The Ballad of Kandy Kim, Part 2

We mentioned that Kandy Kim’s first pilot was a WASP from Tacoma, Washington, named Nora Hall. She’d just turned thirty-one and had been a WASP pilot for eight months, with nearly 500 hours logged in that short span. She was a serious, by-the-numbers kind of pilot but she also had an uncanny seat-of-her-pants instinct for airplanes that would have made her an ace combat pilot in a different world. Flight instructors tell their novice students to learn to think ahead of the airplane, the idea being a pilot who relies on reflexes at 10,000 feet and 300 miles per hour won’t last very long. It becomes second nature to a good pilot, the way a concert pianist doesn’t consciously think about the notes she’s playing because her mind is several measures ahead and making split-second decisions about tempo, timbre, tone, and the like. The instinct usually requires intense training and dedicated practice since for most would-be aviators the cockpit is overwhelming even on the ground with the engine off.

Nora was different. The first time she slid into the rear seat of the creaky old Piper Cub in which she took her flying lessons she felt like she was settling into her favorite reading chair at home. She astonished her instructor, a World War I veteran with a swollen and discolored purple scar like a tangerine on his right cheek and a pronounced limp on the same side he claimed were given to him by the Red Baron himself. In eighteen months of combat and twenty years of flight instruction Jim Trick thought he’d seen everything. The notion had left him increasingly despondent. Pilots, for all their memorized checklists and procedures and protocols, are at their core adventurers. They are, in fact, quite like artists in temperament and outlook. Like an aspiring artist the would-be pilot wakes up each day with the vague sense that the world as she sees it, or as it is, is lacking in some essential way. In the artist the result is a spiritual or existential crisis: I do not think the way the average man thinks, so I must find a new way of thinking. For the pilot it is a physical crisis: I do not see the world the way the average man sees the world, so I must find a new way of seeing. The artist’s reflex is inward-looking while the pilot’s is outward-looking.

Perhaps both kinds of people are best thought of as seekers.

Nora’s quest was amplified by other facts of her life. At an age when her school friends were working on their second, third, or fourth child Nora was not even married. She had lived with her roommate and companion Gladys Stotch for ten years. Gladys had been her closest friend since the tenth grade. It was the most fulfilling relationship she’d ever had, so much so that neither of them paid much heed to the whispers. Before the war Nora had been a teacher at Tacoma High School and a graduate education student at the University of Washington. A Wyoming ranch girl at heart, she found it inconceivable that school curricula required girls to sit at their desks for hours at a stretch repeating lessons like trained parrots. She was even more scandalized to discover that city girls knew less about their own bodies at seventeen or eighteen than she’d learned before she was old enough to saddle her own horse. It was downright ludicrous that girls should be taught how to keep a house and manage a family budget but not to keep or manage their own bodies. So she’d started a physical education program. When no one objected she started teaching girls’ health, too. It never occured to her to ask for permission from her principal or the school board, she just started because she knew it was the right thing to do.

Along with twenty minutes a day of calisthenics, tumbling, jumping jacks, and the like, she held special weekly sessions in which she taught the girls about—well, being girls. At first she kept the sessions secret, required the girls to get their parents’ permission, and swore everyone involved to secrecy. To her surprise a group of parents went to Principal McElroy and demanded the class be made part of the regular curriculum. There was a mild dustup with some of the more traditional-minded parents and school board members, but when no less than the University of Washington’s Teaching Department weighed in on Nora’s side the contentiousness died down. When she graduated three years later from the U with a master’s degree in education, they ceased altogether. She still received the occasional dagger eye at the Piggly Wiggly and from time to time a threatening missive appeared in the mailbox (usually postmarked from somewhere other than Tacoma), but the battle was over.

Nora emerged from the fight with a new sense of confidence in the parts of herself that she knew were different. It gave her the confidence to say, I do not see the world the way other people see it, so I must keep finding new ways to see it. Two weeks after she got her diploma an aviation booster came to town in a Curtis Buster. As the little craft of wood, canvas, and wires whisked her aloft for the first time, Nora wondered whether there might be something to that divine intervention stuff, after all. Still, Nora was above all a sensible person and she attributed the feeling to the combination of adrenaline, nerves, and the euphoria of flying into the sky the first time. Nora was also a confirmed atheist.

