In the Company of Women Page 5

  And yet, all along, he’d been thinking of her as his future wife and the mother of his children. The problem was, she wasn’t ready to be a historian’s wife, not when she wanted to be a historian herself.

  “That must have been a difficult decision,” Brady said.

  “It was. He was my best friend. But in the end, we didn’t want the same things.”

  “And you haven’t heard from him since you broke up?”

  CJ shook her head, looking back up at the sky again. “My mother told me he rang once while I was in basic, but he didn’t leave a message.”

  “I’m sorry. Is it difficult not to have him in your life anymore?”

  “Not nearly as bad as I expected.” She barely thought about him now, another indication that what she had felt for him couldn’t have been true love, could it?

  “I probably should have turned Nate down too,” Brady said, “but I couldn’t. We’ve been friends since first grade. He ended up at Yale and was one of the few people I knew on the East Coast. It was so easy—I always had a date for formals, but we didn’t have to see each other all the time. Then he got drafted right after we graduated, and his orders came through for North Africa. What was I supposed to do? There didn’t seem to be any other choice.”

  “I don’t think I could have refused Sean if he had proposed right before shipping out.”

  Instead, he had come to her in early summer when she was working long hours at the farm trying to make up for Alec’s absence. He had appeared at the house with his graduate deferment secure, his plans for their future complete.

  She’d tried before to picture him in a uniform. He would have hated the Army—the regulations, the restrictions, the drab uniform. The Navy would have suited him better, but either way, he would have mourned the loss of his beautifully thick, curly black hair. Sean always looked well put together. Senior year, she had taken more pains with her appearance than ever before so that she would look good beside him. Like her mother, he came from a wealthy East Detroit family. While he never called her, say, “farm girl,” she had always been distinctly aware of the differences in their backgrounds.

  “But why would you say no?” her mother had asked the night Sean stormed away, car tires kicking up gravel on their long driveway.

  “Because I don’t think he’s the right person for me.”

  “It’s not too late,” her mother had said as they sat on the swing on the screened-in back porch listening to the summer night music of crickets and peepers. “You could always change your mind. You could go to him tomorrow. I’ll pay the train fare, or you could borrow the car. I’m sure your father wouldn’t mind.”

  “Mom, I’m not going to change my mind. I’m not going to marry him.”

  “He’s a good man, Caroline, and would make a wonderful husband and father. He loves you, I know he does.”

  CJ stood abruptly, jolting the swing chains. “But I don’t love him, not like I should. Why are you acting like this? You’ve always told us to do what makes us happy. Why are you trying to talk me into marrying someone I don’t want to?”

  Her mother had lifted a hand to her mouth and said slowly, “I’m not, honey. I’m sorry. I’m sure you know what’s best for you.”

  Shortly after that she had joined the WAC, and though her mother offered outward support, CJ could read the doubt in her eyes. Since when had her mother stopped believing in her? She and her older brothers had always agreed they were lucky when it came to parents. Apparently her mother didn’t quite feel the same way about her.

  Reaching into her jacket pocket, Brady pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  They smoked in the back of the Jeep while the night sky shifted overhead, new paths through the stars revealed as the Earth spun on its axis. Like the Axis Powers, CJ thought, and shivered.

  “Are you cold?” Brady asked.

  “No, I was thinking about the Axis. Do they honestly think they can win?”

  “Until we joined the fight, it looked like they might.” Brady exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Sometimes I try to imagine how they could devalue human life to such a degree, but I simply can’t comprehend it.”

  “It’s inconceivable, some of the things they’ve done: the destruction in Nanking, the massacres in Brest-Litovsk, the civilian dead in Stalingrad. Have you heard the rumors about the camps in Poland where they’re supposedly gassing Jews and political prisoners?”

  “I have, but do you think they exist?” Brady asked. “Could anyone actually do such a thing?”

  “I hope not. There’s so much propaganda on both sides, it’s hard to know what’s real.”

