PROLOGUE PROLOGUE The new P-51D Mustang fighter plane rested on the Mines Field runway with its nose lifted to the sky. The shiny aluminum craft reflected the Southern California light, in spite of a haze that filtered the sun’s rays.
A woman with gray eyes walked toward the aircraft. Her curly dark hair bounced lightly against the collar of her leather flight jacket. As a Women’s Airforce Service Pilot, or WASP, Gertrude Tompkins’s job was to fly this sleek plane across the country to Newark, New Jersey. From there it would be shipped to Europe for combat against Nazi Germany. It was brand new, one of 45 Mustangs that North American Aviation would have manufactured that day at its Los Angeles plant.
As a former test pilot, Gertrude, or Tommy, as her sister WASPs called her, knew how important her preflight inspection was. Even new planes had flaws. She slowly walked around the airplane. Gertrude pushed on the rudder to make certain it moved freely. Stooping, she tugged at a hydraulic line running through the scissor assembly over one of the 27-inch wheels. Every P-51 pilot made certain the line was tight. There had been reports of problems with Mustang wheels that wouldn’t retract. She checked to be sure the tape was tight over the openings for the six .50-caliber Browning machine guns. The guns would be installed in Europe.
Gertrude “Tommy” Tompkins’s official Women’s Airforce Service Pilots portrait. Note the Fifinella logo—the WASPs’ cartoon mascot designed by Walt Disney—on her leather flight jacket. Courtesy of The WASP Archives, Texas Women’s University Libraries
She walked around the left wing, touching the red running light, making certain the access compartment to the guns was tight and flush. It had a tendency to come off.
The woman gripped a hinged slot on the fuselage and lifted herself onto the wing. The cockpit yawned, waiting for her to settle in and fly away at 400 miles per hour.
Gertrude placed her small leather flight bag in the cockpit, working it alongside the seat amid the tight array of handles, toggles, tubes, and wires. The bag contained her PIF—Pilot’s Information File. The PIF held weather information, maps, flight orders, and forms authorizing refueling and ground transportation. It also held first-aid supplies. As she tucked it away, Gertrude breathed in the new plane’s smells: fresh paint and rubber, adhesives, and oil.
She knew how this plane would perform. The Mustang was a high-strung thoroughbred, a little balky at low speeds, but once free and running at full throttle, it would take your breath away. Gertrude climbed into the cockpit and settled in the metal bucket seat, using her parachute as her cushion. She latched the seat belt and shoulder harness.
Gertrude punched the ignition switch. The four-bladed propeller made a slow, hesitant turn. The exhaust ports exploded noisily, streaming acrid smoke back into the cockpit as the big paddles bit into the air faster and faster. She ran up the throttle. The engine reached a high-pitched snarl. The exhaust ports breathed clear now. It had come alive, this airplane, and was shivering to be away.
Next Gertrude set the altimeter, which would measure the plane’s altitude. She flipped on the toggle switches for the radio and waited for its tubes to warm up. Squawks and static hisses filled her headset as she dialed in the sending and receiving frequency. She adjusted the silk scarf that pilots wore to prevent their necks from chafing against the collars of their leather flight jackets as they constantly swiveled their heads in flight.
A moment later, the control tower radioed her clearance for takeoff. Gertrude cranked the handle to bring the cockpit canopy forward. It snagged on something. She backed it off and tried again. After a couple of minutes she called the tower and told them she had a problem. Other WASPs were forming for takeoff in their P-51s; at least 30 of them would fly from Mines Field that day.
Factory-new airplanes often experienced problems. Most new planes were briefly tested after coming off the assembly line. Some were turned over to the WASP ferry pilots without any flight testing.
A Jeep screeched to a stop. Out leaped a North American Aviation factory technician. The mechanic examined the three tracks on which Gertrude’s canopy rode and started making adjustments.
Since she was going to get a late start, Gertrude was redirected to the army air force base at Palm Springs, less than an hour’s flight time in this swift craft. At Palm Springs she would “RON”—remain overnight—then continue to Newark tomorrow. Her mother and father lived in nearby Summit, New Jersey, and she planned to spend time with them after delivering the airplane.
Once airborne, she could consider her month-old marriage and her future. The familiar ring of the Mustang engine would soothe her. Flying gave her comfort and self-assurance. She was her own pilot, her own navigator, her own radio operator. Piercing the clouds on her race eastward, painful memories would fall away. Everything would be made right as she throttled up the 1,490-horsepower Rolls Royce Merlin engine. She wished the mechanic would hurry up and finish with the canopy.