Lady Flyer, page 25
Nancy was about to respond when Colonel Baker and Lieutenant Joe Tracy came out of the office. She introduced everyone, then Tracy took Betty on her flight check.
Nancy headed into Baker’s office with him to review any new correspondence they’d received. The first group of women was already set, with Cornelia Fort, Aline Rhonie, Helen Mary Clark, Catherine Slocum, Adela Scharr, Teresa James, and Esther Nelson. And more were on their way. Part of the program would also incorporate the thirty-day Army indoctrination.
Other women who’d committed to go through the pretesting included Barbara Poole, who was a flight instructor in Detroit. Her experience also included barnstorming, stunts such as jumping out of planes, and CPT training. She had 1,800 qualifying hours but still had to get her 200-horsepower rating. That shouldn’t be a problem. Gertrude Meserve, Esther Manning, Nancy Batson, and Barbara Jane “B.J.” Erickson were all incoming as well. B.J. had graduated from CPT out of the University of Washington, and she was an instructor who flew both land and sea planes.
When Betty walked into the office with Joe Tracy, she wore a big grin on her face. “I passed.”
Nancy rose from where she was sitting across from Baker’s desk. “That’s great news because I need an executive officer to act as second-in-command.”
Betty’s eyes widened. “I know nothing.”
“You know more than everyone else but me,” Nancy said. “Besides, you’re good at bossing people plus carrying out orders.”
“Then, I accept.” Betty laughed, a sound Nancy would never take for granted. “Or maybe I should call and tell my husband first, although I’m pretty sure he already knows the outcome of today.”
“Great, you do that, and then I need my executive officer to give me an opinion on the uniforms.”
A few minutes later, a beaming Betty joined Nancy, and they spent the next hour going over the rudimentary sketches of a WAFS uniform that Nancy had outlined.
“There will be several parts to the uniform,” Nancy said, pointing to the sketch of a shirt. “We’ll have shirts and ties made of tan broadcloth. The slacks will be narrow-cut slacks, for when we’re flying, and these gored-style skirts are for street wear.”
“I like it so far.” Betty picked up the sketch with a jacket. “Jackets with four pockets?”
“Yes, they’ll be tailored, made from gray-green wool gabardine, and trimmed with brass buttons.”
To complete the uniform, Nancy had decided they’d wear low-heeled, brown-leather pumps, carry a leather shoulder bag, and don an overseas cap, overcoat, and gloves.
“I love all of it.” Betty continued leafing through the sketches, marking a couple of places with a pencil. “The belt needs to be detachable, and the jacket a short cut so it doesn’t interfere with wearing a parachute.”
“Good ideas.” Nancy jotted down the notes. “The women will be paying for their own uniforms since we’re not militarized.” She hoped that wouldn’t be too much of a strain, but she planned to help out if it was.
Betty tapped her pencil on the desk. “Hopefully a budget can be put in place at some point.”
Nancy hoped it would happen as well. The women would swear in as civilian pilots of the ATC, taking the same oath as the men who joined the Ferrying Division. The women wouldn’t be receiving a commission at the end of the ninety-day commitment, even though they’d have officer privileges.
“Also, the WAFS will wear the command insignia over the left breast pocket here.” Nancy pointed to her sketch.
“The civilian pilot wings of the ATC,” Betty mused.
“Correct.” Nancy straightened the sketches into a pile. “The flight suit won’t be so pretty since we’ll have to put up with what’s already in distribution until new sizes can be made.”
“Let me guess,” Betty said, “we’re wearing men’s flight suits?”
Nancy crossed to the corner of the room where she’d stashed a few things. “Here’s one of them.”
Betty took the flight suit, holding it up by the shoulders. The suit draped to the floor, pooling there, clearly several sizes too big, especially against Betty’s five-foot-one frame.
“We’ll each have parachutes and goggles, of course, along with . . .” Nancy picked up the next item. “A white silk AAF flying scarf.”
Betty smoothed her hand over the silk scarf.
