On Wings of Fire

by Frances Patton Statham

  “What? You mean she’s gong to be here, permanently?”

  “For the next several months, anyway.”

  Alpharetta groaned and laid aside her cereal spoon.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You realize she actually saw me, spoke to me—and gave me a tip?”

  “That doesn’t mean she’ll recognize you,” Mary Lou replied. “You’re not the only one in the world with red hair.”

  Mary Lou narrowed her eyes as she carefully scrutinized Alpharetta’s appearance. “On second thought, Beaumont, have you ever considered dying your hair another color?”

  Alpharetta made a face. “I’ll just have to avoid the major’s wife. That is the only thing I can do, under the circumstances.”

  Chapter 8

  Six days later, when the September sun bore down on the airfield with merciless heat and searched, like a vain narcissus, for its reflection in each piece of burnished chrome and glass, Air Cadet Alpharetta Beaumont sat in the classroom and studied the camouflaged target map before her.

  “Did you find the objective, Miss Beaumont?” the civilian instructor, Avery Canfield, inquired.

  “I think so.”

  “Then, will you inform the class?”

  “It’s halfway between Sections A and B—at 33 degrees north.”

  “Does everyone agree?” the instructor asked, looking toward the other cadets for confirmation.

  A hand went up. “I think it’s actually at C,” a voice from the back of the room responded.

  Still another commented, “I’ll take Beaumont’s word for it.”

  The instructor smiled. “You’d do well to go along with her. She’s correct.”

  He looked at the young red-headed woman and asked in a teasing voice, “Are you sure, Miss Beaumont, that you’re not color-blind, too?”

  “On no, sir, I mean—I am sure.”

  Avery Canfield was still bitter. A first-rate pilot, he was partially color-blind, and so could not pass the Army Air Corps tests. But his very weakness had given him an unusual ability. He could spot from the air almost anything camouflaged by man—tanks, planes, vehicles painted in their khakis and greens, the colors that had no meaning or reality for him. Yet he was grounded—a civilian instructor biding his time during the war in a dust bowl in Texas.

  The hands of the clock above the blackboard advanced in a sudden, awkward movement, the click causing the entire class to look upward. It was now four o’clock, or 1600.

  As if the sound of the clock had returned him from a thousand miles away, Canfield walked back to his desk. “All right. Time’s up. See you on Monday.”

  The scraping of chairs heralded the rapid departure of the cadets. All except one.

  Alpharetta slowly folded her map and, in no hurry, returned it to the rack on the far side of the room. For the first time in the past six days, she felt relaxed, no longer looking for the major’s wife around every corner, no longer feeling compelled to wear her leather flight helmet in the heat. She was glad that the major’s wife evidently had taken no interest in the women cadets under her husband’s command.

  She began to walk out of the room, but before she reached the door, her instructor’s voice stopped her.

  “Oh, Miss Beaumont—may I see you for a moment?”

  “Yes, sir?” She took a step closer and waited for Canfield to speak.

  “I almost forgot. I have a message for you. The major wants to see you in his office.”

  “N-now?”

  “Yes. You’d better hurry.”

  “Do—do you have any idea what he wants?”

  “No, I don’t. But if I were you, I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”

  Alpharetta’s spirits plummeted. She’d been recognized, she knew. Somehow the major’s wife had found out and informed her husband.

  “It can’t be that bad, Miss Beaumont.”

  “What, sir?”

  “You look as if you’ve just been sentenced to the guillotine.”

  Alpharetta forced herself to smile. “Maybe it’s only solitary confinement.”

  Avery Canfield laughed, and then, pensive, he watched the young woman disappear from his classroom.

  Despite Canfield’s suggestion to hurry, Alpharetta walked slowly toward the commanding officer’s headquarters. She held her flight helmet in one hand and stuffed her other hand in one of the many pockets of the mechanic’s coveralls.

  “Cadet Beaumont reporting to Major Grier,” Alpharetta said to the man seated at the desk inside headquarters.

