The Aviatirx's Dawn: A Wasp Story
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 8: The Cost of Service
July-November 1944
Long Beach, California - July 1944
The telegram arrived on a Tuesday morning.
Ellie was in the ready room, reviewing her flight plan for a ferry run to Texas, when the operations clerk handed her the thin yellow envelope. Her heart stopped. In wartime, telegrams meant death.
She opened it with shaking hands.
REGRET TO INFORM YOU WASP PILOT EVELYN SHARP KILLED IN AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT STOP SERVICES PENDING STOP
Evelyn Sharp. Ellie knew her—everyone knew her. One of the most experienced WASPs, with over 3,000 flight hours. She’d been flying since she was sixteen, had more experience than half the male instructors at Sweetwater.
And now she was dead.
Ellie read the telegram again, then looked up to find Hazel standing in the doorway.
“You heard?” Hazel asked quietly.
“Just now. What happened?”
“P-38 Lightning. Twin-engine fighter. She was ferrying it from California to Newark. Had a mechanical failure over Pennsylvania. Tried to make it to an airfield. Didn’t make it.” Hazel’s voice was flat, controlled. “She was thirty-one years old. She had more hours than most male combat pilots. And she’s dead because of a faulty aircraft.”
Ellie folded the telegram carefully. “How many does that make?”
“What?”
“How many WASPs have died. You keep count. I know you do.”
Hazel was silent for a moment. “Thirty-eight. Evelyn makes thirty-eight.”
“Thirty-eight women. And none of them get military funerals. None of their families get death benefits. They just ... disappear.”
“Yes.” Hazel moved to the window, looking out at the flight line where P-51s and P-47s waited in neat rows. “Marta was supposed to be here. She was supposed to be ferrying fighters with us. Instead she’s buried in New Mexico, and the Army doesn’t even acknowledge she died in service.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m never okay, Ellie. I’m just functional.” Hazel turned to face her. “Evelyn was one of the best. If she can die, any of us can die. All our skill, all our training, all our experience—it doesn’t make us bulletproof.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Hazel’s voice was sharp. “Because sometimes I think we forget. We fly these incredible machines and we feel invincible. We think if we’re just good enough, careful enough, if we follow the checklist and trust our training, we’ll be fine. But Evelyn followed the checklist. She was careful. She was more than good enough. And she’s still dead.”
Ellie didn’t know what to say to that. Because Hazel was right.
“I need to write to Bay A,” Hazel said finally. “They need to know. They need to be reminded that this is real. That we can die.”
“We know that, Hazel. We lost Marta.”
“And we’re already forgetting. Already getting comfortable. Already thinking that was a tragic anomaly instead of a constant risk.” Hazel pulled out a piece of paper. “I’m writing the letter. You should too. Remind them to be careful. Remind them that excellence isn’t enough.”
Letter from Hazel to Bay A, July 15, 1944:
Dear Sisters,
WASP pilot Evelyn Sharp was killed yesterday in a P-38 accident. She had over 3,000 hours. She was one of the best pilots in the program. And she’s dead.
I’m writing this letter because I need you to understand something: we are not safe. Being good is not enough. Being careful is not enough. Being experienced is not enough.
Every time we strap into a cockpit, we’re gambling with our lives. Sometimes we win. Sometimes the aircraft has a mechanical failure, or the weather turns, or we make one small mistake, and we lose.
I’m not telling you this to scare you. I’m telling you this because I need you to stay sharp. Stay vigilant. Don’t get comfortable. Don’t assume that because you’ve flown fifty missions or a hundred missions that the next one will be routine.
Check everything twice. Trust your instincts. And if something feels wrong, don’t fly. I don’t care what the schedule says. I don’t care if they call you timid or scared. If something feels wrong, land.
We’ve already lost Marta. I cannot lose any of you.
Please be safe.
Hazel
Biggs Field, Texas - August 1944
Jackie stood in the operations office, reading the notice on the bulletin board for the third time.
CONGRESSIONAL HEARING - WASP MILITARIZATION
The House Military Affairs Committee will hold hearings to determine whether the Women Airforce Service Pilots program should be militarized and incorporated into the Army Air Forces, or disbanded entirely.
All WASP operations will continue pending the outcome of these hearings.
“Doesn’t look good, does it?”
Jackie turned to find Captain Brennan—one of the few male pilots at Biggs who actually respected the WASPs—standing behind her.
“What do you mean?”
“The hearings are a formality. Congress has already made up its mind. They’re going to shut you down.” Brennan’s expression was sympathetic. “The male civilian pilots union is lobbying hard. They want your jobs. And Congress is listening.”
“But we’re doing essential work. We’re freeing up male pilots for combat duty.”
“I know that. You know that. But politics isn’t about what makes sense.” Brennan sighed. “I’ve flown with you, Jackie. You’re a better pilot than half the men on this base. But that doesn’t matter to Congress. What matters is votes and money and keeping the civilian pilots union happy.”
Jackie felt something cold settle in her stomach. “When?”
“If I had to guess? Announcement in September or October. Disbandment by December.” Brennan put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, you women have proven yourselves ten times over. Anyone who says otherwise is lying or stupid.”
After he left, Jackie stood alone in the operations office, staring at the notice.
Eighteen months. Eighteen months of training and flying and risking her life. Eighteen months of proving herself over and over. And it was ending. Not because they’d failed. Not because they weren’t good enough. But because politics demanded it.
She thought about Marta. About dying three days before graduation. About never getting to serve operationally, never getting to prove herself the way she’d dreamed.
At least Marta had died believing it meant something.
Jackie pulled out paper and began writing.
Letter from Jackie to Bay A, August 20, 1944:
Dear Sisters,
The end is coming. I can feel it.