  “There was a rumor that the slander campaign against the WAC—you know, the one claiming that we’re all prostitutes?—was German propaganda, but it turns out it was Regular Army officers trying to ‘protect their legacy,’ to hear them tell.”

  “What legacy? And protect it from whom?”

  “Seems some of the old boys were upset about the attention being given the higher recruiting standards in the WAAC, so they fed lies to the newspapers about how we were all a bunch of drunken good-time girls. That’s partly why so many WAACs took a discharge rather than sign on with the Regular Army.”

  “I almost joined the WAVES because of those rumors,” CJ confessed.

  “Why didn’t you? The WAVES tend to have more traction with the college crowd.”

  “They recruited hard at Michigan. But their pitch included bad-mouthing the WAAC, so when it came time to join up, I crossed the street and signed up with the Army instead.”

  The WAVES recruiter had reminded her of her Detroit aunts and cousins, who didn’t bother to hide their contempt for her mother’s chosen lifestyle. Not a chance she wanted to share this part of her life with women like them.

  “That’s so nonconformist of you,” Brady remarked.

  “I thought it was me being bullheaded. Why didn’t you join the WAVES? Don’t they train at Seven Sisters schools?”

  “Smith and Mount Holyoke,” Brady confirmed. “But my great-grandfather, grandfather, uncle and older brother are all Army men. Seemed like a foregone conclusion.”

  “Was your family supportive when you told them you were joining up?”

  “Not especially. Was yours?”

  “Mostly. My father bragged to all the neighbors, and my mother sewed another blue star flag before I even left for basic. My grandmother, on the other hand, claimed she needed smelling salts when she heard the news.”

  “Your Wellesley grandmother?”

  CJ nodded.

  “Typical.” Brady snorted.

  “So where’s your brother stationed?”

  “New Guinea. When the Army found out Chris studied theater at UCLA, they sent him to Fort Meade to become a recreation officer, one of those boys tasked with keeping up morale in the face of malaria and monsoons. My little brother Josh, meanwhile, is still in school.”

  CJ heard the disapproval in Brady’s voice. “It’s different for them. You and I won’t be made to fight, but the boys know there’s always a chance they’ll be shipped off to the front.”

  Brady regarded her unwaveringly. “Both of your brothers are in, and I bet you’d join up if you were a man, wouldn’t you?”

  “Probably. You would too, wouldn’t you?”

  She nodded. “I don’t know why he doesn’t.”

  Usually she didn’t like to admit it, but CJ had felt the same way about Sean. Some part of her had considered him cowardly for wanting to study history rather than participate in the war, despite the fact she didn’t want to be ordered to shoot the enemy or drop bombs on civilians any more than he did. It was a double standard, she knew, but there it was.

  The air cooled appreciably as night deepened, and after a while they rose from their seats, stretched stiff muscles and climbed down from the Jeep. With one last look at the peaceful parking lot, CJ followed Brady back to the heart of the post and from there to the WAC compound.


  They stopped at Brady’s barracks, lingering on the steps talking about nothing until finally CJ took a step back.

  “I should probably get back for bed check,” she said. “But thanks for tonight. I had a really good time.”

  “Same here,” Brady said, smiling at her. “I’m glad you ended up at Bliss, CJ.”

  “So am I.” And, surprisingly, she was. The beacon of Northern California no longer shone quite as brightly.

  “See you tomorrow?” Brady asked, hand on the door.

  “Definitely.”

  CJ turned away, heading toward her own barracks. It had been a long day, but she wasn’t tired. As she walked, she even sang a ditty from basic set to the tune of “The Man on the Flying Trapeze.”

  Once we were civilians, but now we are Wacs,

  Dressed in our khaki, discarding our slacks,

  Marching, saluting, with pains in our backs,

  And our loves they are far, far away.

  We’ll be good soldiers if it takes us years,

  We’ll stiffen our spines and we’ll pin back our ears,

  We’ll flatten abdomens and tuck in our rears,

  If that’s what it takes to be Wacs!