That is, Nora Hall was a confirmed atheist until the climb out from Everett Field near Seattle where she and her flight of eight Lightnings had stopped for fuel and lunch. Officially her plane was Lockheed P-38D No. 1138-926-8-42 and her call sign was Skipjack 3. Unofficially No. ’8-42 was already Kandy Kim. Nothing in the four-hour flight from Palmdale to Everett on that autumn morning suggested Nora’s plane was anything but P-38D No. ’8-42. Nora had logged 140 hours in P-38s and she was head over heels in love with the futuristic airplane. It looked like two small airplanes connected by its tail empennage and wings. The pilot sat in a bulletproof egg-shaped capsule between the mighty 1,600hp Alison V-1710 turbo-supercharged engines. Visibility was exceptional thanks to the cockpit’s forward location, the bubble canopy and the lack of a traditional fuselage. It was a virtuoso design that looked like it was going 400 mph sitting on the tarmac. And, oh, how that baby could fly! Advancing the twin throttles to even an inch produced a smooth roar of power that made the plane strain against its brakes (in fact the manual admonished fliers against applying the brakes at anything more than one-third throttle lest they tear apart). Push the throttles wide open and the plane screamed down the runway like a .50 caliber bullet.

Nora was lead in the second of two, four-ship echelons on the ferry flight to Alaska. The planes took off two at a time and the flight roared into a cloudless southern California sky. The flight commander, Major Nadine Pittman, had a well-deserved reputation as a hot shot. As soon as they cleared controlled airspace her voice crackled into the pilots’ headsets. Skipjack Flight, Skipjack One. Engines to military power and increase airspeed to three-five-zero knots on my call. Hee-readeee, go!

Nora advanced the throttles and the acceleration pushed her into her seat. As the lead of her formation she kept her eyes on Skipjack 1, the horizon, her altimeter and her airspeed indicator. The planes in her formation would be watching her and spacing themselves accordingly. She accelerated smoothly and without affecting her altitude.

A few seconds later Nadine ordered, Skipjack flight, climb and maintain one-seven thousand feet on my call. Hee-readeee, climb!

The eight planes climbed in elegant symmetry. The regs called for ferry flights of P-38s to cruise at 280 knots and 10,000 feet. Major Pittman liked to fly high and fast, and she hadn’t been rebuked yet. When they reached 20,000 feet she ordered the formations to space themselves widely. Formation flying was an unnecessary risk on a ferry flight.

In Everett the pilots debriefed the first leg of the flight over sandwiches and Coca-Colas. One of the WASP pilots’ duties was to start each plane’s squawk list, which would become one of the plane’s official records. Squawks were pilot-speak for mechanical issues and they were particularly important to note on new airframes. Kinks and quirks discovered early could be fixed before they became problems. Nora was the only pilot without a single squawk. That was unusual in itself, and more so because Nora was a notorious splitter of hairs when it came to the planes she flew. It was where the seat-of-her-pants side of her piloting came out. She would squawk even things that felt wrong. With any other pilot—especially a WASP—such nit-picking would have driven the plane’s new crews to distraction. Nora’s reputation was such that the men who received planes she’d flown knew they were getting the opinion not just of a veteran pilot but an aviation savant.

Which may, when all is said and done, explain why Kandy Kim chose Nora. Or maybe it was that God, or the Fates, or whomever you chose to trust with your faith, arranged for them to meet. An exceptional airplane deserved an exceptional pilot.

Out of Everett Nora took off with Skipjack 7, her good friend Captain Dana Paul. They cleared the runway, raised their gear, and banked gently westward over Lake Washington. The sun floated across the surface of the lake, flashed like a strobe at its apex, and slipped back across the land. Mt. Rainer rose behind them from its forest bed.

Dana radioed, It’s so beautiful. I envy you for having grown up here.

Nora keyed her mic to reply but at that moment her plane’s throttles firewalled in her hand and she streaked away from her wingman. She pulled on the throttles with all her might but they stayed full forward as if bolted there. Her airspeed increased to 280kts, then 300, then 350. She was approaching 400 knots when suddenly the yoke pulled itself all the way into her stomach and the plane entered a vertical climb. Nora momentarily let go of the yoke and hauled on the throttle with both hands, to no avail. To her astonishment, in the next moment the rudder pedals kicked full right and the still-climbing plane half-pirouetted in the air, the yoke deflected the ailerons into a hard right turn and she was inverted. The controls reversed themselves and executed a flawless Victory Roll. She ended up in straight-and-level flight 500 feet above and a quarter-mile away from Dana. The throttles went forward again, and the yoke again was in her lap. This time she didn’t fight but watched as the plane performed a beautiful loop. At the bottom it turned on its right wing, dived, and then came up and reassumed its formation with Dana.

The plane was hers to fly again. The maneuvers had lasted all of thirty seconds.

While descending in a bank to rejoin her wingman, Nora instinctively got on the radio. Skipjack Three, Skipjack Three, Skipjack Three. Mayday Mayday Mayday. Declaring an emergency. Two miles northwest of the field over Lake Washington at five thousand feet. One soul on board.

Everett Field Control responded instantly. A calm, professional male voice said, Skipjack Three, Everett Control, acknowledge your Mayday. What is the nature of your emergency, over?

Everett, Skipjack Three. Unintended departure from controlled flight. Which, as she spoke the words, Nora realized wasn’t precisely the case. Her plane had departed from her control, that was for sure. The maneuver itself, however, was executed perfectly. Moreover, as she rejoined Dana her plane felt different. It was flying almost—demurely. Could that be right? She glanced over her right wing toward Dana, and the green position light blinked. Or at least, she thought it did. Like the plane was winking at her. That was the first time the words flashed through her mind: Not just an airplane. Not just an airplane…

She was entranced by the light (which now was the usual steady green) when her headset crackled again. Everett Control asked with militaristic calm, Skipjack Three, Everett, state your intentions.

Nora smiled under her oxygen mask. Intentions, eh, Control? Well, I intended to ferry a P-38D from Palmdale to Alaska. I intended to have dinner on base tonight, maybe get a little drunk, write a letter to Gladys then get a good night’s sleep and catch a transport back to California tomorrow or Wednesday.

Oh, did you mean more generally? Well, I intended to serve out my duty until the war ends then settle back home to teaching and my life with Gladys. I intended to rekindle friendships, work through family problems, pay my taxes and bills, save for retirement, and half-heartedly go to All Saints Episcopal Church on Sundays because it’s important to Gladys. I intended to take a two-week vacation every summer to places like the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone and Manhattan. I intended to read books to better myself, keep up on the news and world events, and volunteer once a week at the food bank. I intended to drink whiskey on my birthdays, cider at Christmas, and champagne on New Year’s. I intended to get gray hair, grow old, and one day to die. Since even Gladys hasn’t been able to persuade me about God, I intended my death to be a comfortable and complete darkness for which I intended to be quite prepared.

But, you see, Everett Control, that was before my airplane flew itself a loop and winked at me. That was before an invisible hand firewalled the throttles and pulled back on the yoke, before my airplane executed a more precise maneuver than I’d ever seen a human being pull off. And do you want to know the kookiest part? I wasn’t scared. Not for a second, not one bit. In fact I felt as calm as I’ve ever felt in my life, calm enough to appreciate how beautiful the world looked as it spun and wheeled outside the canopy, calm enough to watch the sun flash across the face of Lake Washington and feel it warm on my face and think my goodness did God just caress my face?

I guess what I’m saying is that an awful lot has happened in the last couple of minutes and I’m still digesting it all—

Her headset crackled again. Skipjack Three, Everett, say again your intentions. We’ve cleared the pattern for you and fire trucks are rolling toward the runway.

