My name is Lucy Saint Clair, the first woman to become a P-51 fighter pilot.

I’m from Texas. I was an average southern belle, attracting my local town boys to want to get with me. Boys I repeatedly told no.

But now, the only thing I climbed onto was a cockpit.

It’s been 2 years into the war and I do mighty fine in the air. I fly with such skill I could practically put the entire airforce out of a job.

A counted 106 confirmed air kills, what a doozy.

As I climb out my P-51 Mustang, taking off my flying cap too. I walk along the wing before coming down to the real ground.

The grounds crew started loading up, tuning, fixing, and refilling my plane.

“Clean her up real good boys. Make that chrome steel shine like a mirror.” I shouted while smiling.

I walk over to the pilot’s canteen, opening the doors. I take off my shades.

The talking immediately stopped as every man looked away from me. I could tell they were scared, and I hated that they were. But I pretended I hated their guts. Really push the ‘independent woman’ narrative.

“Tsk… pansies…”