Cynthia Cartier - Wings

Four upper-class women were perched on the back of a sofa and together they inspected the newest batch of trainees. One of them pinched up her little mouth and called out to Bet as she passed, “Hey CT, better pick up the pace or you’re gonna miss your OT and then you won’t get you BA or make it to your CR in the PT to get SEs much less TEs.”

A violet-eyed gal, sitting next to the mocker, grinned at the taunt. Her curly blonde hair was wrapped in a cascading bouquet on the top of her head, and whether by birth or hours of cross country flying, she had Rowby Wills skin. She was striking and had the look of a movie star without any of the effort.

Bet was completely overwhelmed and Liddy caught up to her and pushed her along.

“We’re in a foreign country,” the little redhead whispered back to Liddy as she nibbled furiously on a fingernail.

A tiny no-nonsense woman in uniform jumped up on a table. “Welcome, Class. Gather round and listen up.”

The trainees shuffled into position to hear the orientation. Bet stood between Liddy and Marina and held onto the cuff of Liddy’s jacket.

“I am your Establishment Officer or house mother as you will. I will be taking care of your housing assignments and dealing with issues of moral conduct. Although this program has been successful in supplying the Army Air Force with pilots for non-combat duties, it is still considered experimental, and its future is dependent on each and every one of you. Our rules of conduct must be strictly observed…”

“Here it comes,” Marina predicted.

“…The program’s reputation is at stake. You will not socialize with Army officers, enlisted personnel or civilian instructors. You are to stay out of planes piloted by men with the exception of training flights, checkrides and returning to base from ferry missions….”

“Who needs men? Just the fact that we’re pilots gives us a loose rep,” Marina joked to Bet.

“Isn’t it great?” Bet whispered back.

“…You will be given a list of the expectations for how you are to keep up your bays…”

“Bays?” Bet questioned Liddy.

“Rooms,” Liddy clarified.

“There will be standing inspections every Saturday, and spot inspections at the discretion of the base command. Demerits will be given for any violations. From here, you will report to the supply depot where you will be issued bedding and flight gear. You will be required to purchase general’s pants and white shirts for ground school. And those of you, who are still in the program upon graduation, will need to purchase a dress uniform. If you brought more than one suitcase, pick your favorite, the rest is going into storage…”

Marina gasped and looked down at her luggage. Evidently she didn’t get the word.

“…From the supply depot you will go straight to the barracks and move into your homes for the next twenty-two and half weeks. You will sleep six to a bay, two bays to a bathroom—that’s twelve bodies, ladies. Be quick, be courteous and be clean. You will have twenty minutes or less to clean up from morning flight instruction for ground school. You’ll rise at o-six hundred hours and lights out is at twenty-two hundred hours. Get situated, suit up, grab some grub then report to the flight line for your first checkrides at fourteen hundred hours. You’re dismissed.”

The class shuffled back into line and followed their guides to the supply depot. As they made their way through the room, they balanced the growing pile of bedding and clothes in the crooks of their arms, while still lugging their suitcases. Marina’s gear was an extra burden and Liddy and Bet were struggling to wrangle the load, but Marina still managed to move with grace or at least she attempted to.

Once at the bays, the women were led down the row of barracks that would be filled with their class. There they were left to find their rooms. Bet, Marina and Liddy put in to share a bay and together walked down the concrete porch, looking for their room number through the mesh of the wood-framed screen doors. At B7, Liddy set down her luggage and held open the door.

“After you, ladies.” Liddy waved Bet and Marina in.

Six metal beds with bare mattresses were posted along the two sides of the room, four on one side and two on the wall with the door to the bathroom. A table was attached to the walls on either end and six chairs were divided between them. With the exception of the lockers, which were actually wood boxes (their closets) that stood next to each bed, the walls were sterile.

Three women were already in the room and had staked out their beds. When their new roommates entered they looked up from their unpacking and, “Hi,” and “Hello,” were exchanged with smiles. Marina peeked into the bathroom, which consisted of two sinks, one mirror, two showers and a door to the other bay of six women who would be sharing the facilities.

The empty beds were chosen and all of the suitcases were emptied into the lockers and their cases slipped under the beds. Bet held up her flight suit. The folds fell to the floor revealing an unending run of fabric that made up a gigantic pair of men’s coveralls. “There’s got to be a mistake.”

One of the tallest of her new baymates grabbed her coveralls and took the lead with the garment. “No mistake, one size—44. That’s why they call ‘em zoot suits.” With her coveralls in tow, she did a high spirited shuffle across the room, then saluted and introduced herself, “Louise Parker.”

The wide-legged pants of the zoot suit was a fashion of musicians and the dance set in Harlem at the time. The trainees had become aces at finding the lighter side of the unpleasantries that were part of being a WASP trainee.

Louise wore a cotton dress that was dotted with tiny stars. Her wavy brown hair was pinned back on both sides and a short wisp of bangs lined her forehead. She looked to Liddy to be as old or older than her, which gave Liddy an instant sense of camaraderie with Louise Parker.

“Calli Listo, I mean Duncan. It’s Calli Duncan.” The young little gal held out her hand. Her heavily lashed brown eyes stared lovingly at the shiny ring on her finger. “I just got married.” Her dark brown hair was pulled back with a pink ribbon that was tied in a bow on top of her head. She looked to be only a child.

“And you’re here?” Bet questioned.

“My boyfriend Stephen, I mean husband Stephen has gone overseas, I want to fly…” Calli kicked in a Southern accent, “… and it was this or attend every event of the Atlanta social season with my dahlin’ of a mother-in-law.”