  “Go on in his office, Beaumont. He’s waiting for you.”

  She knocked at the door and when the major answered, she opened it. “Air Cadet Beaumont reporting, sir,” she repeated.

  He said nothing at first. His eyes assessed her, from her red hair to her feet covered in study brown oxfords. “My God, Beaumont. Those are just about the scrungiest, poorest-fitting coveralls I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it isn’t your fault. Don’t take it personally.”

  “No, sir.”

  He didn’t ask her to sit. Instead, he got up from his desk and began to pace. “I’ve talked with your tactical officers and your instructors. They all speak highly of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” If he were going to wash her out, she saw no reason for him to soften the blow with compliments.

  “Tomorrow, a group of Allied dignitaries is flying in to see the women’s program in action. I’ve chosen you, Miss Beaumont, as one of the cadets to accompany them while they’re on base. You’re to report to the airfield at 1200—in dress uniform. A driver will pick you up a few minutes prior to that in front of your building.”

  Alpharetta couldn’t believe his words. She wasn’t being washed out of the program, as she had feared.

  “You’ll eat in the mess with them—and answer any questions pertaining to the training program,” he continued. “I can’t tell you how important tomorrow is, Miss Beaumont. I expect your behavior to be exemplary.”

  “Yes, sir. And thank you, sir.”

  “That’s all, Beaumont. You may go.”

  Alpharetta’s elation was short-lived. On her way back to the Nisson hut, she began to worry again. Did commanding officers’ wives greet visiting dignitaries, alongside their husbands?

  Remembering the night at the Bluebonnet Hotel, Alpharetta realized her only hope lay in appearing very self-assured the next day, no matter what happened. And if she met the major’s wife, she would have to convince her that it was mere coincidence that she resembled the maid, Maria. She already had one double in the world—Ben Mark’s distant cousin, Belline Wexford. She might as well have another. Her career depended on it.

  That evening, she washed her hair and saw to her uniform. Mary Lou Brandon did the same, for she had been chosen to take part in the aerial display.

  The others in the bay, like Arabs in the marketplace, offered their prized possessions to both women.

  “I have a new lipstick—Chen-Yu.” Lark said. “You want to use it tomorrow, Beaumont?”

  “It’s too purple, Dennison,” Flossie Aronson said, declining for Alpharetta. “She’d look like she’s been in the blackberry patch.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Lark replied sarcastically.

  Alpharetta smiled. “I think I’ll use my same lipstick, thank you.”

  “A wise decision, Beaumont,” Agnes agreed.

  “Hey, you want to use my pancake makeup, Brandon?” Happy offered, pulling the new jar from her locker.

  “I thought you were saving it for a special occasion.”

  “ Tomorrow is a special occasion..”

  “Well, yes,” Mary Lou replied, “if you think it will hide my peeled nose.” She rubbed the area where the Texas sun had taken its revenge.

  “It should. Especially if you put enough on.”

  “But what if she flies too near the sun?” Flossie inquired. “I’d hate for her face to melt in front of the French duke or the Engli
sh lord.”

  “You really think we’re going to have royalty tomorrow?” Happy asked, impressed at Flossie’s words.

  “Nobility,” Agnes corrected. “Not royalty. Unless the King of England comes, too.”

  “Beaumont, I envy you. I really do,” Lark confided.

  Around noon of the next day, an anxious Alpharetta hurried from class, changed her coveralls for her dress uniform, and walked outside the Nisson hut to wait for the jeep that would take her to the far end of the airfield.

  Her hair, burnished copper, caught the jealous rays of the sun. It was remarkable that one so fair-skinned had remained impervious to the ravages of the Texas sun. After the initial burn, her skin had taken on a golden glow that refused to deepen into the muddy, weathered tan that now afflicted Mary Lou Brandon. In the gentle glow, her eyes appeared even larger, drawing the unwary viewer into sudden hidden depths, a cool green desire surrounded by the uncompromising heat of wind and sand.

