“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: