The Aviatirx's Dawn: A Wasp Story
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 6: Silver Wings and Shadows
Weeks 18-20, Late October 1943
The final three weeks before graduation felt like living in a pressure cooker.
Every checkride mattered. Every grade counted. Every flight could be the one that decided whether you graduated or washed out with the finish line in sight.
Bay A studied with manic intensity. They drilled navigation problems until they could plot courses in their sleep. They practiced emergency procedures until the responses were automatic. They quizzed each other on aircraft recognition, radio procedures, weather theory, and military regulations.
“B-25 Mitchell,” Marta said, holding up a flashcard at 0600 while they dressed for formation.
“Twin-engine medium bomber,” Jackie responded automatically. “Two Wright Cyclone radials, 1,700 horsepower each. Crew of five. Top speed 275 miles per hour.”
“P-40 Warhawk.”
“Single-engine fighter. Allison V-12, 1,150 horsepower. Six fifty-caliber machine guns. Top speed 360 miles per hour.”
They’d become a machine—seven women operating as one unit, each compensating for the others’ weaknesses, amplifying each other’s strengths.
But the pressure was showing.
Marta had dark circles under her eyes that no amount of sleep could cure. She studied until 0200 most nights, long after lights out, using a flashlight under her blanket. She flew every day, volunteering for extra flights when other students canceled. She pushed herself relentlessly, obsessively.
“You need to rest,” Pearl told her one evening, watching Marta review flight procedures for the hundredth time.
“I’ll rest after graduation.”
“You’ll collapse before graduation if you keep this up.”
“I’m fine.” Marta’s voice was sharp. “I’ve got three more checkrides. Three more chances to screw up. I can’t afford to be anything less than perfect.”
“Perfect doesn’t exist, Marta.”
“Then I’ll be the closest thing to it.” Marta turned back to her manual, her jaw set, her hands trembling slightly from exhaustion and too much coffee.
The final checkrides began on Monday of week eighteen.
First was navigation—a two-hour cross-country flight with multiple checkpoints, radio navigation, and a simulated emergency landing. Ellie flew her route flawlessly, arriving at each checkpoint within thirty seconds of her estimated time.
“Well done, Vance,” Dutch said when they landed. “That’s how it’s done.”
Sofia struggled with her navigation checkride. She got lost twice, missed a checkpoint, and had to ask for radio assistance to find her way back. When she landed, Lieutenant Graves was waiting with a failing grade.
“But I made it back!” Sofia protested.
“You made it back with help. In the field, you won’t always have help. You need to be able to navigate without a radio, using only charts and dead reckoning. Do better on your re-check, or you’re done.”
That night, Bay A stayed up until 0300 drilling Sofia on navigation. They plotted routes, calculated headings, practiced radio procedures. When they finally fell into their bunks, exhausted, Sofia whispered into the darkness: “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d do the same for us,” Ginny said sleepily.
Sofia’s re-check was on Wednesday. She passed with a 90.
Marta’s navigation checkride was perfect. Not just passing—perfect.
She hit every checkpoint within ten seconds of her estimated time. Her radio procedures were flawless. When her instructor simulated an engine failure, she identified a suitable landing field immediately and executed a textbook emergency approach.
“Outstanding work, Sanchez,” her instructor said when they landed. “That’s the best navigation flight I’ve seen all year.”
Marta allowed herself a small smile. One checkride down. Two to go.
That evening, she wrote a letter to her brother. Ellie saw her sitting on her bunk, writing with fierce concentration, then sealing the envelope with a satisfied expression.
“What did you write?” Ellie asked.
“Just an update. Told him I aced my navigation checkride. Told him I’m on track to graduate at the top of my class.” Marta’s smile had an edge to it. “He’s been quiet lately. No more letters about how cute this all is. I think reality is starting to sink in.”
“Good,” Sofia said. “He deserves to eat crow.”
