe that the weekend had happened. All through PT this morning she had stared at Brady’s lithe form engaged in physical activity and remembered their own rather strenuous activities Saturday night. Not to mention Sunday morning…
Toby elbowed her, and she returned suddenly to the Balloon Hangar flight line, to the mid-morning sun angling across the desert like a beacon. God, it was barren here. Sometimes the lack of anything growing still startled her.
“Did you hear them say they’re in bachelor officer quarters?” Reggie said. “Must be nice to have your own room.”
“Makes sense, though. If Congress ever gets around to making them Regular Army, they’ll be second looeys, minimum,” Toby pointed out.
“I’d bet next month’s pay Pinkie rates a gold leaf,” Reggie said, referring to a major’s insignia.
Even Whimple agreed with this assertion. “Every time I look at her my hand itches.”
The Wacs could sympathize. The importance of saluting a superior had been drilled into their heads during basic training. CJ had actually saluted a Pepsi-Cola truck driver at Fort Des Moines, much to the driver’s amusement and her own mortification.
“There are more WASPs in the squadron, aren’t there?” Sarah asked as they headed back outside.
“Six more,” Whimple told them. “Three are out on missions right now, one is checking out on a new ship and the other two are right over there.” He pointed to where a pair of women in AAF shirtsleeves sat on lawn chairs near the external entrance to Flight C’s ready room, faces lifted to the sun. “You’ll meet them in good time. Now, who wants to see some birds?”
As they approached the Sixth’s flight line, CJ couldn’t help but smile. Whimple was a good man, and so far he seemed to be treating them like male soldiers—except for an utter avoidance of profanity. Give him a few days, she thought, stopping in front of the first plane they came to, an A-24 Navy Dauntless diver. It was a beauty, though its tri-color paint had seen better days. Beside it, an A-25 Helldiver (christened “the Beast” by Navy pilots for its poor handling qualities) rested, nearly as beat up and even more impressive. Both were single engine, which CJ found to be a slight disappointment after all her training on twin and quad engine aircraft. But they were lovely ships, so she pushed her disappointment away and listened as Whimple described the types of missions the squadron’s planes were used for.
Divers like these were employed to simulate strafing, diving to buzz gun positions and troops on maneuvers in the nearby desert; on tracking missions, allowing antiaircraft gunnery crews to train with moving targets; on low-altitude night missions, dropping flares on troops and gun emplacements; and to lay smoke screens. Medium bombers towed targets, while Beechcraft trainers were primarily used to train ground-based radar operators and to provide practice for antiaircraft searchlight crews.
The next aircraft on the line was a B-26 Marauder, a twin-engine bomber known in the flying community as “the Widowmaker” for its tendency to crash during takeoff and landings. The boys in the Sixth didn’t like to fly this ship much, Whimple admitted, but several of the new WASPs had expressed a desire to check out on her as soon as possible.
“Any Thunderbolts?” Toby asked.
“A speed jockey, hmm? No, the Navy divers are it for fighters. For now, anyway. If Pinkie has her way, we’ll soon have Thunderbolts, Cobras and a heavy bomber or two at our disposal.”
The WASPs had a reputation as overachievers among the Air Corps, always eager to get their hands on new aircraft. Part of it, CJ suspected, was that this was the first time American women had been allowed to fly military aircraft, and they knew this opportunity wouldn’t be extended forever. Just as women factory workers were likely to be sent back to hearth and home as soon as their wartime services were no longer required, female pilots could expect to be cut from the military as soon as the war ended, possibly sooner. Even the WAC wasn’t authorized to exist for more than six months after the war’s official end, whenever that came.
They didn’t get their hands dirty that morning. Instead, they read tech orders and manuals on the ships they hadn’t encountered previously—the Beechcraft trainers, especially the AT-7 and -11, and the C-45. Many ferry pilots who stopped at the Transient Hangar for fuel and RONs were piloting combat-ready bombers and fighters.
When Toby asked if the hangar was always this quiet, Whimple explained that there was a surplus of personnel in the Sixth currently, both flight and engineering crews, but that male pilots and mechanics alike would soon be rotating out of Biggs.
The Wacs were quiet for a moment. Then Toby voiced the concern they all shared: “To combat duty?”
“Some of them, yes.”
“Because of our arrival?” Jill asked.
“Yours and the WASPs,” Whimple said. “That’s the intent of the women’s services, isn’t it? To release a male counterpart for combat? It’s what you all signed up for.”
True. But CJ had never had to directly face a man whose home-front position she was taking.
That wasn’t the only difference between their previous assignment and this one. At the Transient Hangar they had rarely seen the same airplane twice. Now they would be working on planes used day after day to dive-bomb Fort Bliss troop
s, American boys like Jack and Sam whose most fervent wish was to survive training and get through whatever lay beyond it. This responsibility seemed more awesome—and more immediate. If their crew failed to successfully repair a ferry plane, chances were slim they’d ever know. But if they made a mistake on one of these beauties, the pilots on their flight crew might be injured. Or worse. She hadn’t realized until advanced training how common casualties were in the Army in general and in the Army Air Forces in particular. The WASPs were putting their lives in the Wacs’ hands, for better or worse. No wonder they wanted to be sure of their training.
“It’s not at all what I thought it would be like,” CJ told Brady that evening as they lay out on the softball field, hidden in the shadows. Her head was pillowed on Brady’s stomach, and she could feel Brady toying gently with her hair as they watched the constellations slowly shift overhead.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I thought I would be more useful.”
“At least your contribution is tangible. When you work on an engine, there’s a visible outcome, something that can be quantified.”
“Your articles seem quantifiable to me.”
Brady made a sound of frustration. “But we’re so limited in what we’re allowed to write. It’s not real, what we do. It’s not much better than propaganda.”
“Do you honestly think so?” CJ asked, rolling onto her side. She could barely make out Brady’s features in the darkness of the outfield.
“I don’t know. Maybe. We’re supposed to protect morale, to report on positive outcomes, but it’s a war. Do you know how many troops we lost at Tarawa? Do you know how many casualties a day there are right now in Campania?”
CJ shivered at the mention of Tarawa. Joe’s division had been involved in the attack, and she hadn’t received a letter from him in weeks. Not that there was any connection. She often went weeks without hearing anything from her brothers. But still.
“I don’t want to know,” she said. “Neither do you, and neither do the boys here. It’s better if they don’t know the reality they’re about to face, isn’t it?”
In the Company of Women Page 18