The Aviatirx's Dawn: A Wasp Story
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 7: Duty, Doubt, and Determination
January-June 1944
Long Beach, California - January 1944
The P-51 Mustang sat on the tarmac like a predator at rest.
Ellie walked around it slowly, running through her pre-flight check with hands that wanted to shake. This wasn’t a trainer. This was a front-line fighter—sleek, powerful, deadly. The kind of aircraft that won dogfights over Europe. The kind of aircraft that men died flying.
And she was about to ferry it from Long Beach to Newark.
“First time?” The operations officer was a grizzled captain named Holloway who’d flown B-17s over Germany until flak had shredded his leg. Now he managed ferry operations and clearly resented having women pilots on his base.
“First P-51,” Ellie admitted. “I’ve ferried P-40s and P-47s.”
“The Mustang’s different. She’s fast—over 400 miles per hour at altitude. She’s got range—you can fly her coast-to-coast with minimal stops. And she’s temperamental. Treat her rough and she’ll kill you.” Holloway handed her a weather packet and a map with her route marked. “You’re cleared direct to Albuquerque, overnight there, then on to Amarillo, Tulsa, Indianapolis, and Newark. Four days if the weather holds. Questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Don’t bend my airplane.” He walked away without another word.
Ellie climbed into the cockpit. The Mustang was cramped compared to the training aircraft she’d flown—everything within arm’s reach, designed for combat efficiency. She strapped in, ran through the startup procedure, and felt the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine roar to life with a sound like tearing silk.
The tower cleared her for takeoff, and Ellie taxied to the runway. Her heart was pounding. This was it. This was what she’d trained for. This was what Marta had died trying to reach.
She advanced the throttle, and the Mustang leaped forward like a living thing. The acceleration pressed her back into the seat. The tail came up, the runway blurred beneath her, and then she was airborne, climbing at 3,000 feet per minute into the California sky.
For a moment—just a moment—all the fear and doubt fell away. There was only the aircraft and the sky and the pure, perfect joy of flight.
I made it, Marta. I’m flying P-51s. Just like we talked about.
Letter from Ellie to Bay A, January 15, 1944:
Dear Sisters,
I just completed my first cross-country ferry run in a P-51 Mustang. Four days, five states, 2,400 miles. It was the most terrifying and exhilarating thing I’ve ever done.
The Mustang is incredible—fast, responsive, powerful. But it’s also unforgiving. Every mistake is amplified. Every moment of inattention could be fatal. I understand now why they made us train so hard. Out here, there’s no instructor to save you. There’s just you and the aircraft and your training.
The male pilots at Long Beach aren’t happy about us. They call us “Glamour Girls” and “Ferry Fairies.” They make jokes about women pilots while we’re standing right there. But they can’t deny our competence. We fly the same aircraft, the same routes, in the same weather. And we do it without crashing.
I miss you all. I miss Bay A. I miss having you there when things get hard. But I carry you with me every time I fly. Your voices in my head, reminding me what we’re capable of.
How are you all doing? Write me when you can. I need to know you’re all okay.
Love,
Ellie
P.S. - I think about Marta every time I strap into a fighter. She would have loved the P-51. She would have been so good at this.
Biggs Field, Texas - February 1944
Jackie’s job was simple, tedious, and terrifying: fly a bomber in straight, level patterns while gunners on the ground practiced their aim by shooting at a target she was towing.
The targets were canvas sleeves, thirty feet long, towed 1,500 feet behind the aircraft on a steel cable. In theory, the gunners aimed at the sleeve, not the aircraft. In theory, they were trained professionals who understood angles and lead time.
In theory.
In practice, Jackie had already counted seventeen bullet holes in her aircraft from “accidental” hits. One bullet had punched through the fuselage six inches from her seat. Another had severed a control cable, forcing her to make an emergency landing with degraded flight controls.
“It’s the most dangerous job in the WASPs,” another target-tow pilot had told her on her first day. “Not glamorous. Not exciting. Just flying back and forth like a target at a shooting gallery, hoping the guys on the ground remember which end to aim at.”
Today, Jackie was towing for a new class of gunners—fresh out of training, eager, and probably nervous. Which made them dangerous.