  Chapter Four

  When reveille sounded across the WAC compound on Monday morning, CJ yawned, rolled out of bed and climbed into her waiting clothes. She was accustomed to rising early on the farm to get a start on the day’s work. Basic training, when reveille had sounded at five fifteen every morning, hadn’t seemed as god-awful to her as it had to some of her fellow recruits.

  The sun hadn’t risen yet as she joined her company in the courtyard for PT and morning drill. They exercised and marched by platoon every weekday morning from six fifteen to seven. Up ahead she glimpsed Brady marching under the lights with Company A, looking sleepy as she went through the motions of the drill. CJ shook her head, thinking of their adventure the night before. Usually disobeying orders made her stomach hurt, but Brady had managed to make unlawful trespassing seem downright enjoyable. Her Detroit cousins were similar and termed their own willful disregard of rules as “hijinks” or “shenanigans.” How did the wealthy get away with treating the law as mere suggestion?

  After drill, CJ got cleaned up and went to breakfast with the rest of her platoon. They had to report for duty at eight, so they didn’t linger. At quarter to eight, she left the WAC compound with Toby, Reggie and Sarah and walked the mile to the Army Air Corps Division headquarters, located not far from Brady’s Jeep parking lot.

  Much of the walk was spent in a discussion of favorite cars and airplanes. The other three were, like her, motor vehicle enthusiasts. Sarah, a tall, lean girl who had grown up on a ranch near Missoula, had even flown an airplane a few times, though she didn’t have a license. Her ex-boyfriend had taught her.

  “We work at the Transient Hangar,” Toby said as they neared the airfield. “Planes visiting from other airfields come to us for repairs. Along with B-24 replacement and antiaircraft artillery training, Biggs is one of the main stops for the ferry command, so we see a lot of different types of aircraft.”

  “What’s the flight line like here?” CJ asked.

  The others exchanged grins. “You’ll see.”

  And she did—the Biggs flight line occupied two wide runways laid out parallel, each with a row of airplanes parked wingtip to wingtip. As far as CJ could see were airplanes and more airplanes of stunning variety, a few of which she easily recognized—P-51 Mustangs, P-47 Thunderbolts, C-47 Skytrains, B-17 Flying Fortresses, B-24 Liberators and the Biggs specialty, B-29 Superfortresses. She shook her head in awe. This was one American airfield of many. No wonder the general consensus was that they couldn’t lose—in a war that depended in large part on air power, manufacturing supremacy translated directly into military might.

  As they stared down the line, CJ asked Sarah, “Is it true we get to go on hops sometimes?”

  Sarah nodded. “It’s true. Where did you hear that?”

  “Around,” CJ said vaguely, remembering Toby and Reggie’s reaction to her friendship with Brady.

  Before they reached the hangar, Sarah said, “By the way, the higher-ups have been having a tantrum lately over our work attire.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “They caught a few of us rolling up our pant legs and shirt sleeves. Now we’re supposed to be buttoned and covered head to toe. At least the hangars are cooler than out on the line.”

  Like the others, CJ had dressed this morning in her HBTs, standard WAC-issue herringbone twill fatigues that served as one-piece khaki coveralls. Already she could tell the material would be stifling during the warmer months. Maybe by spring the WAC supply officers would have figured out an alternative.

  As they rounded the corner into the Transient Hangar, CJ swallowed hard. After months of specialized training, her life as an Army Air Corps mechanic was finally about to begin.

  Roll call came first and involved the four of them and fifty other Wacs, GIs and civilians who worked in assorted positions. When her turn came, she answered, “Here,” mildly surprised when her voice didn’t shake. Then again, she’d had plenty of time to prepare.

  After roll call, everyone split up into their work groups. Flight C, their crew, was made up of five Wacs, a dozen GIs and a few civilians, and included a hangar chief, armorers, radio operators, interior and exterior mechanics and a handful of other specialists. Until a couple of years before, pilots had supervised the maintenance of their own airplanes, but this responsibility was now assumed by a nonflying squadron officer. Flight C’s crew chief was Master Sergeant Griggs, whom the others had described as a tough twenty-year man. Griggs gave her the once-over, then grunted and turned away.

