The Aviatirx's Dawn: A Wasp Story
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Epilogue: Landing the War
Late December 1944
Iowa - December 28, 1944
The farm looked exactly the same.
Ellie stood at the end of the driveway, suitcase in hand, staring at the white farmhouse she’d left eighteen months ago. The barn. The fields, brown and dormant under a light dusting of snow. The ancient oak tree where she’d climbed as a child.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
Her father emerged from the barn, moving slowly, favoring his left arm. The broken bone had healed, but not perfectly. He stopped when he saw her. For a moment, they just looked at each other across the distance.
Then he walked toward her, and she walked toward him, and they met in the middle.
“You came home,” he said.
“I came home.”
He pulled her into a careful hug. “I’m proud of you, Eleanor. Your mother would be proud too.”
Ellie felt tears threaten. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me.”
“You were where you needed to be.” He pulled back, looked at her. “You’re different. Harder. But in a good way. Stronger.”
“I don’t feel stronger. I feel ... lost.”
“That’ll pass.” He picked up her suitcase. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. You look half-frozen.”
The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of coffee and bread. Aunt Margaret was there, and she folded Ellie into a hug that felt like coming home.
“We followed the stories in the papers,” Margaret said. “About the WASPs. About the program ending. I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. But you’re home now. That’s something.”
That evening, after dinner, Ellie sat with her father on the porch. The winter air was crisp and cold, but it felt good after so many months in Texas and California.
“What are you going to do?” her father asked.
“I don’t know. Help you with the farm, I guess. Try to figure out what comes next.”
“You could fly again. Commercial aviation. Crop dusting.”
Ellie shook her head. “Nobody’s hiring women pilots. The war isn’t even over yet, and they’re already making it clear that flying is for men only.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s not right. But it’s reality.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then her father said, “Your mother used to say that doors don’t stay closed forever. You just have to be patient and ready for when they open again.”
“What if they don’t open in my lifetime?”
“Then you make sure they open for someone else.” He looked at her. “You proved something, Eleanor. You and those other women. You proved women can fly anything. Maybe people don’t want to acknowledge that right now. But the proof exists. And someday, it’ll matter.”
Ellie wanted to believe that. But right now, sitting on a porch in Iowa while the world moved on without her, it was hard.
Boston, Massachusetts - December 30, 1944
Jackie stood in front of her classroom at the girls’ high school where she’d taught for six years.
The students stared at her with the same bored expressions she remembered. Nothing had changed. The same desks. The same blackboard. The same equations that had seemed so important once.
“Welcome back, Miss DuBois,” the principal had said that morning. “We’re glad to have you. Though I must say, this flying business was quite the detour.”
A detour. Eighteen months of her life reduced to a detour.
She began teaching. Algebra. The quadratic equation. The same lessons she’d taught before.
But one student—a sharp-eyed girl named Ruth who reminded Jackie of herself—raised her hand.
“Miss DuBois? Is it true you were a pilot during the war?”
Jackie hesitated. She’d been told not to make a fuss about her service. To be modest. To not draw attention.
But then she thought about Marta. About Pearl and Sofia and Ginny and Hazel and Ellie. About the promise they’d made to tell each other’s stories.
“Yes,” she said. “I was a pilot. I flew bombers and tow targets and trained gunners for combat.”
The classroom erupted with questions. “What was it like?” “Were you scared?” “Did you ever crash?” “Can women really fly?”
Jackie smiled for the first time since coming home. “Let me tell you about it,” she said.
And she told them. About Sweetwater. About Bay A. About the training and the fear and the exhaustion. About Marta, who died three days before graduation. About the women who’d proven themselves over and over.
The bell rang, but the students didn’t move.
“Miss DuBois,” Ruth said. “Could you ... could you tell us more tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Jackie said. “I think I could.”
Maybe this wasn’t regression after all. Maybe teaching these girls—showing them what was possible—maybe that mattered too.
New York City - January 2, 1945
Sofia stood in her mother’s drawing room, surrounded by society women sipping tea and discussing trivial things.
“Sofia, darling,” her mother said, “I’d like you to meet Robert Hamilton. His family owns—”
“Shipping concerns,” Sofia finished. “Yes, Mother. You’ve told me.”