She took off at 0800, climbed to 10,000 feet, and began her pattern. Straight and level. Turn. Straight and level. Turn. For two hours, she flew the same boring pattern while tracers arced up from the ground below.
Most of the rounds went wide. Some came close. And then she felt it—a hard thunk as something struck her aircraft.
“Ground, this is Tow Three,” she called over the radio, forcing her voice to stay calm. “I’ve taken a hit. Checking for damage.”
She scanned her instruments. Oil pressure good. Fuel pressure good. Engine temperature normal. Flight controls responding.
“Tow Three, ground. Can you continue?”
Jackie wanted to say no. Wanted to land immediately, climb out, and never fly target-tow again. But that wasn’t the job. The job was to keep flying until the training session was complete.
“Affirmative. Continuing mission.”
She flew for another hour. When she finally landed and climbed out, she found the bullet hole in her left wing, inches from the fuel tank.
“Close one,” the crew chief said, examining the damage. “Another foot to the right and you’d have been swimming in aviation gas.”
“Thanks for that image,” Jackie said. Her hands were shaking now that the adrenaline was wearing off.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine. But she was here. And tomorrow she’d fly the same mission again. Because that was the job.
Letter from Jackie to Bay A, February 28, 1944:
Dear Sisters,
I’ve been shot at forty-seven times in the past six weeks. (Yes, I’m counting.) Nineteen hits on my aircraft, all classified as “training accidents.” One severed control cable. One punctured fuel line. Multiple holes in non-critical areas.
I know what you’re thinking: Why don’t I request a transfer? The answer is simple—this is the job. Someone has to train these gunners, and if women can do it, it frees up male pilots for combat. That matters.
But I won’t lie to you: I’m scared every time I take off. Not of the flying—I love flying. I’m scared of being killed by friendly fire because some 19-year-old kid can’t distinguish between a target sleeve and an aircraft.
I keep thinking about what we went through at Sweetwater. The heat, the exhaustion, the fear of washing out. We thought that was hard. But this is harder. Because out here, there’s no graduation. No finish line. Just day after day of flying into danger while people tell you you’re not really contributing.
Some days I wonder if it’s worth it. Then I remember Marta. I remember what she gave to be here. And I strap in and fly anyway.
Miss you all terribly.
Jackie
P.S. - A student pilot asked me yesterday if I was scared. I told her no. I lied. But I flew anyway. I think that’s what courage is.
Wright Field, Ohio - March 1944
Sofia’s job was to break airplanes.
Not deliberately—though sometimes it felt that way. Her assignment was testing bombers fresh from the factory, finding their flaws before they killed combat crews. She flew B-25 Mitchells and B-26 Marauders, pushing them to their limits, documenting every rattle, every vibration, every system that didn’t work as designed.
Today she was testing a B-25 that had failed its initial acceptance flight. The previous test pilot—a male Army captain—had reported severe vibration above 200 miles per hour and recommended rejecting the aircraft.
Sofia’s job was to verify the problem.
She took off with a flight engineer in the right seat—a taciturn sergeant named Kowalski who’d made it clear he didn’t think women belonged in cockpits.
“Vibration starts at 210,” Kowalski said as Sofia climbed to altitude. “Gets worse the faster you go. Captain Rodriguez said it felt like the whole aircraft was going to shake apart.”
“Let’s find out.” Sofia leveled at 8,000 feet and began accelerating. At 200 miles per hour, everything was smooth. At 210, she felt it—a slight buzz through the control column. At 220, the vibration intensified. At 230, the whole aircraft was shaking.
“That’s it,” Kowalski said. “Reject the aircraft. Too dangerous.”
But Sofia had felt something. A pattern to the vibration. A frequency that seemed familiar.
“Hold on.” She reduced power, slowed to 180, then tried a different approach. Instead of accelerating straight and level, she climbed while accelerating. The vibration appeared, but different. Less severe.
“What are you doing?” Kowalski asked nervously.
“Testing a theory.” Sofia tried various configurations—flaps up, flaps down, gear up, gear down. Each time, the vibration changed character.
After thirty minutes of testing, she’d isolated the problem: a loose access panel on the left engine cowling. At high speeds, it vibrated in resonance with the airframe, making the whole aircraft shake. The fix would take fifteen minutes with a screwdriver.
