A few words before this chapter…
As I've said, I do what I can to keep this fic as close to historically accurate as I can manage, and try especially hard to keep everything that happens within the spirit of the time period. That being said, I cannot be entirely accurate when it comes to inserting a fictional character into a select category of women. There were only 1,074 WASPs throughout the duration of WWII, and even fewer went on to fill the highly specialized positions I may or may not portray within this story. In many cases, there isn't a recorded precedent – at least not one I've managed to find! – for some of the plot points I'm working with. Furthermore, as much as I try to keep my timelines above all historically accurate, sometimes I need to fudge a little. So please don't take this work of fiction for full-blown fact; instead, if you want to learn more about WASP or women during WWII, I encourage you to do the following...
Read! There are lots of great resources out there regarding not only WASP but WAAC, WAVES and women in WWII in general. There's a lovely memoir from a female test pilot in WWII called A Wasp Among Eagles by Ann Carl. Though very different from the type of test piloting I show Mary Margaret participating in, this book was a great inspiration for me, and I highly recommend it to anyone interested in WASP or women in the military. Clipped Wings by Molly Merryman is also a great account of the development of the WASP program and its impact on the modern US military. I used this book more as reference material and haven't read it all, but it's also a great resource if you'd like to learn more.
Watch! There's an amazing interview with WASP test pilot Mildred "Micky" Axton on YouTube. It's only ten minutes long, and very enlightening as well as entertaining. Additionally, unrelated to female pilots, I'd direct you to the Canadian TV show Bomb Girls, which shows a fairly accurate (to my knowledge) representation of women on the homefront. It reminds us that women continued to work under dangerous conditions, often through pregnancy and illness, because they needed the money and the war effort needed them.
Additionally, in this chapter I officially acknowledge the existence of a fictional military installation just outside of Storybrooke. It's been implied since the first chapter (with Albert Spencer working in aircraft design and manufacturing; the soldiers in the park when Mary Margaret and David are having lunch in Chapter Nine), but I realized I'd never actually specified its existence. So yes, it was in the cards from the beginning. I'm terrible at naming things though, so please don't poke too much fun at me for 'Camp Kitsis'. ;)
With that tediously long author's note out of the way, please read and enjoy (and try not to kill me).
PS: Angie is the best beta ever. Everyone should tell her so.
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Divided we fall.
Charming,
I hope this letter finds you well, as I haven't heard from you since you left. I can't help but worry, but I also know that no news is good news in these uncertain times, and take your silence as confirmation that you're safe and sound.
I miss you. There's really not much more to say than that. I miss you, and while it's gotten easier to live without you, I feel as if I'm not really living at the same time. Some days, I wish I knew when this godforsaken war would be over - even if it's still years off - if only to have a day to look forward to. The uncertainty is what makes it hard; and while there is no doubt in my mind that you love me and will do all in your power to return home in one piece, I can't help but be swept up in the uncertainty of everything else.
I love you.
And now that I've surely made you blush and in turn made all the other boys jealous, it's time for the good news: no more ferrying for me! No, I'm still technically a part of WAFS, but we're merging with another squadron to form WASP (Women Airforce Service Pilots). Most of my colleagues will continue to work in ferry and transport, but I've been selected for something far more exciting - I'm going to be a test pilot!
I know, I know. Now you're probably worried DESPITE knowing I'm perfectly capable of flying any plane they can hand me. You're probably worried and PRETENDING you aren't, but I know you are and truth be told it's rather endearing. But know I'm safe and - best news yet - I'm HOME. Or at least as home as I can be without you there. The best part of the position was that it's at Camp Kitsis, so I can move back to Storybrooke and back in with Ruby. It's almost like times before the war, before we were both married. Almost.
Love and miss you with all my heart,
Your Snow
December 1,1942
PS: Ruby sends her regards, and asks you keep an eye out for Peter in case you may cross paths. Surely a friendly face would be of some comfort with all that's going on there.
Mary Margaret leans through the doorway of her old apartment, rapping her fist softly on the open door. "Knock knock."
Ruby about shrieks upon seeing her, dropping the dishes in the sink to run over to her friend, drawing her into a tight embrace. "I thought you were going to be another day at least!" she squeaks.
"I caught an earlier train," Mary Margaret explains, hugging Ruby back with equal fervor. The past months have been the longest they've gone without seeing one another since the day they met, and it isn't so much returning to the cramped apartment as it is the weight of Ruby's presence that makes her feel as if she's come home. "I hope that isn't a problem."
"Not at all," says Ruby, pulling away to hold her at arms' length for a moment before hugging her again. "Oh, I've missed you."
