Chapter 2
Well, that was a terrible night’s sleep.
Hank poured himself a crap cup of coffee in the lunchroom, staring out over the whitewashed picnic tables and squinting at the sunlight through the windows.
It was only seven-thirty in the morning, and already it was hot as Hades.
The new cadets would be here soon, poor sods.
He supposed he should make some attempt to look like a heroic pilot instead of someone dead twice over from exhaustion, smelling as hot and swampy as he felt.
He really needed to change his shirt. Good grief.
He choked down the caustic brew and headed to the locker room.
A shave, a shower, and clean clothes would do wonders for him.
Making a beeline for his cubby, he pushed past the full-body leather flying suit that hung there and grabbed a towel and some soap from his ditty bag.
The room still smelled of fresh paint, having been built only a month before.
Only half of the cubbies were in use, but that would change soon enough.
As he gathered his things, his thoughts turned to the previous night.
Aurora Belmont. Aurora fucking Belmont. Not that he ever slept well on guard in the hangar, but Jesus Christ. Rory, she wanted him to call her. Princess Rory.
Over and over the nightmare replayed as he dozed after she left.
It started pleasantly enough. She came back despite his warnings, a mischievous look in those sparkling blue eyes, and he peeled that sinful dress off her luscious body and…
Papa Belmont materialized from thin air, took aim, and unmanned him.
As a pilot, Hank had no great attachment to his life, but by God while he lived, he wanted his cock and balls safe from harm. And now, he found himself peeking around every corner to make sure Major Belmont wasn’t standing there with a shotgun, ready to blow them off.
Even getting into the white-tiled shower stall, he looked twice before closing the flimsy tan curtain behind him.
No, it was just a bad dream. He shook himself and lathered up.
She had every reason to keep their little meeting secret.
He was in no danger, was he? Thank God he was never going to see her again.
Of course, in attempting to ban her from his thoughts, he brought her front and center.
His cock began to stir, and he gave it a withering look.
Instead of retreating, it grew unapologetically rampant.
“Fine,” he grumbled aloud. “I’ll ring up Dorothy and see if she’s up for a visit.
” At the word “Dorothy,” it deflated. “Oh, come on. Now you don’t like Dorothy? ”
“Hawley, are you conversing with your willy again?” asked a familiar voice with a slight Irish brogue that made him jump a mile.
“Go to hell, O’Donnell.”
Two men’s laughter rang out after that.
Hank groaned. “Not you too, Pritchard. I thought I was alone in here. Can’t a man lecture his wayward prick in peace?”
More laughter, but this time he joined them. After all, he was a grown man talking to his willy.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes until the new cadets get here, Hawley,” said Lieutenant Pritchard. “You might want to hurry things along. You know the major will be miffed if you’re late again.”
“I’ll be there.”
He shut off the faucet, toweled off, wrapped his towel around his waist, and headed to the sinks for a shave.
“Who’s got you lecturing your willy this time, Hawley?” Lieutenant O’Donnell called out. “Apparently, it isn’t Dorothy.”
“No, not Dorothy. A society girl I met by accident. Completely gorgeous and completely untouchable. Don’t know what I was thinking even speaking to her.”
He really should stick to girls like Dorothy, who wanted nothing more than an occasional good time, no strings attached.
“Oho! Nice going, Hawley,” said Pritchard. “Get yourself one of those Upper East Side Knickerbocker girls, and you are set for life.”
He lathered his face and began to shave. “Not likely to marry me, seeing how she already has a fiancé.”
“They say forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest,” Pritchard wheedled.
“What did she look like?” O’Donnell asked. “Blonde or brunette?”
“Blonde.”
Hank nicked himself and cursed.
“Blue eyes or brown?” O’Donnell persisted.
“Blue.”
“Thin or…nicely rounded?”
“O’Donnell,” he warned, and he rinsed off his face and put a bit of tissue on the spot he nicked.
But apparently, O’Donnell wasn’t done. While Hank was getting dressed, he asked, “To which fruits would you compare her various assets? For example—”
“Shut up, O’Donnell, before you say something you will regret.”
“Oo, she really got under your skin, didn’t she?” His friend was grinning from ear to ear.
“I said, shut your trap.”
