Lipstic and Valor

I post a story each July to honor people who've served. I try to focus on obscure folks... not the obvious heroes and that's why my buddy Tim Nicoll (TNicoll) suggested Tommy Thompkins, the only female MIA from World War Two.

Tommy was a member of the Women's Air Service Pilots, called the WASPs -- and for the grammar Nazis, I know that the "s" is redundant. But that's what they called themselves. I'm from the generation where guys returning from a shithole named Vietnam weren't given the credit they deserved. So, injustice bothers me -- A LOT -- especially when it applies to people whose only crime is honorable service. That was also the case with the WASPs. So, I chose to tell the story of those brave women

The plot is a coming-of-age tale... sort of a latter-day Pilgrim's Progress. The kids who fought that war went from childhood to life and death in a matter of months. Hence, they grew up fast. For instance... the average age of a B-17 crewman was twenty. Think about what you were doing at age twenty, and you'll understand what your grandparents and great-grandparents sacrificed.

They did it because they believed in this Country. And IMHO... if you want the definition of the term "patriot," I suggest you look no further than that. I also want to thank my buddy Bruce1971 for his superb editing skills. I have never used an editor before, and Bruce's expert comments made a difference. I hope you enjoy this humble tribute.

LIPSTICK AND VALOR - The Queen of Speed and Her Warrior Angels

The General Dynamics F-16V thundered past the grandstand and slammed into the 9-G Viper turn that makes the Fighting Falcon the best dogfighting aircraft in the world. Then... without bleeding any speed, the pilot stood the F-16 on its tail and lit the Pratt & Whitney 220/222E afterburner. The cannon boom of 30,000-pound feet of force drove the aircraft straight up into the summer cumulous.

The Viper was almost instantly a speck as it rolled into a perfect Chandelle and reappeared in a sneak pass from behind the crowd. The physical waves of thunder washed over the assembled multitude as the pilot snapped into a wide inside loop, which became a nifty half-Cuban eight as the Viper streaked back over the awestruck multitude.

There were a few moments of jet noise rumbling off in the distance -- the kind of sound that only a beast like the F-16 generates. Then it whipped past the grandstand at near supersonic speeds, flying UPSIDE DOWN, snapped into a jaunty three-point aileron roll, and disappeared back into the clouds - jet noise blasting the crowd.

Thousands of people stood speechless. Then they burst into raucous cheers. The old guy looked at his beautiful granddaughter -- all five-foot-one of spunky fourteen-year-old... long blond ponytail poking through the adjustment strap of her Air Force cap. He'd expected her to be thrilled by the spectacle. But she had inexplicable tears in her eyes.

The old man said, concerned, "What's the matter, Sweetie?" She said, "Why can't girls do that?" The old man knew something that his granddaughter didn't. He said smugly, "Come with me."

The granddaughter gave him the look that all tweens give the hopelessly aged and followed him as he strode toward the flightline. The demonstration Viper ... painted with snake eyes, scales, and fangs... had just rolled to a stop as the pilot wound the engine down.

The old man and his granddaughter walked up to the yellow tape, and he flashed his credentials. The airman guarding the perimeter said respectfully, "Yes, Sir!" and raised the tape to let the old man and his granddaughter walk toward the aircraft.

The ground crew wheeled out the maintenance platform. After the usual fiddling with straps, the pilot emerged, threw a jaunty leg over the side of the cockpit, stood, and swaggered down the steps... the very model of the modern Top Gun warrior.

The crew chief helped the pilot remove the HGU-55 flight helmet, and the granddaughter gasped as a golden sheaf of blond hair tumbled out and rolled down the pilot's shoulders. An angelic face looked toward the old man and waved happily. He said to his granddaughter, who was standing there, mouth open, frozen in amazement, "Well, do you want to meet her or not?"

Air Force Major Amy, "Boho," Fuller was the Cadet Wing Commander of the Academy class of 2012 and the current boss of the Viper Demonstration Unit. She was a true American hero. The old man had met her at a commemorative event in Washington DC several years earlier, and they'd kept in touch.

He said, "Amy, my granddaughter thinks that girls can't fly."

The Major laughed uproariously, turned to the Base PR Officer, who was standing attentively nearby, tossed him her helmet, and said, "Captain, take over." Then she added, "Hasn't your grandad told you about the WASPS?"

