A Sweetwater WASP Fictional Diary
Dedicated to my mother and aunt; classes W-6 & W-7
Photographs taken of and by Helen McDonnell
About 1000 women trained as military pilots during WWII, flying high performance fighters and bombers - the WASP (Woman Air Service Pilots) - this is a fictional story about them.
Baymates sat around the room getting dressed, lace trimmed underwear in sharp contrast to the rough coverall flight suits - Zoot suits - that were too big, man sized, Army Air Force issue. Their lithe young bodies were soon engulfed by the oil stained cloth. They tried rolling up sleeves and tightening belts to emphasize their slim waists, to no avail. They looked like rag dolls.
It was like "hiding diamonds in a laundry bag" one of the new recruits said the first time she tried on the Army issue jump suit. Instant ugly! They had all arrived looking like movie stars, and were given man sized overalls to fly in. With a needle and thread, a nip and tuck, the ugly military suits could be made bearable, wearable , but never attractive. They felt like hicks forced to wear cloths to hide what they were. No more expensive nylon stockings; a forbidden luxury because of the war effort.
Nylon was for the important parachutes. The older classmates soon set them straight about nylon stockings that might cause a static electrical spark to ignite a fire in the cockpit. Crestfallen they were reduced to standing on a chair while a friend would draw a line down the back of their legs with a mascara pencil. The artist with the steadiest hand was popular and could earn a pack of cigarettes every weekend doing this service. They soon discovered that the sun gave their legs a nylon colored tan if they rolled their jump suits up.
Sunlight was harsh in West Texas; it burned tender flesh, turning white soft skin into red or brown tans. Neve cream was in great demand. You either were naturally tan or you slathered all kinds of cream on your self. Nivea cream was in short supply, and high demand. Pale skinned beauties, and red heads suffered horrible burns. There were other beauty obstacles. The mandatory aviator cap crushed your hair down, destroying any hair styling, buffoon or page boy, and in the open cockpit, long hair would stream out into the face of the flight instructor. Rayban aviator glasses were de regur, hiding made up eyes which took hours to do, but essential for flying in the glaring sunlight. All in all, it was a never ending battle to stay pretty. Some almost gave up.
Why bother? Why? In a word; men!
Because their flight instructor was handsome, a bronzed god, and unmarried. And even if he was married, who would know? He seemed to spend a lot of time shaving and making sure his cloths were clean, his shoes spit polished. His eyes were kind behind his aviator sun glasses. He responded to the admiration of women, even if they were all dressed like rag muffins, hiding their best attributes.
Flight Instructor Jack
They were sequestered in Cochran's Nunnery! Watched every moment to see they did not give the WASPs a bad name. They were off limits, the best looking, most intelligent women in the war and they were forbidden to see men. As if they were the enemy. The few lucky men they encountered were eye balled and flirted with, till they walked away or took a woman pilot up and cooled her off. What was girl to do?
There were the other military air bases, all filled with pilots who were dying to meet them. They would buzz the field in their fighters and bombers, sometimes faking mechanical problems to land. One day they would meet those men on their own equal terms, and then who knows...
Most of the time, they felt they were in a Shangri La, where everything was perfect. Or almost. All the bay mates knew that one day, they would leave this place. Women did not want to loose touch with reality. Even if they only had other women to look at them, they wanted to look good. They were practicing their charms, not wanting to forget they were desirable. They shared a bay with six other women who judged you in subtile ways.
Bay mates competed in more ways than one. If you didn't look good in the air, you could look good on the ground. That lasted until you soloed then they all looked a mess after being dunked in the wishing well. No one forgot they were here to solo, not to look for the men, who were everywhere because of the war.
Sweetwater lake weekend party
Hunky men, men seeking the opposite sex, who became predators in packs. Individually you could handle them but in groups they were more insistent, braver, and anonymous; one sailor or soldier looked like another. Mama keep your daughters locked up unless you want them knocked up! And here they were in the middle of the wolf pack, women competing on equal footing. They had changed the rules of the game. Men and women, like fire and gasoline.
