On the Saturday that Norma and Rosa went to visit the airfield they doffed their uniforms and put on their civies.

“All the same,” Norma said, “we’ll take along our identification cards, just in case—”

Airplanes, especially those flown by the Army Air Forces, had always interested Norma, so she was more than delighted when shortly after their arrival at the field, a flight of small, sleek fighter planes came winging in out of the blue.

“Look, Rosa!” Norma exclaimed. “Aren’t they wonderful! Like a flock of beautiful white pigeons!”

There was no need to say “Look” to the little Italian WAC. As if in a hypnotic trance, she stood with eyes glued on the flight of planes.

“See how they circle!” Norma herself was entranced. “This is like war. This is how they will come sweeping in after escorting a bomber squadron in Africa, or China, or who knows where. That’s the way they’ll look when we watch them beyond the seas.”

“Yes, this is war,” was all that Rosa said, as one by one the fighting planes taxied across the field into position.

Like a troop of boys the fliers came walking across the field.

“Bill is in flight training right now,” Norma said, all excited. “If only he were in that group!”

“Who’s Bill?” Rosa’s eyes left the planes for an instant.

“Oh, he’s just Bill.” Norma laughed. “But he’s not here.”

Always interested in any person in uniform, Norma moved closer to the joking, laughing group.

“How young they seem!” she said, half aloud. It shocked her to think that some day, perhaps not too far away, from the blue sky, shot out of his plane, Bill would come hurtling down, tumbling over and over like a stick thrown into the air crashing at last to earth.

“This is war,” she thought, with a shudder. “We WACs must do all in our power to make it end. And we will! Now we are a hundred and fifty thousand. Next it will be three hundred thousand—half a million—a million WACs marching away to win the war.”

Looking up, she allowed her eyes to sweep the field. It was an inspiring picture—the men, the planes, the flag floating in the breeze.

“Oh!” she whispered. “Oh! How I wish Dad were young again!”

And then, with a sudden start, she realized that Rosa was gone from her side.

“She’s vanished!” she thought, with a sudden sense of panic, as her eyes sought the girl in vain.

Just then, as if moving of its own will, one of the fighter planes began gliding toward the center of the field.

At once the quiet scene became one of action. A young pilot close to the plane made a running jump to grab the tail of the plane. He had just reached it when, in the midst of shouting and sound of rushing feet, the plane’s motor went silent, and the plane itself came to a sudden stop.

Norma was thunderstruck when, from the pilot’s seat of that plane, none other than her companion, Rosa, the little Italian WAC, was dragged out.

“Rosa! Rosa! You little dunce! Why did you do it?” she screamed as she raced forward.

By the time she reached the side of the plane Rosa was on the ground. A stalwart member of the Military Police had her by the arm, and was saying:

“Come along, sister. What’s wrong with you? Drunk? Or just plain nuts—or nothin’ at all?”

“It’s the guardhouse for her,” a second M.P. predicted loudly.

Realizing that for the moment nothing could be accomplished, Norma joined three grinning young pilots as they followed the M.P.’s and Rosa across the field.

“What’s the matter with that girl?” one of the pilots asked in a friendly tone.

“I don’t know,” was all Norma could say.

“She was with you, wasn’t she?” a second pilot asked.

Norma made no reply.

“She really had that plane going,” said the first pilot. “One minute more, and she’d have been right up in the sky.”

“And there’s secrets in those planes that nobody but us are supposed to know,” put in number three. “By George! Maybe she’s a spy!”

“Hush,” said Norma. “She’s no more a spy than you are. She’s a WAC.”

“A WAC!” the first pilot exclaimed. “Well I’ll be jiggered! And I suppose you’re one too?”

“Sure I am,” Norma agreed.

“Well, all I got to say is you’d look swell in any uniform,” was the final rejoinder.

Just then the flight commander, a very youthful-appearing major who had come across the field in long strides, caught up with the procession.

“Caught this girl trying to steal one of your planes,” said an M.P.

“Yes,” said the other. “We’re taking her to the guardhouse. C’mon, sister.” He gave the weeping Rosa a gentle push.

“Wait a minute. Not so fast. Those are our planes. I’m flight commander. Let the girl go. She won’t run away, will you, young lady?”

Rosa tried to speak, but no words came.

“Here’s a young lady who was with her,” said a pilot, moving Norma gently forward. “She says they’re both WACs.”

“WACs?” said the officer. “Hmm! Where are your uniforms?”

“We’re on leave.” Norma swallowed hard, then threw her shoulders back. “Saturday afternoon and Sunday we can wear what we please. And—and Major,” she stammered, “I don’t know why Rosa did it. I—I think the plane charmed her.”

“Charmed her! Hmm! Now let’s see.”

“She’s one of the best little WACs in our squadron,” said Norma, half in despair.

“And are you the squadron’s leader?”

“No, but I drill the entire company. And that’s not all!” Norma exclaimed, gathering courage from the major’s smiling eyes. “I’m the daughter of Major John M. Kent, who fought in the World War—”

“John M. Kent!” The major studied her face. “You do look like him. You’ve got his eyes.”

“Then you know him?” Norma exclaimed.

“Quite well. He’s a splendid man.”

“His eyes are not all I have,” said Norma. “I have his picture.” She fumbled in her billfold.

“Here—here it is.”

The officer studied the photograph, and, across the bottom of it, he read:

“To my beloved daughter Norma.”

“Norma,” he smiled. “That’s a pretty name for a pretty girl. So you’re a WAC? A chip off the old block. Shake.” He held out his hand. She seized it in a good, friendly grip.

“And here’s a picture of our squadron,” Norma said half a minute later. “There’s Rosa, right there, uniform and all. You know we wouldn’t do anything wrong. I guess Rosa just lost her head.”

“Yes, lost my head,” Rosa sobbed.

“All right, boys,” said the major. “You may let the young lady go. You can’t put a WAC in the guardhouse. It just isn’t being done, especially not here.”

To Norma he said: “If I’m here long enough I’m coming to visit your camp. Yours is a grand outfit. We’re going to need you all before this scrap is over.”

“Oh! Please do come!” Norma exclaimed. “I—I’ll get you the keys to Boom Town and to every other place in old Fort Des Moines!”

“Well, I’m jiggered!” exclaimed one of the pilots, as Norma and the still silently weeping Rosa hurried off the field.

Once she was safe on the streetcar and headed for the city, Rosa ceased her weeping, but every now and again Norma heard her whisper:

“Why did I do it? Oh why?”

What was back of all this? Hidden away in the little Italian girl’s mind were secrets. Norma would never be able to doubt that from this day on.

“I’d like to go exploring in that mind of yours,” she thought. That this type of exploring often leads to disaster she knew all too well. So, for the time being, she did not explore.

Arrived at the city, Norma at once sought out a restaurant with a little nook in the wall where lights were subdued and where delicious foods were served.

By the time they had gone all the way from soup to ice cream and were sipping good strong black tea, the little Italian girl’s eyes were shining once again.

“Was that after all so terrible?” she asked.

“Of course it was,” Norma replied instantly. The question surprised and shocked her.

“I did no harm to the plane.”

“You might have killed someone, wrecked the plane, or even flown away in it.”

“Oh, no, I—” For a space of seconds it seemed that Rosa was on the verge of revealing some important secret. “But—but I didn’t do any of those terrible things,” she ended lamely.

“The secret must wait,” Norma told herself. To Rosa she said: “There were secrets in that plane.”

“I didn’t want their secrets,” Rosa’s cheeks flushed.

“How could they know that?” Norma was a little provoked.