*****

We were flying out over the harbor on a sunny Sunday on Oahu. I could see the scurrying on the fantails below, as the ships prepared the decks for religious services. We were up early because Ronnie needed one more check-ride before she could solo.

Ronnie and I had had a boisterous night. She might be in her late twenties. But she loved to fuck, and at age twenty-one, I still had plenty of steam in the boiler. It was past sunrise when we finally tapped out. So, we dragged our sleepy asses out to John Rogers Field on Barbers Point to get the check-ride out of the way.

I got us the bright blue Waco-UPF7. This one had the same bloodlines as the Wacos from the National Air Races. The Waco was a gorgeous, staggered-wing biplane with a 220-horsepower radial that gave it a lot more kick than the dreary, 65-horsepower Taylorcrafts and Interstate Cadets that my employers, Andrews Flying Service, normally flew.

The Waco was normally checked out when I started work. I mean, seriously... I like to sleep in. But the early bird gets the worm--or, in my case, the best ride in the hanger--and we were aloft as the sun climbed higher into the bright Pacific sky.

I usually did Ronnie's check-rides sitting next to her in the front cockpit. The Waco had enough room for two up there, so I could enjoy both the scenery and the woman's amazing body. However, today was Ronnie's last check-ride. So, I decided to play it legitimate and sit in the rear seat where the instructor normally sits. Each cockpit had a full set of controls, and as it turned out... it was lucky it did.

We could see all of the morning action in what was becoming an absolutely magnificent Hawaiian day. Ronnie was doing touch-and-goes because takeoffs and landings were the real challenge. Each time she did... we had to swing way out over Ford Island to reenter the pattern.

Recreational aircraft didn't have radios back then. You avoided problems by flying strict approach patterns at set altitudes. Part of the instruction was teaching the standard landing approaches and procedures. We also taught visual scanning to keep you from having any surprises.

Ronny had the controls, and she was just turning to align with the runway while I was glancing around, looking for traffic. That's when I spotted a fighter arrowing toward us on a collision course. I grabbed the stick and did a violent snap roll. Ronnie screamed as the fighter rocketed past, its slipstream buffeting us as it went by.

I looked behind, just to get the tail number of the hotshot who'd buzzed us. Army Air Corps pilots were supposed to avoid the airspace around John Rodgers Airfield. And, I wanted this guy's dingle-dangles for my rear-view mirror. What I saw left me speechless.

The offending fighter wasn't one of Hickam's Curtis P-40Bs with stars and bars on its wings. It was a Mitsubishi A6M Zero sporting the Empire of Japan's "rising sun" insignia. I swiveled my head to look back toward Pearl Harbor, and the plumes of black smoke were just beginning to rise skyward--I realized that the American fleet was under attack!!

The guy in the Zero had scared the shit out of me. But at least I could do something about it. Forget pattern flying, I had to get us on the ground FAST, because another Zeke was lining up for a firing pass. Meantime... Ronnie was having a kitten up front.

I firewalled the throttle and put the Waco into a nearly vertical power dive, thanking my lucky stars that I had taken the bigger, sturdier aircraft. Under that kind of stress, the wings would have come off a Taylorcraft. It was also fortunate Ronnie had aligned us with the runway because I was aiming for the landing slot at 130 MPH--well past the Waco's maximum speed and utterly foolish for landing approaches.

I hauled back on the stick at the last practical second, and the g-force smashed us into the seat. Ronnie screamed again. That was getting irritating. But my faithful Waco swooped into a remarkably smooth touch down. I would have been congratulating myself if it weren't for the fellow back there who was trying to kill me.

Our sudden reduction in airspeed fooled him, and he flashed overhead without firing. Nonetheless, I was sure he would be back. Interminable seconds passed as I frantically s-turned the Waco toward the hanger. When we arrived, I locked up the brakes and we came to a juddering halt.

Ronny had the wing to exit onto. But the escape from the rear cockpit was a bit more involved. So, it took extra time to lever myself out. Ronnie was just disappearing into the hangar when the cocksucker in the Zero began his strafing run. I was perhaps ten yards behind Ronnie as the tracers walked over and past me.

I threw up my arms to protect myself. I know.... it was stupid -- just instinct. Mere flesh wasn't going to save me from the storm of machine gun and cannon rounds striking around me. So, I just happened to be looking at my left arm as a 20-millimeter shell blew it off - perhaps four inches below the elbow. A foot to the right and it would have exploded my head.