Men did not know how to take women pilots. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, for women, and they all knew it. It was not easy. It was back to the kitchen or work in a factory if they failed. No one wanted to fail. It was so hard.
The ground school classes were endless. So much to learn, meteorology, navigation, military regulations, military flying and tests were given which you had to pass, and to top it all airplane engines had to be broken down, the grease got under your nails, and stayed there forever, like a black glue. As if the sand and dust, the sun was not bad enough. The cloths they had to wear were military, sacks. Even their dress khaki pants showed your bum, not to your advantage; many of the girls had large ones that looked better in skirts, but they looked like elephants in pants.
2 zoot suits
And how were you supposed to go on the rag in pants? Men hated it, any sight of blood made them faint. And you were not allowed special privileges in this man's army. The week before, when you felt like hell, all your baymates knew. Of course the big question was how and where to go during a cross country flight; I mean how do you? No privacy, nowhere to hide in the Texas desert. Do you land for a pit stop? If you did not drink water, you would faint from dehydration, if you drank too much, nature took its course. Maybe that was why they chose the name of Sweetwater; sometimes you could almost taste it, you had to go so bad! Some of the girls warned them about peeing at hight altitudes and then getting stuck because of the cold.
Sweetwater. What a hole after New York or Chicago. Some girls admitted coming from even smaller places! Imagine that. Maybe one day someone would discover oil under the sage brush but now it was the end of the earth. West Texas. But what a flying paradise! Great flying weather! Sunny, hot and not a cloud in the sky. Skies that begged to be flown in. They dreamed of flying, even the thought of death was did not deter them.
When you are alive and young. doing what you want to, death is a minor inconvenience. So many men were dying overseas. Death had become routine. It did not seem like a difficult thing. Just a passing into another life. They were all pilots, they all knew the risks. They had all seen it already. They were not naive young things. They had lost friends, they had seen airplanes crash, burn, and had help collect the broken bodies. Even in civilian flying, death is no stranger. They had learned how to fly in whatever they could find, not the most air worthy.
AT-17
All lot of them were used to flying Piper cubs, the beginner's plane, the cheapest and easiest one to fly. Now they had to go on to the next level. They flew the AT-17, an open cockpit monoplane, with good manners, but it was an introduction to the big stuff. More horse power, more speed, more weight, more instruments, more to go wrong right when it meant life and death. They longed to fly the pursuit trainer, the AT-6 also called the Harvard trainer by the Brits, and the Texas Trainer here. If you could master it, then that would qualify you for single engine fighters. Mustangs, Thunderbolts, Cobras. The names evoked power, danger, the best and fastest airplanes ever built. And you could fly them if you soloed in the AT-6.
AT-6
The AT-6 is a flight trainer, like the British Gypsy moth and the Navy Stearman. Except it was not a little docile plane to fly. No, it wanted to kill you. It had a powerful engine, as powerful as any of the big airplanes. It was prone to ground looping. Even as you taxied around the air field, if the pilot made one false move, the torque of the engine would turn the airplane over. If you could master the AT-6, the Army Air Force would let you fly anything. You had to fly it by yourself to graduate. It separated the men from the boys. Or women from girls here in Sweetwater.
After the solo - a dip in wishing well
A lot of men had argued that women were not strong or quick enough to fly powerful airplanes, except for a few exceptions like Emilia Erhart and Cohran. Jacqueline Cochran had convinced the government that women pilots could help the war effort. Nancy Love had gone to the UK to fly with the Brits and had started her own group of exclusive flying ladies. Ladies were considered too delicate. Men had more upper body strength. Or so the pundits said and wrote. Meanwhile, the women did their exercises, trained and flew. And the ones who did no wash out, flew big powerful planes, without any problem. They did not become he men, nor muscular. So the pundits kept on writing and saying things while women kept flying over them, proving them wrong.
