Velva Jean Learns to Fly (29 page)

Sally swung her plane toward the runway. Major Blackburn stood nearby watching, arms folded across his large barrel chest. An officer standing next to him looked around at no one and everyone. “Hell,” he said, “they missed the girl.” Everybody laughed.

“
Life
magazine.”

I turned to see an officer who was just my height, maybe a little taller, with stooped shoulders, a round waist, and hair the color of mustard. He had one of those fat-boy comedy faces, like Fatty Arbuckle’s or Oliver Hardy’s, the kind that always looked like it was smiling whether he was or not. I knew by his stripes that he was a first lieutenant.

I said, “Excuse me?”

He said, “I thought that was you. You’re better looking in person.” He sounded like he was from Alabama or maybe Georgia.

“Thanks.” I was too shook up right now to think about anything other than the holes in my plane.

Like he read my mind, he said, “Look, the gunners are assholes.”

I said, “What’s going to happen to them?”

“Nothing.”

“They tried to kill us.”

“Colonel Wells will say there’s no way to prove they ain’t just bad marksmen.”

I said, “If they’re bad marksmen my name is Fifinella.”

The officer laughed at this. He said, “Good to meet you, Fifinella. Lieutenant Bob Keene, at your service.” He shook my hand. “They’re just scared—all the men here are. You girls have got ’em all stirred up, afraid you all are going to show them up and show everyone that you’re better than they are.”

I said, “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Are you afraid we’re going to show you up?”

He laughed again. “It never crossed my mind.” He walked away, whistling.

I thought to myself, Well, maybe it should.

That night Sally and I sat with Janie Bowen at supper. The mess hall was drafty and sprawling—long picnic table after picnic table seating a thousand men at a time and us, just twenty-five girls sitting side by side at one table in the middle of the room. Dinner was fried oysters. The night before it had been oyster stew. I pushed my food around and wished for Sunday, when we could go to the Post-Service Club Restaurant and buy eggs and bacon for thirty cents.

I turned to Janie and said, “Tell us about the girls we replaced. I want to know how they died.”

Sally sucked in her breath. She said, “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear it. If I hear it, I’ll picture it. Don’t tell me.” She covered her ears and looked down at her plate, like she was trying to figure out how to keep eating without her hands. She sighed and took her hands off her ears. She picked up her fork and said, “Well, I’m not listening.”

Janie said, “A girl named Laurine Thompson was flying just over the runway when the engine caught fire. She couldn’t get out fast enough, and she crash-landed. The plane exploded on impact.”

I stopped eating. Sally’s fork sat in midair, on its way to her mouth but now completely forgotten.

Janie said, “The second girl, Sandy Chapman, lost an engine over the ocean and her plane went into a spin that she couldn’t get out of. She plunged nose-first into the water and drowned.”

She took a bite of her food. When she did, a girl with glasses and her hair pushed up under a baseball cap leaned forward across the table. Her name was Ruth Needham. She said, “There was another one. The very first one. This was about six months ago. They never talk much about her.”

Janie said, “Dora Atwood. She lost her landing gear just south of the camp, on a routine ferrying mission down to Florida. She jumped from the plane and the parachute didn’t open.”

Another girl, Helen Stillbert, who was slim and pretty and had the air of a proper lady, said, “We think it was sabotage.”

Sally let her fork fall with a clank. “Sabotage?”

Ruth said, “They check out all the planes that crash, and one of the mechanics said it looked like each of them was tampered with. The head mechanic is a guy named Harry Lawson. It pays to get to know him and his crew, make friends and all that.”

Janie held up her hand and started counting on her fingers. “Harry Lawson said they found an old oil rag in the engine of Laurine’s plane, sugar in Sandy’s fuel tank, and a razor blade tucked inside Dora’s parachute. When she tried to open it, the razor tore a hole in it.”

Sally said, “Did they do anything? Colonel Wells?”

I said, “What about Miss Cochran? Does she know?” I thought about Fifinella, our mascot, flying over the gate at Avenger Field, and how she was supposed to keep us safe from gremlins and engine failure.

Janie took a drink of water. She set down her glass—a tall tin cup—and it made a ringing sound on the table. She said, “She knows. She came down here after Sandy’s accident to investigate, I guess because enough WASP started protesting. A couple of girls quit. But she never did anything about it. She told us she’d take care of it, but we’re still waiting.”

Sally said, “I didn’t come all this way to die. If I’m going to die, it’s going to be in my sleep when I’m ninety-eight years old, lying next to Cary Grant or Robert Taylor, not being shot out of the sky like a goose.”