“Oh, he will.” Marta tucked the letter into her footlocker. “After graduation, I’m going to request pursuit ferrying. P-51s, P-47s—the fast, dangerous stuff. And I’m going to be so good at it that they’ll have to promote me. And then I’m going to write him again and ask if he still thinks this is cute.”
There was something brittle in her voice. Something that worried Ellie. But before she could say anything, Lieutenant Morrison stuck her head into the bay.
“Lights out in five! Instrument checkrides tomorrow—get some sleep!”
The instrument checkride was brutal.
Flying under the hood—a canvas cover that blocked all outside visual references—required complete trust in your instruments. Your body would scream that you were turning when you were flying straight, that you were climbing when you were descending, that you were about to die when you were perfectly level.
You had to ignore your instincts and trust the needles.
Jackie flew her instrument checkride on Thursday and passed on the first try. All those hours of being spun in chairs with a blindfold had paid off—she’d learned to ignore her inner ear and trust the instruments completely.
Pearl flew hers on Friday and also passed, her years of steady, methodical flying serving her well.
Ginny struggled. She could fly instruments fine in practice, but during her checkride, she became disoriented during a simulated unusual attitude recovery and almost put them into a spin. Her instructor recovered and gave her a failing grade.
“I’m so stupid,” Ginny said that night, crying into her pillow. “I know how to do it. I’ve done it a hundred times. But I got scared and froze.”
“You’re not stupid,” Ellie said firmly. “You’re human. It happens. You’ll pass the re-check.”
“What if I don’t? What if I’m this close to graduation and I wash out because I can’t trust a few needles on a dashboard?”
“Then we make sure you pass,” Marta said. She was already pulling out her flashlight and manual. “Up. We’re going to practice until you can fly instruments in your sleep.”
They practiced until 0200. Ginny sat in a chair with her eyes closed while Marta called out instrument readings, and Ginny had to describe what the aircraft was doing and how to correct it.
“Artificial horizon shows thirty degrees right bank, altimeter unwinding, airspeed increasing,” Marta barked. “What’s happening?”
“We’re in a diving right turn,” Ginny said, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Correct. How do you recover?”
“Reduce power. Level the wings with coordinated stick and rudder. Gently pull back to stop the descent. Return to straight and level flight.”
“Again. Artificial horizon shows forty degrees left bank, altimeter steady, airspeed decreasing.”
“Level turn to the left. We’re slowing down, probably because we’re at too high an angle of bank for our power setting.”
“What do you do?”
“Add power or reduce angle of bank.”
“Good. Again.”
By Saturday morning, Ginny could respond instantly to any instrument reading. Her re-check was scheduled for Monday.
Marta’s instrument checkride was on Saturday afternoon.
She flew it with the same perfection she’d flown her navigation checkride. Smooth, precise, confident. When her instructor gave her unusual attitudes—steep banks, nose-high stalls, diving spirals—she recovered from each one textbook-perfect.
“Excellent work, Sanchez,” her instructor said when they landed. “You fly instruments like you’ve been doing it for years.”
Two checkrides down. One to go.
That night, Marta was almost giddy. She actually laughed during dinner, teased Ginny about her upcoming re-check, and seemed lighter than Ellie had seen her in weeks.
“I’m going to make it,” Marta said as they walked back to the barracks. “I’m actually going to make it.”
“Of course you are,” Sofia said. “We all are.”
“No, but I mean—” Marta stopped walking and turned to face them, her eyes shining. “For the first time, I actually believe it. I’m going to graduate. I’m going to get my wings. I’m going to prove Rafael wrong. I’m going to fly for the Army Air Forces and show everyone that women can do this.”
“You’ve already proven that,” Pearl said gently.
“Not yet. Not until I graduate. Not until I’m flying operationally.” Marta’s smile was fierce and beautiful. “But I will. One more checkride. Just one more.”
The final checkride was formation flying.