A typical day
WASP relaxed and ready to fly and The WASP patch insignia Fifonella was designed by Walt Disney
Revelry!
Who was that girl who thought she was Glenn Miller?
Pile out of bed, line up for the wash room, put on culottes, brush teeth, bitch, and complain to bay mates. One would start singing, maybe a raunchy song if it was Monday, or Friday. More would start singing. Then everyone would sing, and spirits would lift.
Mess Hall and a military meal. Cold as the devil outside, the desert night still cool, and the sun just breaking the horizon. Old glory flapping in the breeze. The mechanics had been up way before them, fueling and working on the planes making them ship shape.
Windy Day, dress uniform
Do calisthenics, too damn cold, but a way to get the blood flowing. The older girls did have this chore, they were with the advanced instructors, leather jackets looked good on them. Some lucky gal was going on a cross country, all smiles and nervous laugh to hide her fear. No one showed fear, or cried, except in lonely corners of the base. Letters came with good and bad news. Some censored, because they were from overseas, from the front, from husbands or boyfriend or
fathers. You never knew if you would get the official one, the official letter from the President you dreaded, with great full thanks for a life given for the country. Hope to God, no, not him, so young...
There was no time for sadness. Song and laughter was everywhere, infectious. Not a real military base, but one filled with women, women pilots. Avenger field.
They came in all sizes
Some of the girls were off to ground school, with tons of books tucked under their arms. Others were in the Link trainer; the little simulator could make you dizzy, it was great for instrument flying. The lucky ones were doing flight checks. They had to pack their own parachutes, put them on, over their flight suits. The fleece lining was a killer in the hot afternoon, but at altitude, the leather kept you from freezing.
Out of the instructor's ready room strode the civilian pilots. Handsome, for the most part, indulgent, probably pinching themselves at getting such a job; teaching beautiful women how to fly. Until they got upstairs and the women became students, who had to be encourage, pushed, and even cursed at.
But the women had such enthusiasm! More driven than men. They were desperate to fly. And look at them; tall, short, some knock outs, all intelligent. They looked liked angels. Angels who could fly. And who wore pants.
Student Pilot (my mother)
"Clear "was shouted, and the engine turned over, revved up to red line, coughing and back firing, under the watchful eye of the crew chief. The all clear signal was given, the wood chocks pulled from the wheels and they were off. Taxing down to the take off spot. Past other eager trainers, all to fly this morning, each plane blazing silver in the morning sun. Each cockpit with a male and female pilot. The radio chatter was easy, loose, and high pitched.
Tower instructions
In the air, they were galvanized. They had to do the normal stuff, and then they would let loose, acrobatics. The women loved it, they all had flying experience, all certified pilots, and were not afraid of trying new things. They lived for the adrenaline rush of near death experiences. The instructors had to reign the women in to keep them both from an early death.
Some washed out, no matter how they tried, and they tried hard. What was amazing was the tenacity they showed. They would not give up. And some were incredible. Great pilots, with an easy touch, a delicate touch. No macho antics, just business. It was noted in their records. Male pilots could not deny what they saw, how good they were. The instructors wanted their "girls" to be the best. They were going to fly every plane in this man's army. How they flew reflected on their teachers.
Into the wild blue yonder
In the air, the women were equal. No one knew who was at the controls, the man or the woman. And they wanted to fly bigger airplanes, the fast pursuit fighters and the big bombers. Why not? In the war years, anything was possible. Women were doing men's jobs in the factories. Women were taking care of everything it seemed, with the men gone to war. It was a woman's war at home. Why not flying?
Doing touch and goes was the worst. Flying was easy, but landing was hard. You did not want to bounce all over the run way, in front of everyone. And embarrass yourself and your friends. A "hard" landing was noted. Your instructor would curse, and take the controls away from you. And then you would do it again, and again. It was nerve wracking, bone cracking, 'knock the piss out of you' flying.