  Alpharetta, oblivious to the picture she presented, had her mind on the next few hours of her life. At the sound of each jeep, she looked up, but no vehicle stopped.

  Then the thunderous noise in the sky gave birth to alarm. It was a long-range bomber—not the usual one- and two-engine planes stationed at the base. And she realized it must be the plane carrying the important guests. She should have been at the runway already. What had gone wrong? Had she misunderstood the directions?

  At that moment of indecision as to what to do next, a staff car rounded the corner, slowed, and came to a stop. Alpharetta paid no attention, until the driver got out.

  “Miss Beaumont?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’d better hurry. The dignitaries are getting here twenty minutes ahead of schedule.”

  She walked to the car and waited for the driver to open the door for her.

  In a teasing voice, he said, “You’re not the dignitary, Miss Beaumont. You’ll ride up front with me.”

  “Sorry,” Alpharetta responded. “I wasn’t thinking.” She moved to the front of the car and climbed in. From her behavior the driver decided the woman was quite used to being chauffeured in limousines. She had that air about her.

  Major Grier was already standing on the field not with his wife, Lavinia, but with Lieutenant Gifford, two other tactical officers, and three air cadets from the various bays. A relieved Alpharetta hurriedly joined them as the plane came in for the landing. The cars were lined up behind them, waiting for their important passengers.

  The plane grazed the runway and bounced up and down before settling into a smoother pattern. Alpharetta winced visibly at the sloppy landing. If it had been made by any one of the four women cadets now witnessing it, Gandy Malone would have had their heads.

  Nevertheless, the plane was down. It taxied toward the group; the steps were put into place and the men inside slowly began their descent from the military craft. Major Grier quickly moved toward the steps, leaving the women cadets, like ignored Chinese wives, many paces behind, until the official greeting was consummated.

  From her vantage point, Alpharetta took note of each dignitary filing down the unsteady metal steps. She recognized the uniform of the Royal Air Force, the Free French, as well as the U.S. Army Air Corps. Then came an extremely familiar face. He was dressed, not in any official uniform, but civilian clothes, his rotund figure encased in a jumpsuit not unlike the mechanic’s coveralls Alpharetta had worn that very morning.

  Suddenly Major Grier signaled for her to step forward. “Sir Nelson, may I present your guide for the day, Air Cadet Alpharetta Beaumont. Air Marshal Sir Nelson Mitford.”

  “Sir.”

  She saluted; he acknowledged and with no further ado, Major Grier said, “You may show him to his limousine..”

  She led the way to the waiting car; the driver also saluted and held the door for the air marshall. And Alpharetta climbed into the front seat opposite the driver.

  “Is it always this hot in Texas, Miss Beaumont?” the clipped Oxford accent politely inquired, as they waited for the others to join the small caravan.

  “Only about six months out of the year—or so I understand.”

  The air marshall asked no more questions. And Alpharetta, remembering her brief conversation in the taxi as she left Atlanta, felt amusement that she was being treated in the same manner as the driver. One small mention of the weather had fulfilled the obligation of polite conversation between people of dissimilar interests or ranks.

  The procession arrived at the officer’s club and, as soon as the car carrying Air Marshal Sir Nelson Mitford stopped, Alpharetta responded immediately. Alighting from the car, she waited t direct him.

  In pairs, they all walked inside—dignitary first, followed by his aide for the day. The club, decorated in flowers, gleaming prisms of crystal goblets, and glazed white china upon white linen, held a festive air.

  Just inside the private dining room stood a woman, also in white, with one small bunch of artificial violets pinned to her breast.

  Major Grier stepped forward. “Gentlemen,” he said, “may I present my wife, Lavinia.”

  At the name, Alpharetta froze.

  Chapter 9

  Alpharetta stared at Major Grier’s wife. As she was presented with the other cadets, she faltered at the unexpected smile in her direction.

  Lavinia Grier bore no resemblance to the woman at the Bluebonnet Hotel.

  “I’m delighted to meet you at last,” Mrs. Grier said. “The major’s letters have been filled with news of his women cadets.”