  “Tripp,” he barked at Sarah, “you’re Jamieson’s babysitter until I tell you otherwise. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sarah said smartly, and flashed a smile at CJ.

  The first order of business was a hundred-hour check on a B-29. Sarah and Jill, aWac from another company, maneuvered a hard stand over to the left wing, and soon mechanics, armorers and radiomen were swarming around the massive bomber like yellow jackets on a Coke bottle.

  From advanced training, CJ knew that military aircraft were brought in for inspection after twenty-five, fifty and one hundred hours in the sky. At each check point, specific inspections were required as well as any repair work that might be needed. Any engine that had accumulated five hundred hours of flight time had to be removed and completely overhauled. Such overhauls were usually completed at civilian production facilities that contracted their services out to the Army.

  Jill and Sarah had been at Biggs for six months and had completed a short course on the B-29 over the summer, they told her as they worked. CJ’s multi-engine rating was on the B-24, so at first she observed, helping out when asked. Her extended training course at Chanute had prepared her mainly for squadron repairs of the first- and second-echelon variety: regular servicing of aircraft, routine inspections and adjustments and minor repairs. For more difficult jobs, maintenance squadrons on the home front were expected to defer to highly trained civilian mechanics for what was officially designated third- and fourth-echelon maintenance. But at Biggs, Jill and Sarah explained, the AAF command believed strongly in on-the-job training.

  They worked hard all morning, going over the massive bomber from the nose of its windowed cockpit to the tip of its pressurized tail gunner’s compartment. The B-29’s Wright Duplex Cyclone engines were a headache, Sarah told her, due to a troubling tendency to overheat and catch fire. As a result, some of the boys were reluctant to fly them.

  “Sometimes the Wright engines are actually the wrong engines,” Jill quipped.

  Sarah ignored what CJ guessed to be a very old joke and waved her closer on the hard stand platform. “After every twenty-five hours, the flight crew replaces these, the uppermost five cylinders. And at seventy-five hours, we replace the entire engine.”

  “Seventy-five hours? But
isn’t that expensive?”

  “The Army considers the flight crew’s lives more valuable than the money it takes to keep them safe,” Sarah said.

  “Besides, it’s less expensive than training a replacement crew,” Jill added.

  As they worked, the two Wacs showed CJ a few tricks to keep the B-29’s four radial engines cool: cuffs on propeller blades, baffles on intakes and rubber fittings, and increased oil flow to the valves.

  “We do everything we can to help and nothing, we hope, to harm,” Sarah told her.

  “I’ll try to remember that,” CJ promised.

  It was hard to hear over the sound of jacks, lifts and other noisy tools, but a radio in one corner of the hangar was tuned to the base radio station. At ten, when the news came on, CJ stopped in mid-twist of a wrench. She knew that voice. She glanced at Sarah, who was chatting with the jack operator.

  “Is that Brady Buchanan on the radio?”

  Sarah nodded. “She usually reads the morning news.”

  CJ tried to listen, but after a few minutes she gave up. She would see Brady later anyway—after supper if not before. Time enough then to tell her about the B-29. It wasn’t a hop, but taking apart four radial engines wasn’t bad for her first day.

  At noon mess, CJ and Sarah caught a ride back to the WAC compound in a Jeep with Toby and Reggie, who were airplane instrument specialists. That meant they worked mainly on the interior of planes in the Transient Hangar. Their work environment could either be “nice and cool” or like “burning in Hades,” but rarely in between.

  At the mess hall, the four women took over a table and chatted as they ate. Kate joined them, and with the others soon filled CJ in on platoon and company gossip, relating who was friends with whom and which women had “special” friends. CJ knew they were talking about homosexual relationships, but the word went unspoken.