Clouds

Though lifeblood flowed from her fiery veins, and smoke tainted her lungs, not a single word of regret escaped her lips.

Flying a plane had been one of her greatest dreams growing up. When she was four years old, she was preoccupied with staying out late after her curfew and lying on the grass, envisioning what it would be like to soar above the clouds and look at everyone below her. One day, when she would buy her plane, she promised to bring a jar of stars to the ground.

The day she turned fifteen, her teacher asked her what she wanted to do in the future. She responded that she would fly. Admittedly she could have worded her answer better, as she blushed while her classmates roared with laughter, but there was an unshakable determination in her voice.

A couple of months ago, she turned twenty-three and the war began. Hitler reigned over Germany, and his soldiers were relentless in their attacks. Shocked commentary on the war swept through America, and her parents listened to each radio report with revulsion. She could hear her mother’s gasps and her father’s angry comments from where she fixed her model planes.

It was unfair, her mother sobbed, and she couldn’t help but agree. That was life, though, and life was unfair. She held up a model of a Ford Trimotor, observing the way the cheap metallic paint glistened in the sunlight. Maybe she would have the chance to be in the presence of a real one someday.

The promise of “someday” hovered over her as she worked, and she awaited its arrival eagerly. Her job as an operator simply wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t as bad as her previous secretary job, but living in constant fear of making a customer angry or messing up the switchboard wires wasn’t ideal. She longed to leave behind the endless chatter of her coworkers and desks cluttered with various wires and notes. Up in a Boeing surrounded by clouds and no one to converse with but herself.

Eventually, she grew desperate to begin her aviation career. She hadn’t wanted to beg her father to lend her money, but she could see no other option.

“Please,” she said, her voice cracking on the word. “I just need enough money for a license. Five-hundred dollars—”

Her father raised her eyebrow at her and slowly pushed his glasses down as he studied her. “Phoebe, you’ve heard the radio, haven’t you? People are dying. If you still want to fly a plane, you can earn money and buy a license. Just not with the war.”

She shook her head and fought back the sting of tears.

He looked at her for a second and almost seemed to reconsider. Then his features hardened, and he said, “No.”

Phoebe’s father stood up, adjusted his glasses, and walked past her into the hallway.

Six months later, she paced in the lobby of the small concrete building she had spent countless days wandering as she waited for her next training lesson. Her heart leaped every time she looked through the large window at the pavement littered with planes. From where she stood, they looked like the toy planes she had played with as a child.

She had memorized every crevice of the lobby. The building wasn’t anything new to her, but the sight of the small, sleek planes outside would never bore her. The process of earning her license certainly did, though. She suppressed a grin as she thought of how she had slogged through tests and forms while hopping from job to job. It had taken a while, but after working day and night for months, she had made four hundred dollars. When she turned to her parents, they expressed their disapproval, but they reached an agreement: they would give her a hundred dollars for the license as long as she didn’t involve herself in the war.

At that moment, the secretary called, “Flight 243.”

She sucked in a deep breath before strutting towards her assigned plane. The Ford Trimotor stood proudly, its steel glinting in the warm sunlight. As she drew closer, a shadow fell across it, giving it an almost ominous appearance.

She climbed into the cockpit, eyeing the wooden dashboard and shiny metal buttons. This mission was a first for many of them, but according to their commander, it wasn’t much different from their training. She nodded at the man by her side and ran her hands over the smooth leather seat. Then she looked over the cockpit at the other women in planes around her, marveling at how they had all once shared a single room.

She relaxed from the familiar feeling of the plane’s wheels rolling over the smooth pavement, and she acted with practiced movements. A smile lit up her face as her plane moved past another, and she peeked through the window at the curly-haired woman in it. The woman gave her a small nod in response. She understood.

The journey would be long, much longer than any of them were prepared for. They were going to fly over an enemy base, as it was the only way they could reach their own soldiers. Their commander reassured them that as long as they stuck to their instructions and stayed low, they would be safe.

She hadn’t had time to wish her family goodbye or inform them that she was working for the army, but she sent a letter just before she boarded her plane. If she was lucky, it would get to her parents after she had completed the mission.

If she did make it back, that is.

She accelerated the plane until her surroundings blurred and the plane raised off of the ground. A small grin overtook her as she felt herself jostle a bit, but her arm remained steady when she pulled the flight stick. The buildings and people underneath her grew smaller and smaller until they were barely visible. She looked to her right and squinted a little, waving at another plane. As she settled into her seat, she pulled a map out from a compartment. This wasn’t much different from training after all.

The trip was much smoother than she predicted. As expected, the enemy was quiet, and there weren’t any signs of rogue planes or bombs. The soft whirring of the plane engine and the cool air eased the slight tension of her body.

The pilots drifted among the lower clouds—low enough to make an emergency landing if necessary, but high enough that their planes weren’t visible from the ground. Her eyes drifted to the sun, partially concealed by thick swirls of fog. It was the closest she had ever gotten to the star, and she ached for a better look.

While whistling a small tune, she listened to her communicator. The excited chattering of other pilots surrounded her as they laughed at the fear they’d felt. Closing her eyes, she turned down the volume of the communicator and enjoyed the solitude.

A scream from her communicator caused her to jump and stare at the small device. There was an explosion of chatter and voices.

“What’s wrong?”

“Is everything alright?”

“What happened?”

The sharp voice of their commander cut in: “Plane 144 down. The enemy is shooting.”

The shocked voices of the other pilots overlapped, trembling with fear and worry.

“Keep going, everyone,” the commander said.

There was a loud bang from her right. Her head swiveled to catch a plane—one of her friend’s planes—falling from the sky, with flames erupting out of the left wing.

She looked down with her binoculars to see a ball of fire headed her way. She moved to the right and brought her plane lower. Horrified, she watched as multiple planes began to fall like wounded birds. Her grip tightened around the map.

She grabbed her communicator as one hand manned the plane.

“Captain? Are you there? This is Flight 243.”

There was a bit of feedback. She shook the communicator in frustration. “Captain?” More feedback and then a sigh.

“I’m sorry, pilot.”

The line cut. She shook the communicator again before tossing it to the floor. Panic flooded through her and sweat formed on her palms. Was she going to—

Then there was an ear-splitting crash. For a minute she thought another one of her friends had been hit until smoke seeped into the cockpit and her plane tumbled down, down, down through the air.

Oh.

Tears brimmed in her eyes from the heat, and she remained still as air wooshed by her ear. Glass shattered around her and sliced her skin. Smoke invaded her lungs. She coughed and sputtered, her vision of the sky blurring.

Her hand was still clasped around the flight stick. She desperately yanked it. She could still make it, couldn’t she?

A scream ripped from her throat as the plane hit the ground and her limbs were crushed. Bloodstained her uniform. Her breath came in ragged pants as she tried to crawl out of the wreck, but pain shot through her body when she moved. With a soft sigh, she rested the side of her head against the bloodied earth. Through a small hole in the plane, she could see a sliver of the peaceful blue sky. The sun smiled on her as she lost consciousness.

She had learned her lesson. Maybe her head and soul belonged among the clouds, but her body was tethered to the ground it would now scorch upon.