Hank ran a comb through his hair and hurried out to the lunchroom, grabbing himself another cup of heinous coffee, and arrived in the hangar just in time to greet the major and the new cadets. He came to attention.
“At ease, Hawley,” Major Fleet said. They both stood by the chalkboard at the front of the room and watched the cadets seat themselves at lunchroom tables. “Am I imagining things, or is this batch even younger than the last?”
“With all due respect, I don’t think they got younger. I think we got older, sir.”
Major Fleet smiled. “And thank God for that, eh? Another day older. Another day wiser.”
“Can’t complain, sir,” Hank said, taking another drink and wondering if someone swapped the coffee with gasoline.
O’Donnell and Pritchard came in with their own steaming mugs and saluted.
“Time to get started, don’t you think, gentlemen?” Major Fleet asked the three of them, then made his way to the front of the room. “Cadets, welcome to the U.S. Postal Service.”
As usual, there were a couple of quiet snickers.
“It’s true that no one is shooting at you here, but make no mistake, this is dangerous work.
Every day, we push the limits of what is possible with these airplanes.
New York to Philadelphia and Philadelphia to Washington, D.C.
: both routes push our Jennies to their maximum range.
Lieutenant Hawley, about how often would you say you run out of fuel before you land? ”
“One out of every four trips, sir.”
Hank watched as the more fearful among them swallowed and gripped their seats.
“Lieutenant O’Donnell, what happens if there’s thick cloud cover and you veer off course?”
“You run out of fuel, sir.”
More gripped their seats.
“Lieutenant Pritchard, what happens if the weather is against you, and you face unexpected headwinds?”
“You run out of fuel, sir.”
Now the entire cadet class sat wide-eyed.
“And Lieutenant Hawley, what happens if you let your mind wander and you do a piss poor job of navigating?”
Hank turned to the cadets. “Cadets, what do you think happens?”
“You run out of fuel, sir,” they answered as one from the worn wooden benches.
“That’s right, boys,” said Major Fleet, pacing back and forth in front of his audience with his hands behind his back.
“And we haven’t even talked about mechanical failures.
Every time you take to the skies, you are taking a risk.
Mistakes in the air are deadly.” He stopped his pacing and turned to face the cadets.
“Now, our military leaders think you need some extra practice with navigation before you face the Germans.”
A skinny cadet with huge eyes and plentiful freckles raised his hand in the first row. “How does this help us against the Germans, sir?”
“Your name, cadet?” the major asked with a smile. Someone always asked this question without fail.
“Brown, sir.”
“Well, Cadet Brown, do you know what the number one cause of death for Allied pilots is?”
Frowning, the cadet said, “Enemy fire, sir?”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Major Fleet answered.
“But no, it isn’t enemy fire.” He perused all the young, eager faces, giving them a significant look.
“It’s navigation errors. Green pilots follow their leaders into combat, get separated from the group in the fog of battle, and then can’t find their way home. That, gentlemen, is why you are here.
“Lieutenant Hawley here is going to demonstrate to you this morning how to land with the engines off.”
Beautiful. He was this morning’s sacrificial lamb. He absolutely didn’t get enough sleep for this, but, of course, he could never say no.
“Death or glory,” he murmured to O’Donnell, who raised his cup of joe in a mock toast.
“Death or glory, you crazy bastard,” O’Donnell replied. “Your society girl doesn’t know what she’s missing!”
Hank led the way out to the hangar, deliberately choosing a different Jenny than the one where Princess Belmont was perched last night.
The last thing he needed was the distraction of imagining her lovely legs splayed across the fuselage right in front of him.
He narrated his pre-flight checks for the benefit of the cadets.
Mechanical failures were all too common with the Jennies.
A man had to check every inch of the plane with a mechanic’s precision to ensure it was safe to fly.
Satisfied at last that the plane was ready, he signaled to O’Donnell to swing the propeller. O’Donnell gave it a good shove and backed out of the way. Hank opened the throttle and taxied out to the runway.
It was a bright, sunny day out, with not a cloud in the sky to obscure the punishing sun.
The air rippled with heat, and his soaked shirt was sticking to him.
Sweat stung his eyes beneath his goggles, and he couldn’t wipe it away.
Blinking and squinting, he picked up speed on the runway.
The wings lifted as if pulled by some invisible hand and left the ground behind.