  “It’s our pleasure,” Alpharetta replied with genuine sincerity.

  Like one given a reprieve, she took her assigned place at the table. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Here, she’d been avoiding the major’s wife all week, had even worn the hot flight helmet to hide her red hair. And it hadn’t mattered at all. Though outwardly calm, Alpharetta was betrayed by her sparkling green eyes.

  Still unbelieving, she looked from the major to the slightly plump but pretty Lavinia at the end of the table. And then her own happiness at not being caught was tempered by the knowledge of the major’s infidelity.

  The Frenchman seated directly across from Alpharetta watched the subtle changes in the young woman’s face from one moment to the next. One second, an overwhelming joy, and the next, a vague sadness—a paradox.

  Trying to sort out her ambivalent feelings, Alpharetta, like the British air marshal on her left, was serious and reserved. Content to listen to the conversation around her, she nevertheless responded politely to questions directed to her.

  “I think you’ll enjoy our aerial display this afternoon,” Major Grier advised. “We have some top-flight pilots flying this afternoon.”

  “Good enough to fly the B-26 bombers?” General Meyer suddenly asked, leaning toward Major Grier.

  “I thought they were being taken out of service,” he replied.

  “They’ve gotten bad press, Lee, because of all the crashes in North Africa. But it’s my opinion, that if we can show the women flying them safely, then maybe…”

  “There’s not a male pilot around who’ll touch one,” another replied, “even if the women do fly them. They’ve already been labeled widow-makers.”

  “Well, we’ll see. We’ll see.” General Meyer continued, “I’m already impressed with your cadets, just talking with them. And I propose a toast to the continued success of the women’s program.”

  The other male voices joined in and wineglasses were lifted in salute.

  After lunch, the dignitaries toured the classrooms and questioned the cadets and the civilian instructors at length. And at 1500, they arrived at the stands set up for them to view the aerial display.

  Gandy Malone presided over the lineup of aerial maneuvers and Alpharetta, seated in the stands between the British air marshal and the Frenchman, watched as each plane took flight. Mary Lou Brandon, the former test pilot, had been chosen for last. Gazing over the airfield, Alpharetta remembered the initial
encounter of Mary Lou and Gandy, which had since grown almost to vendetta size, and she kept her fingers crossed for the smoothness of the afternoon.

  “Great take-off.” The people in the stands clapped, but Gandy, bracing against the exhaust of the plane, stood with his thumbs in his side pockets and his perpetual frown encased in the weathered bronze of his face. He was far too busy following the path of flight, ready to criticize the least deviation from his almost impossibly high standards, to listen to the applause behind him.

  Now all five planes were aloft and the dignitaries in the stands watched them through their binoculars.

  Lavinia Grier, on the other side of the white-mustached air marshal, leaned toward Alpharetta. “Just watching this makes me quite proud to be a woman,” she said. From that moment on, Alpharetta felt a kinship with the major’s wife.

  For another twenty minutes the flights continued. Then the planes came down, one by one, and the aerial display was over.

  “Good show,” the air marshal complimented.

  “C’est magnifique,” the Frenchman said, watching Mary Lou Brandon climb from the plane. Alpharetta was unsure as to whether the Frenchman meant the compliment for the woman herself or for her expertise in the air.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” General Meyer commented to Major Grier. “The women will be trained to fly the B-26 bombers.”

  In less than a half hour, Avenger Field was back to normal. The long-range bomber had departed; the air cadets were returned to their bays, and Major and Mrs. Grier left the base to celebrate the success of the day.

  Mary Lou Brandon paced up and down in front of the Nisson hut for at least fifteen minutes before Alpharetta finally returned. The moment she stepped out of the limousine and waved to the departing driver, the tall, long-legged blonde rushed to meet her.

  “I saw the major’s wife. Did she recognize you, Beaumont? What did she say?”

  Alpharetta, with a frown, hesitated as she thought of Lavinia Grier.

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t keep me in suspense. I nearly died when I saw her walking beside the major.”