“And finally,” Nancy continued, “we’ll have leather flying jackets that will sport the ATC patch.”
“Very official, all of this.”
Nancy smiled. “Very.”
Within a few days, the women pilots had reported to base, sworn in as civilian pilots, and settled into their barracks. The second floor of the barracks soon filled up with Nancy, Betty, Cornelia Fort, Esther Nelson, Catherine Slocum, Adela “Del” Scharr, Teresa James, Aline “Pat” Rhonie, and Helen Mary Clark.
When October 19 rolled around, nine WAFS members officially graduated from training, with Barbara Towne and Helen Richards still working on their training.
Shortly after graduation, Catherine Slocum showed up in Nancy’s office, hovering in the doorway. “Mrs. Love, I need to speak with you,” she said, her blonde curls tamed into a tight bun at the nape of her neck.
Nancy went on alert at the gravity of her words and motioned for her to enter. “Of course. Have a seat.”
Catherine shut the door before taking a seat, and this alerted Nancy even more. The woman’s face was pale, and she clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “As you know, my husband is the general manager of the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, and things are very busy in the newspaper world right now.”
Nancy nodded. She’d heard Catherine talk about her husband and four children more than once.
“The thing is, the childcare for our children has fallen through, and it would be impossible for Richard to take a leave of absence from his job, you see. Even part-time.” She drew in a shaky breath. “So, I must resign from the WAFS.”
Nancy had also heard rumblings of Catherine’s childcare problem but had hoped they’d found a solution. Catherine had graduated, after all, and was about to take on ferrying assignments. Nancy could see both determination and regret in Catherine’s eyes. She was a fine pilot and would have been an excellent addition.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Catherine, but I know family is a priority.”
“Thank you for this opportunity, Mrs. Love.” She blinked back the tears gathering in her eyes. “This was a dream to participate in, and maybe if things change, I can ring you up?”
“Yes, I’d love that.” Nancy smiled, although her eyes had teared too. “You’d be welcome back anytime. I’d never turn down an excellent pilot.”
Catherine sniffled and stood.
Nancy walked around the desk and hugged the woman. “Safe journey, and tell those kids of yours that they’re very lucky.”
Catherine laughed and released Nancy. “It might take them a while to really appreciate things. But maybe with my absence so far, they’ll be glad to see me.”
“I have no doubt about that.” After a second hug, Catherine left the office.
Nancy stood in the quiet space for a moment. She’d seen firsthand Catherine’s dedication, and the other women’s. They were all making great sacrifices. It wasn’t easy, not on any of them. Nancy predicted that more hardships would come, and all she could do was deal with them one day at a time.
She herself missed Bob fiercely, and their nightly phone calls only eased that somewhat. But she wouldn’t have it any other way at that moment.
By the time she joined the other women in the mess hall that evening for dinner, Catherine had already packed and left on a train. Conversation veered from missing Catherine to news about the war—the Battle of Stalingrad still raged in the Soviet Union. And the Japanese had conquered Guam, Hong Kong, the Philippines, the Dutch East Indies, Malaya, Singapore, and Burma. But the Allies were on the offensive—they’d won the Battle of Midway in June, and in August, American troops forced Japan to withdraw from the Solomon Islands.
With every bad news report, something else came through as victorious. The Battle of Milne Bay was over, and the Allies had defeated the Japanese in New Guinea in a land battle—the first major land battle Japan had lost.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“This notion that women should be of high moral character and technical competence while no such standards were used for men set the tone for the double standards that were to characterize the women’s [military] programs for the next forty years.”
—Major General Jeanne Holm
October–December 1942—Wilmington, Delaware
Nancy readily admitted she felt envious that Betty would lead the inaugural WAFS ferrying assignment. Nancy would remain at New Castle, running operations and overseeing the training of the next group of women. She’d appointed Betty to lead the flight of six L-4B Cubs and transport them from the Piper factory in Lockhaven, Pennsylvania, to Mitchel Field on Long Island.