"I missed you too," Mary Margaret replies, laughing a little. "But you won't need to miss me anymore. I'm back."
They make dinner together, just like old times, though with war rations in full swing they're careful not to waste any valuable food. It's a comforting exercise - some degree of normalcy since her world has been up-ended again, and she's been left feeling a little lost without David there to guide her. She's done fine, of course, but finally having the comfort and security of a familiar home to return to again is enough to calm her few anxieties.
"So what's it like being some big important Army pilot?" Ruby teases over dinner, and Mary Margaret laughs.
"I wouldn't say important. So far all I've done is ferried planes and supplies from base to base." So far, but soon she'll be doing much more than that. It's both daunting and exhilarating to think she'll be one of the first female test pilots the United States has ever seen. "It isn't as if I'm out taking down the Red Baron and dodging Nazi artillery."
Ruby nudges Mary Margaret's foot with her own. "It's still important, you know."
"More important than fetching coffee and donuts," she jokes, then looks at Ruby seriously. "I really have missed you, you know."
"I know," Ruby says. "Me too."
David leans over the letter he's been writing, pressing the crumpled paper against his thigh and straining to see in the dim light offered him by the streetlamp. He promised he'd write every day, after all, and though fatigue weighs heavily on him, he isn't about to break that promise yet, even if it means scrambling to finish before blackout.
"Oi, shouldn't you be gettin' some rest?"
David looks up to find a British officer making his way down the street toward him, stepping into the lamplight to reveal dark hair, sharp blue eyes and a face lined with stubble and exhaustion. "Just have to finish this letter first," he says, and scribbles out a heartfelt farewell.
"No hurry, mate, just making sure nothing's amiss." The man, pauses, reaching to the inner pocket of his jacket and pulling out a flask. "Care for a drink?"
David eyes him for a moment, before accepting the proffered flask and taking a quick swig. "Mmf," he grimaces. "Rum."
"Aye, though not the best," his companion replies, taking a long drink as well. "Hard to come by these days."
"I can imagine," says David, only about half-cognizant of the conversation as he rereads the letter. There's rarely much to say - or rather, much that he can say without endangering himself and his entire platoon - but he always finds something; even if just to tell her about England, and how she would love the cities and towns, how they'll have to find reason to visit here someday, in happier times.
"Girl back home?"
David smiles sheepishly. "Is it that obvious?"
"I'm afraid you look downright smitten."
David feels the blood rise to his cheeks. "It's my wife," he says, reaching into his jacket for her photograph. "Mary Marg-"
"Hold up there, mate," the man says, wincing as he casts his gaze to the side. "Showing a war buddy a photograph of your girl back home is notorious bad luck. Keep 'er to yourself." He takes another long draw of rum and then smiles. "How long have you been married?"
David sighs, suddenly overcome by a strong feeling of nostalgia. "Only since last July."
"Ah," the man grins knowingly, lifting his flask in mock-toast. "A war-time wedding then. I suppose congratulations are in order, ah-"
"David - err - Private Nolan."
"Pleasure to meet you, David," he says, offering his hand. "The name's Killian. Lieutenant Killian Jones."
Mary Margaret trudges up the stairs to her apartment, stomps through her front door and grumbles, "This has to be some sort of sick joke."
Ruby responds from the kitchen, not even looking up from the pot she's stirring on the stove. "What does?"
Mary Margaret practically slams the door. "Do you remember Albert Spencer?" she asks snippily, dropping her bag and kicking off her shoes.
"Albert as in your father-in-law Albert?" Ruby frowns.
"Step father-in-law, technically," Mary Margaret corrects, then pauses as she's overcome by a distinctly pungent smell. "Good lord, what are you making?"
"Spaghetti," Ruby replies, casting her a half-glare. "And what about him?"
Spaghetti or not, the smell still turns Mary Margaret's stomach, but she swallows the nausea and lifts herself to sit on the counter. "Well, do you remember how I told you he worked with airplanes? That he worked with new, experimental aircraft?"
Ruby stares for a moment, mouth agape, and then, "New, experimental aircraft as in the kind of new, experimental aircraft you're test piloting?"
Mary Margaret smiles unhappily and taps her nose with her finger.
"Well, shit."
"Couldn't have said it better myself," Mary Margaret sighs, wondering if maybe she should have stuck with being a glorified deliverywoman instead of taking the unique opportunity. But in the end she knows she wouldn't have been able to resist returning home, to having Ruby and Granny and Leroy so close again; to having her family. "Ruby, what am I going to do?"
Ruby offers her a sympathetic look. "You can't very well quit, can you?"