“How the hell did you figure that out?” Kowalski asked when they landed.
“I listened.” Sofia smiled. “Aircraft talk to you if you pay attention.”
“Captain Rodriguez flew this thing for an hour and couldn’t figure it out.”
“Maybe he wasn’t listening hard enough.”
That evening, Sofia got a summons to the commanding officer’s office. She reported nervously, expecting criticism for her unorthodox testing methods.
Instead, Colonel Patterson looked up from his desk and said, “I understand you saved the Army a quarter-million dollars today by finding a simple fix instead of rejecting that B-25.”
“Yes, sir. Just doing my job.”
“Your job is to test aircraft. Not to be smarter than my male test pilots.” He paused, and Sofia’s heart sank. But then he smiled slightly. “Unfortunately for them, you are smarter. Or at least more thorough. Good work, Rossi.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. You’re still a civilian. Still expendable. Still not getting a commission no matter how good you are. Dismissed.”
Sofia walked out with mixed feelings. Praise from a superior officer. Recognition of her skill. But also the reminder that she’d never be more than a civilian employee. Never equal to the male pilots she outperformed daily.
Letter from Sofia to Bay A, March 20, 1944:
Dear Sisters,
I’m testing bombers at Wright Field. It’s dangerous work—I’ve had two engine failures, one hydraulic failure, and more electrical problems than I can count. But it’s also the most satisfying flying I’ve ever done.
When I find a problem and fix it before the aircraft goes to a combat unit, I know I’m saving lives. Some pilot in Europe won’t die because his engine quit or his landing gear failed. That pilot might be someone’s husband, someone’s brother, someone’s son. And he’ll never know a woman pilot saved his life.
That should bother me more than it does. The invisibility. The lack of recognition. But honestly? I don’t need recognition anymore. I just need to be good. And I am good. Better than most of the male test pilots here (though they’d never admit it).
My mother wrote last week. She’s stopped trying to get me to come home. Now she just asks when I’ll be done “playing pilot” so I can get married and give her grandchildren. I wrote back telling her I’m not playing. I’m working. But I don’t think she’ll ever understand the difference.
I think about Marta every time I test a new aircraft. About how much she would have loved this work. About how good she would have been at it. It’s not fair that she’s gone and I’m here. But I’m trying to honor her by being excellent. By being so good they can’t ignore us.
Love you all. Stay safe.
Sofia
New Castle Army Air Base, Delaware - April 1944
Pearl’s life had become a blur of cross-country flights.
Transport ferrying meant flying everything from PT-19 trainers to C-47 cargo planes, delivering them from factories to training bases to overseas staging areas. She flew six days a week, sometimes logging twelve hours in a day, hopscotching across the country with minimal rest.
It was exhausting. But it was also exactly what she needed.
Every flight brought the war closer to ending. Every aircraft she delivered was one more tool for bringing Jim home. That thought sustained her through the fatigue, through the loneliness, through the nights in strange hotels in unfamiliar cities.
Today she was ferrying a C-47 from Delaware to California—a three-day trip with stops in Tennessee and Texas. She’d have one day of rest in Long Beach, then ferry another aircraft back east.
The C-47 was easy to fly—big, stable, forgiving. She could practically fly it with her eyes closed. Which was good, because she was operating on four hours of sleep and too much coffee.
“New Castle Ops, this is Army 3847, ready for taxi.”
“Army 3847, taxi to runway two-seven. Wind two-six-zero at eight knots. Altimeter three-zero-one-two.”
Pearl taxied out, went through her pre-takeoff checks, and rolled onto the runway. The big aircraft lumbered into the air, climbing slowly but steadily.
She set course for Memphis, settled into her seat, and let her mind wander.
She thought about her children. Sarah would be ten now, Bobby almost nine. She’d been gone for eight months. Eight months of missing birthdays and school plays and the thousand small moments that made up childhood.
Her mother’s letters were carefully neutral, but Pearl could read between the lines. The kids were struggling. Sarah had nightmares. Bobby was acting out at school. They needed their mother.
But Jim needed her too. The war needed her. And somehow she had to balance all of it.
Her radio crackled: “Army 3847, Memphis Center. Be advised, weather moving into your route. Thunderstorms developing along your track. Recommend deviation south.”
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