As Nancy and Betty planned out the flight route, she thought of the run-in she’d had the year before with Jackie Cochran over setting up a relay map. This first ferrying group wouldn’t be stopping to switch pilots. On this assignment, pilots Fort, James, Clark, Rhonie, and Scharr would make up the team, with Betty at the head. Of course, if there was bad weather, they’d have to land for safety and wait it out, possibly remaining overnight—RON. November was around the corner, after all.
But Nancy would stay apprised of every incident. Success was not optional when it came to the WAFS. They needed to succeed. And she’d do everything in her power to make sure it happened.
So when the ferrying assignment Betty led turned out to be a success, Nancy had never been so happy to call Bob. “They made it to Long Island. Everything and everyone is intact.”
“Fantastic,” Bob said in a warm voice. “Congratulations, sweetie.”
Nancy couldn’t stop the grin on her face. “It wasn’t me. It was—”
“Oh, it was you,” Bob cut in. “Mostly you, that is.”
Nancy let out a breathy laugh. “I’m so happy everything went smoothly. I know that won’t always be the case. We’ve nearly reached twenty graduated pilots, though, and we can now take on more assignments. We won’t have to wait for someone to return before handling the next assignment. Once we have twenty-five, we’ll be at the goal Colonel Baker and I set. We’re getting so close.”
Bob let her chatter on, most of which he’d already heard before, but he only encouraged her to tell him all the details. Then he dropped some news that shifted her mood.
“The ATC is sending me on an international trip.”
Nancy’s heart froze. Other men were being sent overseas to fly bombers, so there was no reason Bob would be an exception. “What kind of trip?” she asked, trepidation catching in her throat.
“It’s not what you think,” he said. “We’re flying the Fireball route—checking out the course for any inaccuracies or issues in the supply chain into India and China.”
Nancy released a slow breath. He wasn’t flying bombers, going into combat. Yet the trip sounded extensive, with its own complications and risks. “How long will you be gone?”
“Six weeks, at least. I’ll miss Thanksgiving and probably Christmas.”
Nancy reached for the calendar and flipped to the month of December. “You can miss those holidays as long as you stay safe.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “I’ll stay safe.”
“Where exactly are you traveling?”
He paused, and it sounded like he was shuffling papers. “The route takes us through Puerto Rico, British Guiana, and Brazil. Next, we’ll head across the mid-Atlantic to Ascension Island. We’ll hit Nigeria, Egypt, then Iraq.”
Nancy stood from her desk and crossed to the large world map she’d tacked to the office wall. She traced her finger along the locations as Bob continued.
“From Iraq, we head into India. We’re establishing the Hump airlift that will move supplies over the Himalayas and the Burmese jungle and into Kunming, China.”
Nancy’s finger paused. “That’s quite a supply route.”
“We hope to make it smooth sailing,” he said. “We’ll look for issues that might cause delays or be dangerous for other reasons. We’ll find out what the lodging is like and how the pilots will be received at the different airfields.”
“Is there already pushback?”
“Potential pushback, but we won’t know with certainty until we visit each location. I’m not wearing military dress. I’ll present myself as a civilian pilot ferrying supplies since I’ll get more inside information that way.”
“I think that’s smart.” She turned from the map and perched on the corner of her desk. “What type of planes?”
“There’s a C-53 and a C-47 in India that I’ll be flying.”
She heard the smile in his voice. “You sound excited about that.”
“I am, and one day, you’ll be flying them too.”
Nancy scoffed. “That’s a ways off—we’re ferrying Cubstuff, PT-17s and -19s now.”
“It will come,” Bob predicted with his usual confidence.
“Well, you’ll know it when it happens.”
His laugh was soft. “I’ll miss you, sweetie. I don’t know how phone calls are going to work.”
“You’re going to call me when you can—that’s how it will work.”
“As usual, you’re right, Mrs. Love.”
She’d miss their regular phone calls, but right now, she wanted to keep the conversation light and not think about how long he’d be gone. “Don’t forget the little people at New Castle.”
“Never. Now, are you coming home this weekend?”