It was scheduled for Tuesday morning—forty-eight hours away. Marta spent the weekend practicing. She flew formation with three other students on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, each flight better than the last.
“She’s ready,” Hazel told Bay A on Monday night. Hazel had flown formation with Marta that afternoon and been impressed by her precision. “She’s holding position tighter than most of the instructors. She’ll ace it.”
Ginny had passed her instrument re-check that afternoon, so Bay A was in a celebratory mood. They were all going to make it. All seven of them. The finish line was in sight.
“We should plan something for graduation,” Ginny said. “A celebration. Maybe we could sneak off base and find a restaurant? Have a real meal instead of mess hall food?”
“I’m in,” Sofia said. “I’ll pay. My father sends me a ridiculous allowance that I never spend because there’s nothing to buy in Sweetwater. We’ll have steaks and wine and toast to our success.”
“We can’t drink,” Jackie reminded her. “We’re in training.”
“We’ll be graduated by then. What are they going to do, wash us out retroactively?”
They laughed and made plans. Where they’d go, what they’d wear, how they’d celebrate. Seven women who’d become sisters, imagining their triumph.
Marta sat quietly, listening, a small smile on her face. She looked peaceful. Happy.
Ellie would remember that later. Would remember thinking: She looks free. Finally free of the pressure, the need to prove herself, the weight she’s been carrying.
She should have realized that kind of peace was dangerous.
Tuesday morning dawned clear and calm—perfect flying weather.
Marta was up before the alarm, already dressed, already focused. She went through her pre-flight routine with extra care, checking every surface of her AT-6 twice.
“Big day,” Dutch said, finding Ellie on the flight line. “Sanchez is flying her final checkride. I hear she’s been flying formation like a pro.”
“She has been,” Ellie confirmed. “She’ll pass.”
“Hope so. Hate to see anyone wash out this close to graduation.”
Marta’s formation would consist of four aircraft: Marta as number two on the right wing, two other students as numbers three and four, and an instructor flying lead. They would fly a practice formation flight—thirty minutes of turns, climbs, descents, and formation changes.
Bay A gathered at the flight line to watch them take off. It had become their ritual—supporting each other during checkrides, bearing witness to each small victory.
The four aircraft took off in sequence, formed up over the field, and headed east into the bright Texas morning. Ellie watched until they were specks on the horizon, then headed to her own scheduled flight.
Ellie was forty minutes into her own training flight when she heard it over the radio.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Training Formation Able. Mid-air collision. Aircraft down. Repeat, aircraft down.”
Her blood turned to ice.
“Which aircraft?” someone asked over the radio.
“Number two. Training six-three-seven. She’s going down.”
Training 637. Ellie knew that number. She’d seen it painted on the nose of Marta’s aircraft that morning.
“Dutch,” she said, her voice shaking. “That’s Marta.”
“I know.” Dutch’s voice was grim. “Take us back. Now.”
Ellie flew back to Avenger Field on autopilot, her hands moving through the procedures without conscious thought. Her mind was stuck on three words: Aircraft down. Aircraft down. Aircraft down.
When they landed, the entire field was in chaos. Fire trucks racing toward the crash site. Ambulances following. Instructors and students standing in shocked clusters, watching the column of smoke rising from the desert a few miles east of the field.
Bay A was huddled together near the administration building. When Ellie ran toward them, Pearl looked up, and Ellie saw the answer on her face before anyone spoke.
“She didn’t make it,” Pearl said quietly. “The instructor just confirmed. The aircraft went straight in. There was nothing they could do.”
“No.” The word came out as a whisper. “No. She was so close. She was—”
“I know.” Pearl’s voice broke. “I know.”
Sofia was crying silently, tears streaming down her face. Jackie had her arms wrapped around herself, rocking slightly. Ginny was pale and shaking. Hazel stood very still, her face a mask, but her hands were clenched into fists so tight her knuckles were white.
“What happened?” Ellie asked. “How did it—”
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