Chapter 5: Letters from Home

Weeks 13-15, Late September-Early October 1943

The mail arrived every afternoon at 1600, and by 1550, there was always a crowd gathered outside the administration building. Two hundred women waiting in the Texas heat, pretending they didn’t care, but everyone cared. Letters from home were lifelines—proof that the world outside Avenger Field still existed, still remembered them.

Ellie didn’t get many letters. Her father wrote once every two weeks, his handwriting cramped and awkward, the messages brief. Corn’s doing well. Your mother would be proud. Stay safe. Her mother had died when Ellie was twelve, and her father had never been much for expressing feelings.

But today, there was a letter in her box. Thicker than usual. She recognized her aunt’s handwriting on the envelope.

Back in Bay A, she sat on her bunk and opened it carefully.

Dear Ellie,

I’m writing because your father won’t, though he should. Things have gotten difficult here. Your father fell off the tractor three weeks ago—broke his left arm in two places. He’s managing, but harvest is coming and he can’t do it alone.

Your uncle Henry has been helping when he can, but he’s got his own farm to run. The Johnsons offered to help, but you know how your father is about accepting charity.

I’m not asking you to come home. I know what you’re doing is important. But I thought you should know what’s happening here. Your father misses you, even if he’d never say it. He keeps your last letter in his shirt pocket and reads it every night after dinner.

We’re all proud of you, honey. Even when things are hard here, we’re proud.

Love,

Aunt Margaret

Ellie read the letter three times, then carefully folded it and tucked it in her footlocker. Her hands were shaking.

“Bad news?” Pearl asked gently. She was sitting on her own bunk, reading a letter from her husband.

“My father broke his arm. Harvest is coming and he can’t do it alone.” Ellie’s voice sounded distant to her own ears. “If I was home, I could help. I could fly the crop duster, help bring in the corn. But I’m here.”

“Do you want to go home?”

The question hung in the air. Did she? For a moment, Ellie imagined it—walking away from Avenger Field, taking the train back to Iowa, helping her father save the harvest. Being the dutiful daughter instead of the selfish one chasing dreams.

“No,” she said finally. “I can’t. If I leave now, I’ll never come back. This is my one chance.”

“Then you’re making the right choice,” Pearl said. “Your father will manage. Farmers always do.”

“But what if he doesn’t? What if he loses the farm because I wasn’t there to help?”

Pearl set down her own letter and came to sit beside Ellie. “Listen to me. I left two children and a worried mother to come here. Every day, I wonder if I’m being selfish. Every day, I second-guess this choice. But then I remember why I’m here—to bring my husband home faster. To do something that matters. To prove to my kids that their mother is brave.”

She took Ellie’s hand. “Your father will be proud of you for finishing what you started. Even if it’s hard right now. Even if he has to ask for help. You being here is not selfish—it’s courageous.”

Ellie nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Across the bay, Sofia was reading her own mail—a thick cream envelope with elegant handwriting. As she read, her expression shifted from neutral to angry.

“Everything okay?” Jackie asked.

“Just my mother.” Sofia’s voice was tight. “Apparently, the whole Upper East Side is talking about how I’ve ‘run away’ to Texas to play at being a soldier. One of my mother’s friends said it was ‘charming’ that I’m ‘having my little adventure’ before I settle down and get married.”

She crumpled the letter in her fist. “Little adventure. As if this is some kind of finishing school. As if I’m not learning to fly military aircraft. As if this isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“What did you write back?” Marta asked.

“Nothing yet. I’m still deciding whether to be diplomatic or honest.” Sofia pulled out a piece of stationery. “Maybe both. ‘Dear Mother, I’m having a wonderful time learning to fly 600-horsepower aircraft at 200 miles per hour. Yesterday I practiced formation flying three feet from another aircraft. If I make a mistake, I die. But yes, it’s very charming. Love, Sofia.’”

Despite everything, Ellie smiled. “You should send that.”

“I won’t. I’ll write something polite about how I’m doing well and the weather is lovely. Because if I’m honest, she’ll just worry. Or worse, she’ll think I’m being dramatic.” Sofia started writing, her pen moving with sharp, angry strokes. “But someday, when this is over, I’m going to tell her exactly what this was. And she’s going to understand that I wasn’t playing. I was becoming someone I’m proud to be.”

Jackie’s letter came from an unexpected source—a former student named Thomas Chen, now serving with the Army in the Pacific.

She read it aloud to Bay A that evening:

Dear Miss DuBois,

I hope you remember me. I was in your algebra class three years ago—the kid who could never remember to carry the one. You probably thought I’d never amount to much in mathematics.

I’m writing from somewhere in the Pacific (can’t say where—censors would cut it out). I’m a navigator on a B-24 bomber. Remember all those navigation problems you made us solve? Turns out they’re useful when you’re trying to find a tiny island in the middle of the ocean.