She didn’t need to check her schedule to answer. “No, you’re coming here. Make it happen, Mr. Love.”
“Will do, ma’am.”
When she hung up with her husband, she was still smiling. And counting the hours until she got to hug him tightly.
In the meantime, she’d stay busy, as usual. As it turned out, Dorothy Scott arrived the week before Thanksgiving, making the twenty-fifth member of the WAFS. Dorothy was a twin, and she’d learned to fly at the University of Washington and then had taken on a flight instructor position at Pullman. She had the bare minimum of 504 hours in her pilot logbook when she arrived at Wilmington. She’d declared that she had lucky room number 13 in the barracks, and Nancy proudly added Dorothy’s name to the WAFS roster once she graduated.
Each day, Nancy read through the names that she’d written in order of the women joining up, feeling personal pride in this growing group of WAFS. She’d removed Catherine Slocum’s, but the rest remained: Nancy Love, Betty Gillies, Cornelia Fort, Aline “Pat” Rhonie, Helen Mary Clark, Adela “Del” Scharr, Esther Nelson, Teresa James, Barbara Poole, Helen Richards, Barbara Towne, Gertrude Meserve, Florene Miller, Barbara Jane “B.J.” Erickson, Delphine Bohn, Barbara “Donnie” Donahue, Evelyn Sharp, Phyllis Burchfield, Esther Manning, Nancy Batson, Katherine “Kay” Rawls Thompson, Dorothy Fulton, Opal “Betsy” Ferguson, Bernice Batten, and Dorothy Scott.
Other women had accepted and were on their way to join the program: Helen “Little Mac” McGilvery and Kathryn “Sis” Bernheim.
The number of women in the program meant that Colonel Baker had deemed there was a sufficient number to practice a close-order drill each Saturday morning. Nancy was called to lead their formation for their march in review.
It should have been simple to call out the orders loud and clear, but for some reason, Nancy felt like the winter breeze stole her voice each time.
One such Saturday, Nancy peered out the barracks window as the women were in a flurry of getting dressed in their uniforms. The low, dark clouds promised rain, and the wind didn’t seem too friendly for flying. But they could at least march.
Nancy was the third one out of the barracks and met up with Delphine Bohn and Pat Rhonie. Their full squad wasn’t at the base—some were on a ferrying mission—but Nancy would still carry out her orders.
“Good morning, Mrs. Love,” Pat said. “Hello, Delphine.”
“Good morning,” Nancy replied.
“Morning always comes too soon,” Delphine said in a sleep-rough voice.
“Agreed,” Nancy said. “Good reports have come in on your last mission.”
Pat flashed a smile, her short, dark hair blowing in the wind beneath her cap. “Great news. I guess no one is flying today?”
“Not unless the clouds move along.”
Aline Rhonie, or “Pat,” was good friends with Betty Gillies, and one of the first American women to receive a US transport pilot license. In 1934, Pat had been the first woman to fly solo from New York to Mexico City. She was also an artist and had created a 126-foot-long mural depicting the history of aviation at Roosevelt Field. She’d earned her British pilot’s license as well as an Irish commercial license.
More women came out of the barracks, and at precisely eight o’clock, Nancy ordered, “Line up, ladies.”
Conversation ceased, and everyone moved into their lines.
Nancy waited a few beats, then called out, “Forward, march!”
Everyone stepped forward with their left foot in the precise action of putting their heel to the ground first. They were also supposed to swing their arms in coordination. Marching wasn’t difficult in and of itself, but calling out commands at the same time felt awkward to Nancy. She’d already been teased about it, but today, she determined to execute perfectly.
“Mark time,” she called next, but her voice sounded small, and she wondered if the women at the back of the line could hear. They were marching toward the inactive runway and would need to make a left turn. Nancy drew in a breath as the wind tugged at her hair and clothing, and she tried to remember why the opposite command had to be given to turn left. “Column right, march,” she called out. The wind drowned out her command, so she said it louder. “Column right, march?”