"Not really," Mary Margaret replies, tugging nervously at the hem of her sleeve. "And I don't really want to quit, it's just … Albert."
"He's a piece of work, huh?" Ruby muses before tasting her sauce and humming happily at her work.
Mary Margaret can't help but think how detached Albert had been at both Ruth's and James's funerals, how Ruth had spent months dying without her husband at her side. It isn't so much about his distaste for her anymore, but rather his complete disregard for his family. "You have no idea."
"But it isn't like he's your boss, right? Not directly, I mean."
"No, thank God."
Ruby piddles around the kitchen, getting two plates ready for supper. "Then he can't really do anything to you. Fire you or anything."
"He can make my life miserable!" Mary Margaret groans and wrinkles her nose at the spaghetti, before sliding down from the counter and padding away to her room. "Thanks, but I think I might just get some sleep."
Ruby smiles sympathetically. "Let me know if you need anything."
"I will," Mary Margaret promises, though what she really needs - a good night's rest without worry, a job that does not involve Albert Spencer, and most of all her husband home safe and sound - are things completely out of Ruby's control.
"That bastard." Mary Margaret slams the door on her way inside, kicking off her shoes and dumping her things on the floor.
Ruby doesn't bat an eyelash, sprawled across the sofa with a book open on her chest. "Albert, I presume?"
Mary Margaret winces. "Is it really that obvious?"
"No-one knows how to push your buttons like he does," Ruby explains, grimacing as she pushes herself up to sit. "What did he do this time?"
Mary Margaret plops into the armchair with an exasperated sigh. "We have this new plane. I can't really divulge any details but … well, it isn't exactly new. All the kinks have been worked out, we're just working on improving fuel efficiency, making sure the new fuel mixtures give it as much power as they'll need in a fight. But he knows I've been dying to get my hands on it and this test was supposed to be mine."
"And he won't let you near it," Ruby surmises, curling up again.
"He pointedly won't let me," Mary Margaret corrects, voice bordering on a growl. "I've had it up to here with his chauvinistic pigheadery."
"And here I thought you'd gotten to that point the moment you met him," Ruby comments sarcastically, though her voice is edged with pain. "Mary Margaret? Is there any chance you could heat up a water bottle for me?"
"What? Oh." Mary Margaret jumps to her feet and makes her way into the kitchen to put the kettle on, offering Ruby a sympathetic smile. "That time again?"
"What gave it away?" Ruby replies wryly.
"Something between the lying in the fetal position on the sofa and the near groaning." In a way, the act of fetching supplies is a much needed distraction from the fruitless exercise of fuming over Albert's antics. She can whine and rant as much as she wants, and it won't get her any closer to the cockpit of that plane. But taking care of Ruby? That at least has a purpose.
"Mm," Ruby hums, then calls out to the kitchen. "Need to work on my acting, then. Maybe you could give me some lessons. After all, it seems like the Army has trained you out of whining over Mother Nature."
Mary Margaret is just deciding to make some chamomile tea as well, pulling down their mugs and a pair of teabags when Ruby's words strike something in her mind. "I guess so," she agrees with a frown, her thoughts now clouded by something far more important than Albert's ignorance.
Mary Margaret swallows thickly, takes a deep breath and steps inside her apartment where Ruby is on the sofa, busy repurposing old drapes into a dress.
As expected, it takes approximately five seconds for her to respond with a startled shout. "Your hair!"
Mary Margaret bites her lip and quietly closes the door behind her. "Is it that bad?" she asks nervously, touching the boy-short strands as she watches Ruby stare with mouth agape.
"No no, it isn't bad," Ruby explains, but she still looks a tad bewildered. "Just … why?"
"It's going to be getting in the way."
"You've never had a problem with it before," Ruby frowns. "There's no way these new fancy airplanes are that different, so what gives?"
"It was just becoming too much," Mary Margaret explains, then feels a stir of anxiety in her gut. "Fitting it under the helmet, getting it to adhere to Army regs. Not to mention sticky fingers and that babies always like to pull-"
Ruby is quiet at first, her eyes widening further. "Babies?"
Mary Margaret bites her lip again, this time to contain a smile, and nods.
"You're pregnant," Ruby says; a statement, not a question.
"Yes," she replies, hardly a whisper, but behind it is barely contained excitement.
"Oh my goodness!" Ruby squeaks, dropping her sewing to the floor before bounding over to tackle Mary Margaret in an ecstatic hug. "Oh my gosh, that's wonderful!"
"Yeah?" she asks uncertainly, hugging her friend back as tightly as she can.