Janie said, “Best thing you can do is make friends. Favorite girl pilots get to fly with the top men pilots, and the men pilots kind of look after the girls they like most. They call them ‘pilot’s girls.’”

“How do you get to be a pilot’s girl?” I asked, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“You go on dates with them.”

Sally said, “I’m not dating a pilot just so he won’t shoot at me.” She snapped her gum.

Janie said, “You don’t have to sleep with them. Just date them, make friends with them.”

Ruth said, “But run the names by us first. We have yes and no lists.” She looked around. Gus Mitchell was sitting at a table with a short, dark man with a face as flat as a bulldog’s. She said, “Yes to Gus, no to Leonard Grossman.” She pointed at an officer across the way. She said, “Vince Gillies. No.” Vince Gillies had thick red hair and looked like something that lived in the ground. I remembered him from our first day of tow targeting. He was the one who’d said, “Hell, they missed the girl.”

I sat there not eating and wondering exactly what kind of mission we were on, here in the middle of swampland, surrounded by men who were making it clear they didn’t care about silver wings or Jackie Cochran or
Life
magazine or whether we knew Morse code or night flying or instrument flying or flying the beam. I felt a sharp stab of homesickness—for Avenger Field, for the Lovelorn Café, for Mama’s house up on Fair Mountain, for under the porch.

Across the room Lieutenant Bob Keene sat on the corner of a table, talking to some of the other men. He glanced up and saw me looking at him and nodded. I thought it was good to see a friendly face when I was surrounded by a thousand strangers, men who hated me and wanted to shoot me out of the sky without even knowing me.

December 20, 1943

Dear family,

Camp Davis is swell. The food is great and the other girls are nice. We can’t believe we’re actually here on assignment, that we’re official WASP now and just as good as doing active duty for the military, even if we are still civilians.

The men are handsome and there are so many of them! You wouldn’t think there were any boys fighting this war right now in Europe or the Pacific with how many officers and cadets are stationed here.

We march everywhere, just like at Avenger. We fly six days a week, and if we’re weathered out for a day or two, we fly the weekend to make up for it. We wait at the flight board for our assignments, and if we don’t have a flight that day, we go to the Link trainer for practice or we work on Morse code or study the latest airplane information so that we’re up to date.

Sally says hi. She’s one of the best friends I ever had, next to you all. Do you have any news from Johnny Clay, Linc, Beach, Coyle, or Jessup? Every now and then I read about something brave and dangerous Beachard has done and it gets me thinking about when he was little and they didn’t think he’d live and how he would go out in the woods for hours and just walk, all the time getting stronger and stronger. I think maybe he was preparing for this all along.

That’s all the news that’s fit to write. I just wanted you to know I’m safe and happy. I hope the winter isn’t too bad up on the mountain. I love you all.

Velva Jean

THIRTY-TWO

O
n December 20, at two o’clock in the morning, I was thrown out of my bed. The floor was shaking, the walls were shaking, the glass in the windows rattled, and all the books and notebooks and pens flew off the desk and onto the floor. There was a great boom, like thunder, from somewhere in the distance, but it was the kind of thunder you felt deep in your chest, like something exploded in your heart.

Sally hung on to her bed like she was riding a bull. She said, “Hartsie, what is it?”

“I don’t know!” A plane crash? A bomb? The Germans?

Just then the room settled. The night got quiet. I was able to make out the details of shapes—polka dots on the curtains, the shoes under my bed, the red of a book cover. I could almost see Sally’s face.

The two of us met at the window and looked out into the night. From the direction of the ocean we could see a great orange fireball, like the sun had fallen into the water. Smoke covered the stars, making it the blackest of nights.

We pulled on our coats and ran outside and stood there with the other girls, the pilots, the officers. We watched the fireball burn, but instead of shrinking down it seemed to get larger and brighter. Everyone was buzzing and humming: “Is it one of ours?” “A bomber?” “A ship?”

Major Blackburn walked out onto the runway, still in uniform. He said, “Looks like a German U-boat torpedoed one of our freighters. Too soon to know the damage.”

I knew the Germans were out there but I couldn’t believe they were so close to us—under the water just like giant sharks or sea monsters, way down deep where you couldn’t see them in an A-24 or a bomber, not even in the B-17, which was supposed to be magic, or the B-29, which was the biggest bomber of all.

All of us, men and women, stood in the winter cold, watching the fireball burn and burn. I was shivering so hard—from the damp coming off the water, from the thought of the Germans just miles away—that one of the officers gave me his jacket and helped me pull it on over my own. For those minutes that we stood there, we were on the same side, looking out at this enemy we had in common. I thought that if you didn’t know what it was and what had caused it, that glowing sun would be almost pretty.