Robert Hamilton was handsome, polished, exactly the kind of man her mother wanted her to marry. He smiled at her with practiced charm.
“Your mother tells me you spent some time in Texas,” he said. “Flying, of all things. How ... adventurous.”
There it was. That tone. Amused condescension. As if she’d been playing at something.
“I was a test pilot,” Sofia said coolly. “I tested bombers for the Army Air Forces. I flew B-25s and B-26s and found mechanical problems that would have killed combat crews.”
“How ... industrious.” Robert’s smile didn’t waver. “But surely you’re glad to be back in civilization now. Back to where you belong.”
Sofia looked at him. At her mother. At the drawing room full of people who would never understand.
And she made a decision.
“Excuse me,” she said. She set down her teacup, walked out of the drawing room, up the stairs to her room.
She packed a bag. Not everything. Just essentials.
Her mother found her twenty minutes later. “Sofia? What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“Leaving? But Robert is downstairs! This is incredibly rude!”
“I don’t care.” Sofia closed her suitcase. “I’m not marrying Robert. I’m not marrying anyone you choose for me. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life pretending the last eighteen months didn’t happen.”
“So what are you going to do? Continue this flying fantasy?”
“No. Nobody’s hiring women pilots. But I’m going to do something that matters. I don’t know what yet. But I’ll find it.” Sofia looked at her mother. “I’m not the girl you sent to Sweetwater. That girl is gone. And I’m not going to apologize for who I’ve become.”
She walked out. Down the stairs, past a confused Robert Hamilton, out the door into the cold January afternoon.
She had nowhere to go. No plan. No job.
But she had her logbook. Her memories. Her wings.
And she had sisters scattered across the country who understood.
That would have to be enough.
Portland, Oregon - January 5, 1945
Hazel stood in her parents’ laundry, folding sheets with practiced efficiency.
The work was familiar. Comforting, even. Hot water. Starch. The hiss of steam. The smell of soap.
But it felt like a cage.
A customer came in—a white woman in an expensive coat. She looked at Hazel with barely disguised contempt.
“I need this blouse cleaned,” she said, dropping it on the counter. “Don’t damage it. It’s silk.”
“Of course,” Hazel said quietly.
“And be quick about it. I know your kind tends to be slow.”
Hazel felt something snap inside her. She’d flown P-51 Mustangs across the country. She’d navigated through storms. She’d proven herself a thousand times over.
And now she was being called slow by a woman who’d never done anything more challenging than choosing which dress to wear.
But she said nothing. Just took the blouse. Wrote up the ticket. Smiled politely.
The woman left.
Hazel’s mother emerged from the back. “You handled that well.”
“I wanted to throw her blouse in the trash.”
“I know. But that’s not who we are. We endure.”
“I’m tired of enduring, Ma. I’m tired of being invisible. I’m tired of pretending I’m less than I am.”
Her mother studied her. “You flew airplanes. Military airplanes.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re folding laundry.”
“Yes.”
“That must be hard.”
Hazel laughed bitterly. “That’s one word for it.”
Her mother took her hand. “When I came to this country, I cleaned floors in white people’s houses. I was invisible. Less than human. But I survived. And I made sure my children had more opportunities than I did.”
“And I’m right back where you started.”
“No. You’re not.” Her mother squeezed her hand. “You flew. You proved something. That doesn’t go away just because they closed the program. You carry that with you forever.”
“But what good is it if no one acknowledges it?”
“You acknowledge it. Your sisters acknowledge it. And someday, others will too.” Her mother smiled. “Patience, daughter. History is long. Your story isn’t over yet.”
Delaware - January 10, 1945
Pearl stood in her mother’s kitchen, washing dishes while her children did homework at the table.
Bobby was sullen. Sarah was withdrawn. They barely spoke to her. When they did, it was clipped. Polite but distant.
She’d been home for three weeks. Three weeks of trying to reconnect. Three weeks of feeling like a stranger in her own family.
“Bobby,” she said. “How was school today?”
“Fine.”
“Did you have a good day?”
“I guess.”