"Of course!" Ruby beams, pulling away to hold Mary Margaret at arms' length. "David will be thrilled."
Mary Margaret tries not to choke up at that, thinking of the letter that she'd just sent off to Europe; a letter that he may not receive for weeks. "You think so?"
"Of course he will!" Ruby insists. "Oh my gosh, you're pregnant."
"Yes," Mary Margaret laughs as Ruby hugs her again. "Well, I think so. I'm still waiting to hear back from my doctor, but … the timing lines up."
"That's just wonderful," Ruby smiles. "I'm so happy for you."
They decide this calls for celebration, so they make their way to Granny's, where she gives them each a scoop of ice cream - a real treat that neither of them have been able to afford, but that Granny is happy to slip them upon hearing the good news.
"So how long do you plan on flying in your condition?" Granny asks, leaning towards them over the bar as the two younger women giggle over their dessert.
Mary Margaret hums happily as she swallows a bite of ice cream. "Well, I imagine I'll get to a point where I won't exactly fit in the cockpit." Ruby snickers at that, and Granny casts her a look of warning. "But I suppose it's no different than other girls working in the factories until their - condition as you called it - becomes apparent."
"Mm," Granny muses, swallowing the bad feeling that twists in her stomach.
"We can't really afford for me to lose another job so quickly," Mary Margaret explains further. "I won't get the 'official' news for another day or so, though. And then - I'll figure out what I have to do."
"You could always do paperwork and such until the baby comes," Ruby suggests, and Mary Margaret wrinkles her nose at that. "Oh! And when you're back to flying, Granny and I can look after the baby for you!"
"Happily," Granny adds kindly. "Whatever help you need."
And she means it; Mary Margaret is just as much her granddaughter as Ruby is, and she'd do anything for that girl's happiness.
So that night, once the girls have helped turn the chairs up on the tables and swept the floors, Granny pulls out a thick skein of wool and casts on a row of neat stitches. Because even in the hardest, most uncertain of times, a child is always cause for celebration.
There hasn't been much time to unpack since Mary Margaret returned home, but she quickly gets to the point where the stacks of boxes - not to mention the tiresome chore of living out of a suitcase - is getting on her nerves. It may not be the way she'd originally planned to spend her day off, but then again, there isn't much she can afford to do to begin with; especially not with a baby on the way.
The clothes are easy enough, and she even takes the time to hang up some of David's as well. It eases the loneliness a bit to see his suit hanging alongside her favorite dress, to tug one of his favorite work shirts over her head and let the sleeves fall to the tips of her fingers.
The paperwork, however, is a mess.
Everything had happened so fast - two deaths, two enlistments and their last minute wedding - all events heavy with paperwork; not so convenient when she's spent the past months hopping from post to post before finally ending up back where she'd started. So she spends the better part of an hour sorting and folding, choosing which items are important enough to keep and which are best to be rid of.
And there, in a stack of old scribbles, she finds something she'd never meant to lose.
When Ruth died, she didn't have much to give to her children; after all, her assets still belonged to her husband. She'd been able to give a few things to David, and had set some aside for James. And even for Mary Margaret, she'd left a letter.
A letter Mary Margaret had never gotten to read.
It had been forgotten in the chaos of learning of James' death, in the preparations for a funeral, in the jumble of enlistment; lost in a shuffle of far less important paperwork - until now.
She opens it carefully, before pulling free a letter in Ruth's flowing script and frowning when a necklace with a heavy pendant falls into her palm.
My dear Mary Margaret,
If you are reading this, I'm afraid I am no longer with you. I hope you will not shed too many tears on my account; after all, I have lived a full and happy life, blessed with two wonderful sons and filled with happiness. My one regret is that I have not lived long enough to see you become officially part of the family. You've made my David so very happy, and I'm sure you'll take good care of one another in the years to come.
I want you to have this necklace. It was my mother's, and her mother's before her. I suppose it's a bit of a family superstition, but it's said to be able to predict the sex of your unborn child - should the pendant swing east to west, the child will be a girl; north to south, a boy. I know it's silly superstition, but it worked with my boys, so perhaps it will work for you as well. And most of all, it's important to keep such tokens in the family. I trust you to keep it safe.
I'm sorry to leave you both so soon, and I'm sorry I don't have much to give you but this necklace, and my blessing. Be happy, love with abandon, and never be afraid to lean on one another. Together, you'll make it in the end.
With all my love. Always,
Ruth
Mary Margaret smiles, blinking as tears threaten her and she wonders how some things manage to fall into your lap just as you need them.