Nora keyed her mic. Ah, negative, Everett. Looks like it was just some surface flutter. I’ve got it back under control. Cancelling the Mayday call. Sorry for the trouble, over.

Roger that, Skipjack Three, no trouble. Be safe up there, and we’re here if you need us. Over.

Thank you, Everett. We’re okay. Skipjack Three, out.

Roger that. Everett, out.

They crossed the Canadian border. Vancouver lay nestled against the hills off their right wings, and after that the land became wild, ten million acres of forest punctuated by snow-capped mountains and greenblue lakes and rivers.

On the plane-to-plane frequency Major Pittman said, Skipjack Three, Skipjack Lead. Care to explain what that was all about, Lieutenant?

Like I told control, Major, control flutter. I’m okay now.

That remains to be seen, Lieutenant. You just broke about a half-dozen regulations, and those are just the ones I can come up with off the top of my head. We’ll be discussing this when we arrive. Meantime maintain altitude and airspeed. She added, as if talking to herself, Good grief, even I wouldn’t try a stunt like that. Nora couldn’t tell if her tone was exasperated or admiring.

Well, shit, Nora thought. Major Pittman’s rebuke had made her feel like a little girl whose mother tells her they’ll be discussing her behavior with father tonight. As they climbed between towering cumulonimbus clouds over the San Juan Islands she considered her answer. The more she rehearsed it the less she believed it. Her plane had departed controlled flight to flawlessly execute two demanding aerobatic maneuver seemingly of its own volition.

Wait—volition? An airplane was made of aluminum, steel, rubber, plastic, and glass. For all the talk among pilots about airplane’s souls and personalities they never talked as though airplanes had consciousness, much less free will. This was the middle of the twentieth century in the middle of a war. Such head in the clouds musings could get you killed even if you weren’t in a combat zone. Then again the alternative explanation was no more reassuring: maybe she was cracking up.

That night after supper, two stiff shots of whiskey and a surprisingly mild rebuke from Major Pittman, Nora wandered to the tarmac. It was after 2300 but the northwest sky glowed the color of lilacs, a thin line of pink at the edge of the mountains and the sea. The island was the color of a Denali forest at midnight, punctuated by the ghostly silhouettes of a half-dozen hangars, barracks, and the control tower. The base was blacked-out and the only artificial lights were occasional red or blue penlights bobbing vaporously between buildings as people went about the twenty-four-hour business of fighting a war. She walked toward the eight planes from Skipjack flight. They’d parked at a 45-degree angle in front of the main hangar. There were also a half-dozen B-17E Flying Fortress heavy bombers, an eighteen-plane squadron of big, single-engine P-40 Warhawk fighters, two Catalina flying boats for search-and-rescue, and two single-engine Piper Cub observation planes that looked like sparrows next to their enormous brethren.

Nora loved airports at night because they were full of secrets and stories. She always imagined the planes were whispering their adventures and talking of pilots, missions, scrapes and triumphs. Of course, before this afternoon she never believed they might actually be talking. Tonight, though, she hushed the imaginary conversations. She was listening for something real even though she couldn’t for the life of her imagine what it might be. The only sounds were the hum of a diesel generator on the other end of the base, the whisper of waves on the island’s rocky hide, and the occasional haunted call of a loon.

She stopped in front of Kandy Kim and let her eyes roam the sinuous, sensual metal lines. The butterflies fluttered in her stomach like they always did around airplanes and Gladys. Like every well-designed airplane since the Wright Flyer, Kandy Kim looked out of place on the ground. The P-38s landing gear were designed for rough and unfinished fields like the one the Seabees were building on South Pacific islands. They were masterpieces of engineering which, when extended on a 400 mph fighter plane, looked perfectly ridiculous. Nora felt the urge to take Kim into the sky, just because. She stepped forward to put her hand on Kim’s left wing and realized her hand was shaking. Not in fear, but the way it shook the first time she’d touched Gladys’s face. It was the feeling of finding herself on the edge of a great and wonderful discovery. She touched the leading edge outside the engine. The metal was warm.