Silence.
Pearl dried her hands and sat down at the table. “I know you’re angry with me. And I understand. I left you. I chose to serve instead of being here.”
Bobby didn’t look up from his math homework.
“But I need you to understand why.” Pearl took a breath. “Your father is overseas, fighting. Men are dying every day. And I had a chance to help—to deliver aircraft that might save lives, that might bring Daddy home faster. I couldn’t say no to that.”
“You said no to us,” Sarah said quietly. It was the first thing she’d said to Pearl in days.
“I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Mrs. Peterson said women who leave their children are selfish.” Sarah’s voice was small. “She said you abandoned us.”
Pearl felt anger flash through her. “Mrs. Peterson has never had to make an impossible choice. I didn’t abandon you. I served my country. There’s a difference.”
“It doesn’t feel different.”
Pearl didn’t have an answer for that.
That night, after the children were in bed, Pearl’s mother found her crying at the kitchen table.
“Give them time,” her mother said. “They’re hurt. But they’ll come around.”
“What if they don’t?”
“They will. Because you’re here now. And you’re not leaving again.”
“I gave up flying for them,” Pearl said. “I gave up the most important thing I’ve ever done. And they don’t even care.”
“They’re children. They don’t understand sacrifice yet.” Her mother sat down beside her. “But someday they will. Someday they’ll look back and be proud of what their mother did.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am. Trust me.”
Pearl wanted to believe her. But right now, sitting in a kitchen in Delaware while her children treated her like a stranger, it was hard.
Texas - January 15, 1945
Ginny stood at the fence surrounding Avenger Field, looking at the abandoned buildings.
The base was being decommissioned. Aircraft sold or transferred. Buildings stripped. The barracks where Bay A had lived were empty now, waiting to be torn down or repurposed.
It had only been a few weeks. But it already felt like ancient history.
A jeep pulled up. An Army captain climbed out—someone Ginny didn’t recognize.
“Can I help you, miss?”
“I trained here,” Ginny said. “Class 43-W-4. I graduated in October.”
“You’re a WASP?”
“Was a WASP. The program ended.”
“I know. Shame.” The captain looked at the field. “I’m part of the decommissioning team. We’re shutting everything down. Selling off the aircraft. By spring, this place will be just another empty field in Texas.”
“What about the records? The training logs? The documentation?”
“Being archived. Probably end up in some warehouse somewhere. Why?”
“Because someone should remember,” Ginny said. “Someone should remember what happened here. The women who trained. The women who died. All of it.”
“Maybe someone will.” The captain smiled slightly. “But probably not. War produces a lot of history. Most of it gets forgotten.”
After he drove away, Ginny stood there for a long time.
She thought about Marta. About the cairn in the desert marking her belongings. About Patricia Sullivan and Evelyn Sharp and the other thirty-five women who’d died in service.
Someone had to remember them.
Someone had to make sure their stories were told.
Maybe that someone was her.
Sweetwater, Texas - February 14, 1945
They’d promised to stay in touch. To write letters. To remember each other.
But after the initial flurry of correspondence in January, the letters had slowed. Life had pulled them in different directions. The daily struggles of reintegrating into civilian life left little energy for anything else.
But on Valentine’s Day—exactly two months after the program ended—six letters arrived at six different addresses.
Pearl’s letter was from Jackie:
Dear Pearl,
I’m teaching again. It’s harder than I remember. Not the teaching—the pretending. Pretending I’m the same person I was before. Pretending eighteen months of my life didn’t happen.
But I’m telling my students about the WASPs. About what we did. And they’re listening. Really listening. Maybe that’s something.
How are the children? Have they forgiven you yet?
Write when you can. I miss you.
Jackie
Sofia’s letter was from Ginny:
Dear Sofia,
I’m trying to write a book. About the WASPs. About our training. About Marta.
I don’t know if anyone will publish it. I don’t know if anyone will care. But I have to try.
Someone has to remember.
I hope you’re doing okay in New York. I hope you didn’t marry that Hamilton guy.
Ginny
Hazel’s letter was from Ellie:
Dear Hazel,
Iowa is cold and quiet and exactly the same as when I left it.