Chapter 9: The Last Flight

Washington, D.C. - December 1, 1944

The announcement came via telegram to every WASP base in the country:

WASP PROGRAM TO BE DEACTIVATED EFFECTIVE 20 DECEMBER 1944 STOP ALL PILOTS REPORT TO HOME BASE FOR FINAL BRIEFING AND SEPARATION PROCESSING STOP AIRCRAFT FERRYING OPERATIONS TO CEASE 15 DECEMBER STOP

That was it. No thanks. No explanation. Just a cold, bureaucratic notice that 1,074 women pilots were about to lose their jobs.

The newspapers ran the story with headlines that ranged from dismissive to cruel:

“WASP PROGRAM GROUNDED”

“WOMEN PILOTS TO RETURN HOME”

“CONGRESS ENDS COSTLY EXPERIMENT”

One editorial called it “a welcome return to sanity.” Another suggested the WASPs should be “proud of their brief contribution” and move on to “more appropriate roles.”

None mentioned the thirty-eight women who’d died. None mentioned the 60 million miles flown, or the 12,000 aircraft delivered, or the thousands of male pilots freed for combat duty.

The WASPs were being erased before they’d even finished serving.

Long Beach, California - December 5, 1944

Ellie’s final assignment was a P-51 delivery to Newark. Her last ferry run. Her last flight as a WASP.

She walked around the Mustang slowly, running through the pre-flight check she’d done hundreds of times. Every rivet, every panel, every control surface. It was automatic now. Muscle memory.

Hazel was there, standing near the operations building. She’d already flown her last mission two days ago—a P-47 to Arizona. Now she was just waiting. Waiting for the final processing. Waiting for the end.

“You ready?” Hazel called.

“No,” Ellie said honestly. “But I’m going anyway.”

She climbed into the cockpit. Strapped in. Ran through the startup procedure. The Merlin engine roared to life, and for a moment, everything else fell away. There was just the aircraft and the sky and the pure physics of flight.

She taxied out. Took off. Climbed into the December sky.

The flight to Newark took two days with fuel stops in Phoenix and Kansas City. Each leg, Ellie flew with absolute precision. Not because anyone was checking. Not because it mattered to her record. But because it was the last time. The last time she’d fly a military aircraft. The last time she’d be a pilot with purpose.

She landed at Newark on December 7th. Three years to the day after Pearl Harbor. Three years since the war that had changed everything.

She shut down the engine. Filled out the delivery paperwork. Handed the keys to a bored operations officer who barely looked at her.

“Good flight?” he asked, not really caring.

“Perfect,” Ellie said.

“Great. Sign here.”

That was it. No ceremony. No acknowledgment. Just a signature on a form.

She took off her flight gear for the last time. Folded it carefully. Left it on the bench in the ready room.

And walked away.

Biggs Field, Texas - December 10, 1944

Jackie’s last flight was target-towing. One final mission. One more chance to be shot at by nervous gunners.

She took off at dawn, climbed to 10,000 feet, and began her pattern. Straight and level. Turn. Straight and level. Turn.

The tracers arced up from below. Most missed. A few came close. She’d stopped flinching months ago.

But today, something felt different. Final. Every turn was the last time she’d make this turn. Every moment in the air was a moment she’d never get back.

After two hours, the radio crackled: “Tow Five, ground. Training complete. You’re clear to return.”

Jackie acknowledged. Reeled in the target sleeve. Turned toward the field.

As she descended, she thought about Thomas Chen—her former student, now flying bombers in the Pacific. She thought about all the gunners she’d helped train. All the pilots whose lives might be saved because they’d learned to shoot accurately.

Maybe it had mattered. Even if no one acknowledged it. Even if she’d never know.

She landed. Taxied in. Shut down.

In the operations office, Captain Brennan was waiting.

“Hell of a job, Jackie,” he said, shaking her hand. “You trained more gunners than anyone on this base. You should be proud.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Go home. Go back to teaching.” Jackie managed a smile. “Try to explain to my students why algebra matters when I’ve spent the last year doing something that actually felt important.”

“It was important. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Jackie nodded. But she wasn’t sure she believed it.

Wright Field, Ohio - December 12, 1944

Sofia’s final test flight was a B-25 Mitchell. Brand new from the factory. Her job was to verify it was airworthy before it went to a training squadron.

She flew it for an hour. Checked every system. Pushed every limit. Found three minor problems and one major one—a fuel pump that would have failed in another fifty hours.

“Good catch,” Kowalski said when they landed. “You probably just saved some training crew’s lives.”

“That’s the job,” Sofia said.

“Was the job.” Kowalski pulled off his headset. “This is it, isn’t it? Last flight?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

Sofia had been asking herself that question for weeks. Go back to New York? Face her mother’s told-you-so looks? Marry some Yale man and pretend the last eighteen months never happened?

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just know I can’t go back to who I was before.”