I was engulfed in a pink mist. But the realization hadn't set in yet. I continued to sprint until I reached the relative safety of the hanger. I say relative... because the Japs were shooting it up. Fortunately, those Zekes were escorts for the Kates and Vals - making loud booms over at Pearl. So, they weren't carrying the little 250-pound bombs that they sometimes had under their wings.

As I ran into the protection of the hanger, Ronnie took one look at me ... shrieked and fainted. I glanced down - my whole left side was soaked in blood - and then I passed out right behind her. I awoke in a bed in Hickam hospital which was twenty miles away. The tourniquet that a Navy nurse - who fortunately was taking flying lessons at the time -- had applied, had saved my life. But my flying days were over.

*****

Congressional Airport was the home of the Civilian Pilot Training Program for the Washington DC area. You needed a car to get out there. But there was always plenty of traffic on the Rockville Pike, which ran right past the place, and folks would pick you up back then. So, you could hitch a ride or even take a bus.

My father wanted me to go to an Ivy League school after I graduated from prep. But I was tired of him planning my life. So, I enrolled in the CPT Program on the sly. I figured I could make a living as an aviator and the Old Man could just go fuck himself.

I was full of it back then. I suppose most 18-year-old punks suffer from the same case of over-entitled testosterone poisoning. I was big and boisterous, and I didn't have much in the way of brains, or common sense, which was why I did nutty things. The nuttiest, by far - was learning to fly. But I was hooked once I did!!

It cost thirty-five bucks, which was a lot of money back then. That covered the medical exam and life insurance. I had the money saved up, but the hard part was sneaking off to the airfield without my parents figuring out where I was going. They probably thought my comically stealthy behavior was just me sneaking off to get laid -- and they were just fine with that. They would have had conniptions if they'd found out what I was really up to... odd double standard, don't you think?

Flight instruction took place after ground school. The ground school was where you learned civil air regulations, navigation, and meteorology. Once you passed that exam... then there were thirty five hours of flying required to get a license -- eight hours of dual instruction, nine hours of dual check time and then eighteen hours of solo flight.

I did the flight instruction in a Piper Cub... with tandem seats and rudimentary instruments. The Continental flat four gave it a maximum speed of 87 MPH. So, the Cub was gentle and easy to fly. But it was kind of scary knowing that you were sitting at three thousand feet with nothing more than thin steel tubes and fabric keeping you up there -- almost like a kite. I decided not to think about it.

The Old Man practically stroked out when I told him that I'd rather fly than sit behind a school desk -- imagine that. In 1940 flyers had a reputation as daredevils and barnstormers, not the noble protectors of western civilization that they were viewed as four years later. In fact, the CPT program was founded to get more people into flying.

My parents were typical for their era. The Old Man was a worshiper of FDR and staunchly Democratic. My mother was from white glove Virginia aristocracy. So, she tended to vote for whoever was the most conservative candidate. Me? I could care less which guy's stupid decisions were currently wasting my tax dollars. So, I was totally apolitical -- In fact, I still am. Which is ironic given what I do for a living now.

My Old Man had a civil service job at the Treasury Department. It was important. Thus, it gave him lots of money and influence. I prepped at St. Albans, about a twenty-minute walk from our place in Georgetown. St Albans is an all-boys school. So, you had to hang out at Maret to get any female action and that's where I met Susan.

Our two schools were located less than a mile apart. And both were full of over-entitled preppy brats. So, the annual soccer match was always a dick measuring contest. I was the goalkeeper for St Albans all four years -- mainly because I was too stupid to say "no" when they asked me to do it.

Goalkeeping is 99% sheer boredom and 1% utter terror, since it involves you throwing yourself at the spiked boots of an onrushing thug who wants to kick the ball into the net - or your head off your shoulders... either way is a win for him.

In those days, they didn't have all the protective gear that they have now. So, it was just me standing there in a dinky pair of shorts, shirtsleeves and wearing a silly little blue, red, and gold striped beanie that let the referee know I was the goalie. That was what I was doing in the last game of my senior year.

The referee -- a knave with heart as black as the shirt upon his back... to paraphrase Shakespeare -- had just assigned a last second penalty kick that would tie the game. So, it was me versus Jack Lambertson, a fellow who would make the gunfighting villain from High Noon look downright friendly.