After a hot day of flying
When you got out of the plane, you were exhausted, your suit was drenched with sweat, and maybe something else. Perfume helped to mask it, but the rank stink of fear was there for everyone to smell. Then you had the lecture, the instructor telling you what you had done wrong. Everyone was there. Listening.
A quick shower and a scream would release the tension of the day. There were screams of joy if they got a good check ride, or if one of them soloed. Some of the women would cry, silently or in big sobs. But then they put the mascara and rouge back on and made a happy face. Their friends would cheer them up, pull pranks on them. Women can be kind to each other, if men are not around. Sisters, they were like sisters. They were a unique sorority.
Sunday Free dress!
Yes, it was great to be here, no matter how bad it got. No matter what happened, it was something special. It was history, it was a new chapter in civilization. Women were proving they were the equal of men, and maybe better. And they looked good. Even in the baggy "zoot" suits. They looked like a million dollars. They felt like a million dollars. Because they were doing something money could not buy, only guts and will power.
One day the world would look back in wonder that they had done this. The thousand or so of them had gone where no one thought they could go, where no man would let them go before. They had taken control of the most powerful machines ever built up to that time, and they had proven they could do it without help, without a man saying, "little lady, you are too weak or dumb or small or too feminine to fly big airplanes. This is no place for you."
With their quiet courage, their songs, their hearts, their heads and their flying, they had shown the world what women were made of.
Relaxing
At the end of the day, you could let your hair down as everyone was washing the dust and oil out of their locks. All wore turbans, like harem girls, half naked, and not caring, the aches and pains in their young limbs finally slowing them down, but not much. Cigarettes came out, even a hidden bottle of hooch was passed around. Giggles, and horse play. Women, in private, can be as rowdy as men.
Like all pilots they began to show how they flew during the day, acrobatics and spins, exaggerating of course, but filled with the thrill of it. They were young, buxom and hot for men. Magazines with film stars came out and big sighs gushed from them. A lot of girls had fiances, boyfriends and even some were married. The married ones were pumped for information about "it". They did not want to get "in the family way". Especially if they were going to keep flying.
The books came out and they studied, or tried too. Some kept talking to the wee hours, the excitement of the day too much. Some of them had it easy, they were college educated, others struggled with the math. In the sisterhood, they were helped or hassled. Like anywhere, good and bad existed, helpful and hateful. Yet after awhile a sister hood took hold, a bond and trust forged at hight altitude, and repeated landings; they all commiserated the bad and glowed in the good. Life and death were so close together, any second you could do a ground loop as you taxied, and end up dead or washed out.
In the clear Texas night, a few would go outside and look at the stars, wondering. Dreaming. Singing. They could see the lights in the other bays, half dressed women doing the same thing as them. Thank goodness the guards kept the wolfs away, so many beautiful women, so many lonely nights. Corcoran's Nunnery. If she only knew how the girls got around the rules.
Sex was there with death is an aphrodisiac. And so was power, the power and skill that male pilots had attracted women pilots. They knew who was good. Who was hot. They felt they were special, and they were the first, it would never be like this again. They were living on the edge of life. No one before or after would be like them. At the same time they were no different from other women.
Women usually used more subtle tactics than men, less physical, more social. A glance, a word, an attitude, a movement, a whispered comment to a mutual friend. They live in a different world, where emotions are to be used and abused, a world cut off from men. Almost like the language that Japanese women use, the language of women is different, only understood by them.
And here they were competing with men, and soon would be flying with them. Could they do it? Yes! But would men let them? Just watch the WASPS, they would blaze a trail across the sky, opening up new horizons for women to follow, even if they might be ignored, hated, even killed, they were pioneers. They were going where no woman had gone before and they would prove they could do it, even do it better.
Text and images ©Patrick McDonnell 2021