She stepped back from the plane and folded her arms. Well, then. You seemed to have something on your mind this morning. What was it you wanted to talk about, girl? It’s just you and me out here now. She half-expected a nav light to blink or an aileron to wiggle in greeting. Part of her hoped for something more, the part of her where love and piloting lived and where anything was possible. Even the possibility that an airplane could have a conscious. Even the possibility of God.

When nothing happened after a minute, she laughed out loud.

Okay, okay, I get it. You’re operating on your own terms. For what it’s worth I can relate.

Nora ducked under the wing and hoisted herself up next to the cockpit. Had it not been locked she would have settled into the seat one last time. Instead she unsnapped the buttons and pulled the canvas hood back. She cupped her hands and looked into the cockpit. The white-faced instruments were just visible, hanging ghostlike in the dark. Again she waited for something to happen, and again nothing did. She sat down on the wing with her back against the big engine nacelle. The night’s first stars glittered on the southern horizon and the first dim outline of the Milky Way glowed like Kim’s instruments overhead. A light breeze fanned across the tarmac and Nora shivered.

Jiminy Cricket! A five-knot breeze up here packs the punch of a gale-force wind back home. Doesn’t bother you, though, does it?

It occurred to her that she’d never tried to have a conversation with an airplane before save for the occasional ‘Atta girl!’ or coaxing through a particularly dicey crosswind landing. Now she was sitting on a fighter’s wing trying to coax it into—what? The unease returned and she wondered all over again if she’d made up everything that happened earlier that day.

Hell with it, she thought, it’s not the first time I’ve raised some eyebrows. She said, I wish you could tell me how you got to be the way you are. I wish I knew how many there are like you. Unless you’re one of a kind, and I hope you’re not. You would be a pretty lonely gal. A gal like you deserves the right companionship. If I was a betting gal, though, I’d say the likes of Kandy Kim are few and far between. She patted Kim’s wing. Well, take it from me. It might take ten years and ten broken hearts, it may require a pickaxe and headlamp, but one day you’ll find her. Meantime, if you get lonely you just set your auto-nav for Tacoma Airport and I’ll be waiting.

The first notes of Taps drifted over the tarmac. That’s my cue, lights out. She stood on the wing. Thank you for an adventure I’ll never forget, girl. I’ll check on you once more in the morning before I head home. Sleep tight.

Nora went to replace Kim’s canopy cover when she saw a different glow from the instrument panel. The radio was on. Sure enough when she shined her penlight into the cockpit the radio and Nav/Com switches were both off. But there it was, the glowing radio. She heard something and pressed her ear against the glass. She heard distantly, a song she recognized:

I don’t want to set the world on fire,

I just want to start a flame in your heart.

In my heart I have but one desire,

And that one is you,

No other will do…

Nora swallowed a lump in her throat. It was one of her and Gladys’ favorite songs. They had danced to it the night before she left for duty. Coming from the cockpit of one of the world’s most powerful fighter planes, a machine designed to set as much of the world on fire as possible, it sounded like a plea.

She felt a tear roll down her cheek. It dripped onto Kim’s wing. Nora caressed Kim’s canopy and said, You’ve got a different mission, don’t you? Well, girl, I love you. I’ve never met anyone or anything like you. I’ll be dreaming of you a lot, and like I said, if you ever get lonely you know where to find me.

She took out a scrap of paper and her never-dry pen, and jotted a note:

Dear Pilot,

This is Kandy Kim. She’s not like any other airplane I’ve ever known. I have over 2,000 hours flight time in two dozen types of aircraft, and Kandy Kim is unique in every way. If I were to tell you why you wouldn’t believe me. The other letter in the cockpit explains how she got her name, but I’m not sure I can explain Kim herself.

All I can say is this: if something happens, trust her. She’ll take care of you. Take good care of her, too.

Keep the oily side down, flyboy.

Sincerely,

Lieutenant Nora Hall, US WASP Corps

September 13, 1944

She slipped the note under the canopy cover and jumped off the wing. She kissed the fighter’s nose just below her pitot tube, leaving a small lipstick mark.