Two hours later there was another explosion, louder than the first. It didn’t wake me up because I was still awake, lying in my bed, trying not to picture German soldiers climbing out of the ocean and walking up the beach, guns in hand, breaking into the barracks, knocking down our door. I thought I might never sleep again.

In the morning we learned that forty-seven of the forty-nine men aboard the freighter
City of St. Mary’s
were killed. Two hours later all fifty-one of the men aboard the supply ship
Jacksonville
died when the same German U-boat opened fire. The
Jacksonville
had been carrying oil, gasoline, and fresh fruit and vegetables to our allies in Europe. For the next week, crates of cabbages, apples, carrots, and oranges washed up on shore, and oil covered the beach.

Now that I was stationed on the coast, the war seemed suddenly closer, and not just because of the U-boats. Planes came and went and pilots came and went, leaving for England or Scotland. We heard about battles from the soldiers who returned to the base hospital, missing a leg or an arm or a hand. We read in the news about the U.S. Marines landing on the Solomon Islands, and U.S. soldiers fighting the Japanese on Makin and Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands, where forty-six hundred Japanese and eleven hundred Americans lost their lives.

In Iran, President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill, prime minister of the United Kingdom, met with Joseph Stalin, who was the leader of Russia, to talk about the invasion of France. American troops landed on the island of New Britain, in a place called the Bismark Archipelago. General Eisenhower was appointed supreme commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force to lead the European invasion, starting in France. And the United States sent fifteen atomic scientists to Los Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico, where Paula and I landed when we lost our way.

On December 21, the day after the
City of St. Mary’s
and the
Jacksonville
sank to the bottom of the ocean, a navy patrol torpedo boat, commanded by marine lieutenant and medic Beachard S. Hart, sank after being cut in two by a Japanese destroyer off the Solomon Islands. The newspaper story said, “Lieutenant Hart swam to a small island in the Solomons, where he freed thirty-five American prisoners of war and captured five Japanese soldiers.”

I showed the story to every single one of the girls. I said, “That’s my older brother.” I thought about the way Beach didn’t like attention or a fuss being made over him. He was happiest when he was by himself and on his own, writing “Jesus loves, Jesus heals, Jesus weeps” on trees and rocks. I thought this was just another way of carving his messages.

On December 24 we woke to rain. A fog rolled in off the ocean, covering the black of the swamp and the dirt-brown of the buildings and the ugly green of the planes so that Camp Davis looked almost pretty.

At seven o’clock that evening, I spun my hair into a victory roll, painted my lips with my Max Factor Comet Red lipstick, and pulled on my dark-blue dress with the skirt that twirled. Sally and I met the rest of the girls outside the barracks, and together we walked to the service club for the Camp Davis Christmas dance. As we walked, I looked out over the water and thought about the U-boats that were hiding there, way in the deep. The thought chilled me all over. It felt strange to be done up in my prettiest dress and going to a party when the war was being fought right there, just miles away.

The ballroom of the service club was a handsome room, large as the Fiesta Supper Club in Juárez. It was decorated with red and green streamers and twinkly lights and the biggest Christmas tree you ever saw. Round tables with white cloths were set up all across the room, and there was a stage in the middle, with music stands and instruments but no orchestra.

After we ate a turkey dinner, the orchestra came out and started to play. I thought of Charlie Jones and wondered where he was, if he was entertaining troops overseas with his band or if maybe he was in the trenches somewhere.

Sally and the girls and I walked over to the table where drinks were set up, and we poured ourselves punch and stood comparing stories about how mean the men at Camp Davis were. A few days before some of the pilots had gathered up a bunch of stray dogs and painted “WASP” on their sides and then turned them loose on the base. This was supposed to mean we were either dogs or bitches, or maybe both, and we had to spend all afternoon chasing them down and cleaning up after them while Major Blackburn shouted at us.

A girl named Francine, with a sweet, freckled face, said, “They treat the Injuns just as bad.”

I knew there were Indians on the base, but I’d never once seen any of them.

Sally said, “I don’t see a single Indian in this room.”

Janie said, “They keep them hid away, just like they wish they could do with us.”

I said, “Aren’t they training with the other men?”

Ruth said, “We think they’re rounding them up to be code talkers, which means they’ll be shipped out to the marine base in San Diego or the army base at Fort Benning.”

I had no idea what a code talker was, but I decided it sounded wonderful, like being a spy.

The band left for intermission. Most of the men were standing around drinking and talking to each other. There were groups of girls off to the sides, keeping to themselves. I thought it was just like school, with the boys on one side and the girls on the other.

Ruth said, “Do any of you play or sing?”

Sally said, “Velva Jean sings. You should hear her.”

Ruth grabbed my hand. “Come on.” She dragged me along till we were up on the stage. She sat down at the piano, and Janie sat behind the drums. Ruth pushed her glasses up on her nose and started playing “Over the Rainbow.”

Sally said, “I want to play something,” even though I knew full well she couldn’t play anything. She picked up a pair of maracas.

I didn’t want to sing “Over the Rainbow,” even with all those nice words about bluebirds and blue skies and trouble melting like lemon drops and dreams that you dared to dream really coming true. I wanted to sing one of my songs or one of the songs I grew up on. I wanted to hear some mountain music with guitars and banjos and fiddles.

I said, “Do you all know ‘I’ll Fly Away’?”

They sat staring at me and then Ruth began picking out the tune on the piano.

I thought: Great holy Moses. It’s been so long since I sang anything. What if I forgot how? What if I can’t remember the words?

And then I sang. The men kept talking and drinking. I heard Vince Gillies—the one that looked like he lived in the ground—laugh louder than he needed to at something one of his friends was saying. A few men glanced over and then some of them stood there looking. Little by little, they fell quiet. Behind me I heard Janie say, “Good grief, Velva Jean. Sally wasn’t lying.”

When the shadows of this life have gone,
I’ll fly away . . .

In all, we sang three songs, and the orchestra played with us on the last one, which was “Don’t Fence Me In.” I loved that song. I loved it because it made me think of Ty, and the memory of him singing it was both sad and sweet. And I loved it because it was exactly how I’d felt in my life—until I came to Camp Davis—ever since I left Harley, ever since I learned to fly. When we were done, there were whistles and clapping and I tried to slip away without anyone noticing, but then Bob Keene asked me to dance with him.

He said, “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Fifinella.”

Sally danced by us with Gus Mitchell, who was two heads taller than she was. She waved and I waved back.

Bob Keene said, “You sure can sing. Tell me, is there nothing you can’t do?”

There was plenty I couldn’t do, but I didn’t say so. Instead I said, “I’ve always sung, ever since I was little. My whole family plays music.”

He asked me more questions then, all about my singing, and I thought it was nice that he wanted to know but I felt like I was telling him something about me from the outside in, instead of showing him from the inside out. I thought about Butch Dawkins, how he had known my music and my songs and how I didn’t have to tell him about them because he knew that part of me from the inside. I didn’t think music was something you could talk about like this, dancing at an Army Air Forces service club while an orchestra played “Little Brown Jug” and while there was a war going on not only across the ocean but underneath it.

He said, “I played guitar for a while. Never was much good at it. I wanted to be outdoors too much, not cooped up inside. I played baseball, I wrestled, I boxed. I wanted to be heavyweight champion like Max Schmeling or Max Baer.” He talked on about boxing—Jack Dempsey, Henry Armstrong, Joe Louis—and then he said, “But all that stopped when I learned to fly. I was eleven when Charles Lindbergh made his flight to Paris in the
Spirit of St. Louis
.” He talked for a while about Lindbergh, about his races, about the kidnapping and murder of the Lindbergh baby and what a goddamn rotten shame that was, and then he told me about his own flying and how he joined up with the Army Air Forces long before Pearl Harbor.

He said he was from Social Circle, Georgia, born and raised, though he always itched to get out and do something more, especially once he started flying. He said he knew he was meant for other places, and I said, “You’re living out there, just like I am. You’re going after your destiny instead of waiting for it to come to you.”

He said, “That’s right.”

The song ended then and one of the pilots cut in. Bob Keene thanked me for the dance and walked away. The pilot said, “Zeke Bodine, good to meet you.” He had bright-yellow hair and front teeth that crossed in the middle. He seemed like a nice boy, but I thought he looked like a duck.

I said, “Velva Jean Hart, good to meet you too.”

We danced, and while we danced we talked about all the polite things you talk about when dancing with someone you didn’t know—how did we get here, what did we do before the war. I thought: Here we go again. How many more conversations like this do I have to have tonight?

When he asked me where I was from I said, “North Carolina.”

He said, “Charlotte?” Zeke Bodine was from lower Alabama, so I knew he wouldn’t know Fair Mountain.

I said, “Alluvial. It’s near a town called Hamlet’s Mill.”

He said, “Alluvial . . .”

I said, “It’s in the mountains.”

Zeke Bodine said, “We got a guy here from Alluvial. No, not from there, but he spent some time working up there.”

I said to Zeke, “You’re making that up.” I thought maybe he was trying to charm me by pretending we had something in common.

Zeke said, “Why would I make that up? This guy spent some time working up there in a CCC camp, up on that road they built.”