Truthfully, her biggest fear in learning that she'll soon be a mother is that she doesn't have a mother of her own to lean on. Of course, she has Granny, and for the old woman's kindness and welcoming arms she'll be forever grateful, but the loss of her mother - and of Ruth - weighs heavily on her. And while the letter has her blinking back tears she'd thought long since shed, it also lends her the confidence she so desperately needs.
That night, lying in bed in the moonlight, she finally works up the courage to tug the necklace over her head and dangle it above her still-flat stomach. At first, nothing happens, and then slowly - very slowly - the thick pendant begins to swing, just barely, from east to west.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pendant stops.
Mary Margaret frowns.
And she waits.
She waits and waits and waits and … nothing happens.
The clouds soon shift, covering the moon and shrouding her room in darkness. She sighs, loops the necklace back over her head and does her best to sleep. But something dark pulls at her thoughts, tugging at her until at last sleep takes her, the stillness of the pendant still vivid in her mind.
Mary Margaret is beginning to wonder if morning sickness is in part psychosomatic, because the nausea and unease has more than doubled since accepting her condition. She isn't quite miserable, but the trend isn't looking great. Though that isn't really a problem for work; after all, she barely gets any flying time thanks to her (step) father-in-law, who seems almost happy to find her queasy and exhausted when she reports for duty.
So of course he'd choose today of all days to let her in the cockpit of the plane she's been making doe-eyes at for nearly two weeks.
"What?"
"Did I stutter, Miss Blanchard?" he says, emphasizing the use of her maiden name. "You're up. Unless you don't think you can cut it."
She bristles at that, her roiling anger holding the nausea at bay. "I'm the best damn pilot here, sir."
"Then I'd suggest you prove it, young lady," he snipes condescendingly. "Before I find someone who can."
Mary Margaret is bubbling over with excitement as she familiarizes herself with the controls of the Hellcat, then takes her off up into the air with the ease and grace of a lady. She flies like a dream, not that Mary Margaret had expected anything less. This is just a dry run, after all; no FTTs*, no stunts, just her and the Hellcat and miles upon miles of open sky.
There's nothing quite like flying to clear her mind, and she certainly needs it these days. She hasn't heard from David in over a week, and while she knows that mail is slower than ever during wartime, some irrational portion of her mind has taken to imagining him reacting poorly to her news, and an even darker corner of her mind has imagined all sorts of terrible things that could have happened. Ruby, of course, does all in her power to allay her fears, reminding her that she hasn't heard from Peter in just as long, that if something had happened she'd be the first to know, and - most of all - that David will be anything but upset at the news of their unborn child.
Yes, Ruby tries, but there's something about this freedom that calms her more than any-
She feels a tug of wind on her tail, stronger than she'd expected and corrects, giving the plane some throttle until it steadies.
"A little bumpy out here," she grumbles, half to the radio and half to herself as a wave of nausea rises in her throat. "Don't think it's anything wrong with the plane herself but-"
She doesn't get a chance to finish that thought before she's distracted by something far more unsettling than turbulence. A twist of pain grips her abdomen, radiating through her hips then all the way down to her toes. It passes, leaving only a dull ache, but the distraction is enough to let the turbulence take her again.
There is no correcting her flight pattern, no signaling for any useful help before she finds herself hurtling toward the ground with no hope of stopping. There's nothing she can do but swallow her nausea and keep calm, reminding herself that this will be far from her first crash landing, and it's unlikely to be her last; there's nothing she can do but pull up and hope for a relatively smooth landing.
It isn't though, and she pushes on the brakes as hard as she can as she tears across the empty field, bumping over grass and rocks that don't manage to slow her down at all. But she lands safely enough, no real damage to her or the plane until she feels the thump of hitting a small boulder beneath her landing gear and the smack of her head against the console, and everything fades to black.
"Nolan? Nolan? Do you copy?"
Mary Margaret comes to, blinking as her mind pieces together the details of the crash - the nausea, the pain, the careless mistake that sent her tumbling to the ground. She's only been out for a few minutes, she realizes, seeing the smoke coming off the engine and the dust still settling around her; no sign of help in sight.
"Nolan, I repeat, do you copy?"
She groans, the frequency of the radio a dull knife to her already-throbbing head. She reaches up to touch her forehead and hisses at the pressure, her fingers coming away sticky with blood. "I'm here," she croaks.
"What's your status? Are you okay?"
Then she feels it, that lurch in her abdomen again that isn't so much a lurch this time but blinding pain. And when she looks down, she's terrified to find blood pooling between her legs.
"No," she says numbly. "No, I'm not."
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*FTT - Flight Test Technique, or a specific maneuver designed to evaluate the design of an aircraft.