“You from Atlanta? I’m from Atlanta,” the third woman drawled with a genuine Southern spice.

“No, actually, Steven’s family is. Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to…” Calli tried to make amends for the mimickery.

“Please, if I never see another woman smothered in cotton candy chiffon again in my whole entire life, it will be too soon.” She bowed to the room and introduced herself. “Joy Lynn Calbert—debutante fugitive and rebel pilot.”

Joy Lynn’s clothes were in piles on the bed like they had exploded out of her suitcase, and she towered like a goddess in the middle of the room. The Southern belle’s blonde hair curled in loops and rested on her shoulders. She had full pink lips and big blue eyes. The cap sleeves of her sheer blouse met a groove of her defined bicep. Her waist was wrapped with a wide belt around a skirt that fit short and tight.

Marina had her suitcases open and was sorting their contents back and forth and muttering. Then she plopped on the bed, opened a compact and touched-up her make-up in the little round mirror. Unaware of the conversation swirling around the room she asked, “Did you see those women? Not a stitch of make-up.”

“I saw some lipstick.” Louise goaded.

“Well maybe, but please.” Marina snapped her compact closed and tossed it on the bed. “And did anyone notice….” She pointed toward the bathroom. “… One mirror—one.”

“Marina, you’re from Hollywood, an actress?” Louise speculated.

“New York. I was an airline stewardess.”

“I’ll take cashews and a ginger ale,” teased Joy Lynn.

“I’m sorry, didn’t I say, I ‘was’ a stewardess?”

“One of the senior trainees was a Hollywood stunt pilot,” Calli informed.

“Who?” Marina asked.

“Jenna Law, that curly topped beauty who was in the rec hall,” said Calli. “Word’s that she’s the hottest wings here.”

Joy Lynn added, “But of course they haven’t seen me up yet.”

“You can have Hollywood. A career in the Army is what I want, getting to fly the newest, hottest planes. And can you imagine being an officer?” Louise dreamed aloud.

“A captain,” Marina chimed in.

“A major,” said Louise.

“Generals run in my family.” Joy Lynn stood at attention and saluted.

The trainees got acquainted as they unpacked and dressed for their checkrides. Liddy fastened the strap of her new aviator watch onto her wrist and slipped Jack’s into her pocket.

Joy Lynn grabbed her hand and whistled. “Now that’s a beauty.”

“Thanks,” said Liddy and she tucked it under the cuff of her sleeve.

Liddy, Louise and Joy Lynn had the height to fill out most of the length of their suits, but the other three women had to cinch and roll to try and achieve some kind of fit.

Bet looked herself up and down. “My mother would be so proud,” she said. And then she jerked and jived around the room. She bounced up and down, twisting her toes in a little pivot on the floor, taking little steps in between. Her shoulders shook like a geyser was about to escape from the top of her head, which sent her red curls shooting up and down like they were trying to lift off as she twirled herself about. Then she’d do it all over again, exactly the same way. “Think the zoot-suited Harlem crowd would be impressed?”

“I think the zoot-suited crowd would think you were having convulsions,” said Marina. “What are you doing?”

“The Lindy Hop, it’s a Jitter Bug,” answered Bet.

“Yeah, I know the Lindy Hop, and that’s no Lindy Hop,” Marina took the floor and tried to show Bet the steps. But Bet was insistent that she had it right. Soon she had all of the baymates on their feet doing the funny little Bet dance until they heard the call outside the barracks to line up. Marina was the last one in the room and she took one last look in the mirror and straightened her pearls.

The class marched to the mess hall and dug in to some of the finest home cooking in Texas. Rationing wasn’t part of Army life apparently. At the table, Liddy watched Bet pick at her food and leaned to her and asked, “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I don’t eat much before I fly. When I go up, so does the food, if you know what I mean.”

Liddy smiled. “You’re gonna be skipping a lot of meals, little Betsy.”

“I’ll make up for it.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Military life wasn’t something most little girls had laid in bed dreaming about during the first half of the twentieth century. It was as far from their thinking as building a barn or fighting a duel. Their brother’s playtime was charging the hill, and taking the enemy. Girls, on the other hand, had their dolls, dress-up and notions of being mommies and wives. But when flying got hold of a woman, her world opened up long before the lot of her generation. It opened up in a way that let all kinds of possibilities line up on the doorstep of her mind.

Liddy’s world had always been open, so she was not hemmed in by convention. Still, the restraints and rigors of the Army way were not familiar to the free wander of her spirit. Down the line, looking military was a stretch for the new class. They gave it their all though. Assembled in ranks before the base command, their backs were straight and their knees were tight; they were to be military pilots.

Liddy’s pulse raced when she saw that Major Reid Trent was among the officers. He wasn’t the same man she remembered from the train, but still her mind raced with her pulse. What did this mean? Even if he had walked away from her because of his position at Avenger, the way he walked away still burned her. Or was it that she wasn’t accustomed to being walked away from at all? She thought she knew the ins and outs of herself and how to keep in check, but the yearning that returned had a way of its own. Trent stood with Colonel Lawrence Wate, army officers, a collection of enlisted pilots and civilian flying instructors, a few of whom were women.

Colonel Wate was a big man. The plumpness behind his rosy cheeks and in his form told of the celebration with which he lived life. His smile was wide and exuded anything but military formality. He adored the trainees and was one of the WASP program’s biggest supporters. He greeted the women with words of drill and discipline, but the tone was warm and enthusiastic.