The congressional hearings are a farce. They’ve already decided to disband us. We’re going to be thrown away like we never mattered.
I’m so angry. Angry at Congress. Angry at the civilian pilots union. Angry at every newspaper editorial that called us “Glamour Girls” and made us sound frivolous. Angry at a country that asked us to serve and is now discarding us.
But most of all, I’m angry at myself. For believing it would be different. For thinking that competence would be enough. For hoping that we could prove ourselves so thoroughly that they’d have to acknowledge us.
We did prove ourselves. And it didn’t matter.
Marta died for this program. She gave everything. And in a few months, it will be like she never existed. Like none of us ever existed.
I don’t know what I’m going to do when this ends. Go back to teaching? Pretend the last two years never happened? How do you go back to normal life after you’ve flown fighters and bombers and lived on the edge of everything?
I’m sorry this letter is so bitter. I’m just ... tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of proving myself. Tired of being told I’m not enough.
I love you all. I hope we see each other again before the end.
Jackie
Wright Field, Ohio - September 1944
Sofia was testing a B-26 Marauder—a notoriously difficult aircraft nicknamed the “Widow Maker” for its tendency to kill pilots—when the left engine failed.
She was at 12,000 feet, fifteen miles from the field, with a full load of test equipment. The B-26 was known for being nearly unflyable on one engine. Multiple test pilots had died trying to bring them back after single-engine failures.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday. Wright Tower, this is Test Seven. Left engine failure. Attempting single-engine return.”
“Test Seven, Wright Tower. Understand left engine failure. You’re cleared for emergency landing any runway. Fire equipment standing by.”
Sofia ran through the emergency procedure. Feather the dead engine to reduce drag. Increase power on the good engine. Maintain airspeed—the B-26 would stall viciously if she got too slow. Shallow descent to preserve altitude.
The aircraft wanted to roll left, pulled by the asymmetric thrust. Sofia had to push hard on the right rudder, her leg shaking from the effort. Every muscle in her body was engaged in keeping the aircraft flying.
Don’t think. Just fly. You’ve trained for this.
Ten miles from the field. The altitude was unwinding steadily. She was losing 500 feet per minute. At this rate, she’d have maybe 2,000 feet when she reached the field. Barely enough for a single-engine approach.
“Test Seven, recommend you consider bailout. We can replace the aircraft.”
“Negative, Tower. I can make it.”
She could hear Marta’s voice in her head: Confidence, not arrogance. Know the difference.
Was this confidence? Or arrogance?
Five miles. 6,000 feet altitude. The field was visible ahead. She could see the runway, the fire trucks lining the taxiway, the crowd gathering to watch.
She set up for a straight-in approach. No fancy patterns. No wasted altitude. Just a long, straight glide to the runway.
Three miles. 4,000 feet. The good engine was overheating from the extra power, but it was still running. The aircraft was shaking, on the edge of a stall, but it was still flying.
One mile. 2,000 feet. She could see individual people now. Could see the ambulances.
Over the threshold. 500 feet. She pulled the power to idle on the good engine and let the aircraft settle. The wheels kissed the runway. She braked hard, and the B-26 rolled to a stop with both engines silent.
Sofia sat in the cockpit, shaking, unable to move.
The canopy opened. Kowalski, her flight engineer, looked in. “Holy hell, Rossi. That was either the bravest or the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Both,” Sofia said. Her voice sounded distant. “Definitely both.”
“You know how many pilots have died trying to fly a B-26 on one engine?”
“I know.”
“And you did it anyway.”
“I had to.” Sofia unbuckled, her hands trembling. “Because if I’d bailed out, every report would have said ‘female pilot panicked and abandoned aircraft.’ But since I brought it back, they have to write ‘pilot demonstrated exceptional skill under emergency conditions.’”
“That’s a hell of a gamble.”
“That’s my whole life, Sergeant. One hell of a gamble.”
Letter from Sofia to Bay A, September 30, 1944:
Dear Sisters,
I almost died two weeks ago. Engine failure in a B-26. I should have bailed out. Instead I brought it back on one engine because I couldn’t stand the thought of the report saying a woman pilot had panicked.
I’m telling you this because I need you to understand something: I am tired of proving myself. Tired of every flight being a referendum on whether women can fly. Tired of knowing that one mistake will be used as evidence against all of us.
The program is ending. We all know it. The question is whether we go out having proven ourselves, or whether we go out having been defeated.
I choose proven.
So I’m going to keep flying. Keep testing aircraft. Keep being excellent. Not because I think it will change Congress’s mind. Not because I think we’ll get the recognition we deserve. But because Marta died believing this mattered. And I owe it to her to act like it does.
Even when I don’t believe it anymore.
Even when I’m exhausted and angry and feel like all of this was for nothing.
Even then.
We’re running out of time, sisters. Let’s make it count.
Sofia
New Castle Army Air Base, Delaware - October 1944
Pearl received two letters on the same day.
The first was from Jim. His unit had been in heavy fighting—he couldn’t say where, but she could read between the heavily censored lines. Men had died. He was exhausted. But he was alive.
The second was from her mother.
Pearl,
I’m writing to tell you that Bobby was suspended from school again. He got into another fight—third one this month. The school says if it happens again, they’ll expel him.
He’s angry all the time. Angry at you for leaving. Angry at his father for being gone. Angry at the world.
Sarah isn’t doing well either. She barely eats. She’s failing three classes. She wakes up screaming from nightmares.
I know you’re doing important work. I know you think you’re helping. But your children are falling apart, Pearl. They need their mother.
I can’t do this anymore. I’m too old, too tired. They need you.
Please come home.
Mother
Pearl read both letters twice, then sat on her bunk with her head in her hands.
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