As Lambertson stepped up to the spot... I idly looked to my left. I could see that glance register with him. So naturally, I dove right -- which was where I knew he would kick it. He did and I palmed the ball a couple of feet in front of me, then scrambled to get my body on top of it.

Lambertson, who was following up his shot, kicked me in the head. It was game over, we won. Of course, I wasn't around to enjoy it because I was out colder than a mackerel, still clutching the ball.

I came around to the odor of smelling salts being administered by an angel. Apparently, I'd died and gone to heaven. Nobody was near us. My teammates were fifty yards up the field celebrating and the Maret guys had wandered off in disgust. You would have thought somebody would have noticed that I was lying there dead. But I guess jubilation clouds a guy's thinking at a certain age.

Susan was the Maret coach's daughter and the school's pseudo-trainer. She was also Lambertson's girlfriend. Hence, she was watching more intently than the rest. What she saw, was her sweetie-pie gaze down at my dead body, nod with satisfaction, then wander off toward the Maret dressing room. Which led her to grab the medical bag, rush over and put my head in her lap.

I opened my eyes to a vista of two majestic mountains with a concerned angelic face resting in between, sorta like the sun rising over the Himalayas. She said worried, "Are you all-right?" I was still in a pea soup fog, so it took a second for her question to register.

I said, confused, "Who are you?" I know... not smooth but we didn't treat head trauma like they do today. They just told you to walk it off.

She said, "I'm Susan Lawson, the Maret trainer. Just lie here until you get your wits back."

I was still in la-la land, so I said, "What happened?"

She grimaced and said, "You got kicked in the head at the end of the game."

I vaguely remembered a soccer game and that I was in it. I said, Inquiringly, "Who won?"

She laughed and said, "Does it matter? It's over and you appear to be in your right mind. Let me help you up."

She gently untangled herself, stood, reached down, and helped me stagger to my feet. I had been unconscious. But I wasn't dead. Hence as I stood up, I took a long lingering look at her spectacular body. I know... not cool -- but what do you expect from a horny adolescent male?

Susan said, amused, "Like what you see?"

I said eagerly, "Oh God, yes!!" That brought on a wide grin and a shake of her pretty head.

Susan helped me to the nearby Maret bench, one arm thrown over her shoulder. She was the ideal bundle, strong, athletic and she fit perfectly under my arm. She even smelled nice. We sat companionably while I continued to put my shattered consciousness back together.

Up until then, I hadn't really looked at her face. When I did... I saw a set of wide and very intelligent blue eyes in a sensual heart shaped face, with high cheekbones and very kissable lips - framed by extra thick auburn hair in a Prince Valient style haircut. She was a knockout.

I was quickly getting my wits back. The whirling had stopped, and I no longer felt like I was going to throw up. There was a lump on my forehead that hurt like hell. But I was feeling well enough to walk back to the St. Albans dressing room.

The field was completely deserted now, just Susan and me. I stood and said, "I feel better, and you probably have some place to go. So, I'll just call my mom to pick me up."

My savior looked wistful. I knew what she wanted. So, I added, "Would you like to go out some time. I ought to buy you dinner for taking care of me." Yeah-sure-right! That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Susan looked delighted. But she said, "I have a boyfriend. Still... I guess it would be okay if we just went out as a thank you." Obviously, she was as self-deluded as I was.

I said, "Could you write down your phone number and I'll give you a call." She didn't have pencil or paper. But she did have one of those Parker fountain pens in her purse. So, she wrote her number on the back of my hand in Shaeffer's indelible ink. It stayed there for weeks. I called her the following Tuesday and made a date for that Saturday.

I had a 32 Ford roadster convertible with the 85-horsepower flathead engine that really made it fly. It was one of the benefits of a privileged upbringing. It was a rusty shade of deep blue and with the top down -- it was a veritable chick magnet. My Old Man had bought it for fifty bucks, and he used my access to it as a leash of sorts... just to keep me in line.

Susan lived in the Woodly Park area in the direction of the Zoo. Her dad taught at Maret. But he had made his money the old fashioned way... he'd inherited it. So, Susan's house was a freaking palace - even bigger than mine. It was located on a leafy middle-class street that reeked of Andy Hardy. I know... those films were sappy. But they cemented a view of the nuclear family that continues to this very day. That was Susan's world.