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: