Lady Flyer, page 26
Someone snickered behind her, and Nancy was pretty sure that snickering wasn’t allowed in marching. She kept her attention forward, though, focusing on her next command as the runway loomed. “Change step. I mean, column left, march.”
There was a rather awkward shifting as the women marched along the runway. She heard a couple of giggles but ignored them.
“Hup, two, three, four,” Nancy continued, her palms sweating. The wind speed had increased, but it did nothing to cool her down. They could march straight for a while, right? “Hup, two, three, four.”
As they neared the end of the runway, Nancy knew there was a drop-off about ten feet ahead, and she sorted through the commands. Should they halt, then turn and walk toward another location?
As the drop-off neared, she second-guessed herself more than once, panic freezing all reason inside her head, and she finally called out, “To the rear, march!”
But instead of halting like Nancy did, even though she hadn’t actually commanded it, the women continued past her. Half-marching, half-sliding down the embankment to the field below.
Nancy stared as they continued marching into the field. Laughing. They were all laughing. Every last one of them.
Nancy set her hands on her hips as the wind made a rat’s nest of her hair. She had no words.
Delphine Bohn laughed so hard, she’d bent over, bracing her hands on her knees.
Nancy’s mouth quirked. All right, so maybe it was a little funny. Once her sheer panic had subsided, of course. It was quite ridiculous that she was on top of the precipice, and they’d all marched straight down it into no-man’s land.
“Come back here, all of you,” Nancy called.
“Is that an order, Commander?”
“It doesn’t sound like an order,” Pat said, grinning. “Shouldn’t it have the word march in there somewhere?”
Nancy groaned. “March forward and come up the hill. We’re starting over.”
More laughter, but the women obliged.
They marched back to their barracks without any more precipices getting in their way. But Nancy knew she wasn’t going to live the incident down anytime soon.
A few days later, Colonel Baker called her into his office, his expression grim. The tapping of his pen on the desk testified to his irritation. “Pat Rhonie is late.”
This, Nancy knew. Pat was supposed to return to base the day before but had called Nancy with an excuse. Nancy had reported it to Baker.
“Has she asked for another day?”
“Another day we can’t afford,” Baker said. “I told her to report this morning.”
Nancy didn’t need to check the clock to know it was late afternoon. “Is something else going on?”
“If there is, she hasn’t informed me,” Baker clipped. “Emergencies happen, but Rhonie is being tight-lipped about this.”
It was rather strange, but Nancy wasn’t going to hold it against the woman on a personal level. Yet she realized that running an operation like this, they needed to be strictly accountable. The cogs of the wheel would go off-balance if one person didn’t report when they were supposed to. Assignments would have to be reconfigured, which might mean missing ferrying deadlines.
Baker’s brows remained furrowed, and Nancy didn’t blame him for his frustration. She felt the same, but she also hated to see any negative repercussions.
Nancy stayed up later than usual that night, hoping Pat would turn up. But she didn’t.
Nancy finally called Bob, and he told her, “Rhonie will have to be dealt with through the board now.”
It turned out that Bob was right, as much as Nancy hadn’t want to believe it. When Pat Rhonie did return to base the following day, she spent a long time in Baker’s office, later coming out looking like she’d been crying.
But to her credit, she only told Nancy, “I’m meeting with the board, and I’ll be discharged. Thank you for this opportunity, Mrs. Love. I think this program is necessary and important, and it’s already making an impact.”
“I’m sorry to hear about all this,” Nancy said, otherwise at a loss for what to say. “Let’s keep in touch. I’d love to hear about your next endeavor.”
“That means a lot to me, Mrs. Love, thank you.”
Nancy wondered if there was something personal going on that Pat wasn’t telling anyone. Was she willing to endure discharge instead of opening up?
By the end of the day, Pat had packed her things, said goodbye to the women waiting for their next ferrying assignment, then flown out on her 125 hp Luscombe Phantom that she’d flown to New Castle.
The Original WAFS Squadron was now only twenty-seven women.
The entire court hearing had been kept quiet, and Nancy could only hope to keep it out of the press. Which was probably why, the following weekend, she had to use a little more backbone.
It was nearly time to march in the parade review when a knock sounded at her bedroom door. Nancy answered to find Nancy Batson standing there, not dressed in uniform yet. In fact, she wore her robe, as if she’d just rolled out of bed. Unusual for Batson since she was such a level-headed pilot from Alabama, who didn’t let mechanical mishaps deter her from making smooth landings.
Now her Southern drawl sounded raspy. “Mrs. Love, I don’t think I can march this morning.” Batson sniffled, peering through bloodshot eyes. “I’ve got an awful cold, and I feel lousy.”
The woman had been stuffy all week. And when Nancy had accompanied some of the women to the DuPont Hotel the night before for drinks, Batson had been among them—dancing the night away.
“Didn’t I see you out dancing at the DuPont Hotel last night?”
Batson lowered her eyes and tugged her bathrobe a little tighter. “Yes, ma’am.”
Nancy waited a heartbeat. “Well, I think you can manage to march this morning, Miss Batson.”
Batson didn’t answer for a moment, then she raised her bleary gaze. With another sniffle, she said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Nancy watched her shuffle away. After Pat’s discharge, Nancy didn’t want any rumors to start if women were suddenly missing from the parade review. It wasn’t that she didn’t think Batson had a cold—she certainly did—but if she could rally to drink and dance the jitterbug at a hotel, she could march this morning.
It seemed that problems came in threes, and the next weekend, Nancy was called into a meeting with Baker.
“Close the door, please.” He stood by the window, back to her.
Nancy did so, but instead of taking a seat, she asked, “What’s happened?”
Baker turned, shadows beneath his eyes. “We’ve had a report on Teresa James.”
Nancy frowned. “What type of report?”
“She was spotted dancing with another woman in Wilmington last night.”
Nancy’s mind raced, thinking through what she knew about Teresa. “Teresa requested and was granted the night off.”
“Yes, that’s all fine.” Baker paused, folding his arms. “Yet we can’t have gossip sully the WAFS.”
Nancy understood perfectly what he meant, but she wouldn’t have any answers until she spoke to Teresa directly. “I’ll call her in as soon as she lands this afternoon.”
Teresa was currently on a shorter ferrying trip that would take only the day, an easy case for a pilot who’d passed her flight tests with flying colors. She’d recently married George Martin, and she seemed to be mad about him. Word was he was heading overseas as a bomber pilot. Nancy couldn’t picture Teresa carrying on a relationship with a woman, or else why would she have married Martin?
When Teresa finally reported to Nancy’s office, still wearing her flight suit, Nancy had come up with various scenarios but none of them satisfactory. She knew this could be an uncomfortable conversation, but she dove right in and reported on what Baker had said.
Teresa didn’t answer for a moment. Then she laughed. “Mrs. Love, I guess Wilmington sees things differently? My sister Betty was visiting, which is why I asked permission to take a few hours off base. Back home in Pittsburgh, women dance together all the time.” She set her hands on her hips. “See, if the men aren’t keen on dancing, the women aren’t about to be left out. So, we dance with each other.”
Nancy blinked. “Ah.”
Teresa’s smile remained in place, and Nancy felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted off, which could have led to complications she didn’t want to be in the middle of.
“I understand, and thank you for explaining.” Nancy released her breath. “You’re right about one thing, Teresa: things are different in Wilmington. We need to remain above gossip, no matter how innocent or how things are done back home.”
Teresa nodded, but her cheeks had stained red.
“Custom or not, I’d like to ask you to not dance with your sister, or any other woman, for that matter. We have many eyes upon the WAFS.” Nancy’s throat burned, and she hated that she had to draw finicky lines like this. But someone had seen fit to report it to Colonel Baker.
“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
Chapter Thirty
“Contemplated expansion of the armed forces will tax the nation’s manpower. Women must be used wherever it is practical to do so. It is desired that you take immediate and positive action to augment to the maximum possible extent the training of women pilots. The Air Forces objective is to provide at the earliest possible date a sufficient number of women pilots to replace men in every noncombatant flying duty in which it is feasible to employ women.”
—General Arnold, directive to Training Command, November 3, 1942
December 1942–January 1943—Wilmington, Delaware
“We need to increase our classifications and put the women to work transitioning into larger and more powerful aircraft,” Nancy told Colonel Baker and Colonel Tunner as they sat together in Baker’s office. As far as she could tell, both men agreed with her, but she knew they were battling red tape. “I’ve put together a database of our superiors and their flying qualifications. If we can’t ferry the planes needed for their own transitions and training, then we’ll hit a bottleneck.”
“I’m not disagreeing, Nancy,” Tunner said. “But I can’t give the green light that easily.”
Baker steepled his hands, his frown in place. Nancy had seen that frown more often lately.
“I’ve already sent in the proposal about removing the Cubs’ wings and shipping them by rail,” Baker said.
Nancy had discussed this with Baker already. The Cubs were so slow to fly and unsafe in winter weather; therefore, it would be faster and cheaper to send them by rail to the air bases in the South.
“Right,” Nancy conceded, “and the other thing to consider is that Cochran is getting in AT-6s for advanced training for the two classes she’s recruited. We can’t have our current ferrying pilots eclipsed by incoming graduates.”
Tunner nodded, but Colonel Baker’s brows pinched. “We are doing well with the Fairchilds, and our WAFS are staying busy.”
Nancy pursed her lips. She wasn’t even checked out on the AT-6 herself, which she needed to change as soon as possible. She had an upcoming trip planned to visit various bases, and when she got to Texas, she planned to make flying an AT-6 her top priority.
She pressed on. “I want to make Teresa James the flight leader for the group heading to Montana.” Seven WAFS were taking a train to Great Falls, Montana, then ferrying PT-17s from Great Falls to Jackson, Tennessee. There they’d join a group of male pilots to ferry thirty-three trainers coming in from the Canadian RAF and move them to the warmer-climate training fields.
“I thought you were going,” Baker said.
“No, I have too much to do,” Nancy said, motioning toward Tunner. “We need to start preparations for the first class of Cochran’s group to report to New Castle in the spring. A second class is right on their heels. Our numbers are going to explode.”
“Right.” Tunner’s gaze shifted to Baker. “We need Nancy and the representative ferrying officers to visit other air bases and pitch the idea of a women’s squadron to operate among their ferrying divisions.”
“Of course,” Baker said. “I thought this would take place in January.”
“We’re pushing it up,” Tunner said simply. “Starting with phone calls, then visits.”
“I’ll get to work and keep both of you apprised,” Nancy said.
The following week, after dozens of phone calls to ferrying groups across the nation, Nancy found herself back in Washington, climbing aboard a Lockheed C-36 to copilot to Great Falls. The WAFS group had returned to Great Falls after their ferrying mission, and she was about to deliver big news to them. They were getting split up.
She needed the trained WAFS to divide and become the core of new squadrons at different air bases. When the newly graduated arrived from Cochran, the numbers at Wilmington would eventually be replaced and the new squadrons filled in.
Her goal was to get women’s ferry squadrons established in Romulus, Michigan, then Memphis, and Love Field in Dallas as well as Long Beach.
With mixed feelings, Nancy left Great Falls. The last few months of camaraderie among the Originals at Wilmington would never be repeated. She was determined to continue pushing her agenda of the women transitioning to bigger planes, and she’d be setting the standard. Baker could no longer push back if she were transitioned herself.
To only add fuel to her determination, she was surprised to receive a phone call one evening from Camp Gordon Army Base in Georgia.
“Nancy, this is Barbara Poole,” the woman said in a rush, clearly distressed. “I’ve just landed a PT-19 at Camp Gordon to avoid storm clouds. With no radio, I couldn’t contact the control tower.”
“Of course, I understand,” Nancy said. “What’s going on? Did you land in one piece?”
Barbara blew out a breath. “Yes, but I have the commanding officer here, and he’s ordering me off their base. Says that he doesn’t believe I’m the one who landed the trainer.”
“Say what?”
“Here, he wants to talk to you,” Barbara said shakily.
Seconds later, a man’s voice barked, “Who is this?”
Nancy gave a quick introduction, then said, “What seems to be the problem, sir?”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” the commander ground out. “I don’t know what kind of joke you girls are playing, but you’re not going to play it on my base.”
The man hung up before Nancy could get another word in. For several seconds she sat in stunned silence, then tried to call the base back. No one answered. It wasn’t until the next day that Nancy found out that Barbara had been ordered off the base that night, but the following morning, she’d sneaked back into the base and had taken off in the PT-19 without any clearance at all. Setbacks like Barbara’s had to stop. Nancy had to find a way to make the military recognize women’s abilities to manage aircraft and serve their country.
Next stop for Nancy was Long Beach, where she met with the 6th Ferrying Command Group. There, she also checked out on the 450-horsepower BT-13, which had been built at the Vultee factory not far from Long Beach. Nancy thought of B.J. as the potential leader of the women’s squadron here, who’d ferry BT-13s to start.
Next stop was Dallas, and she felt ecstatic when she piloted a C-36 from Phoenix to Dallas.
“This airport named after you, Nancy?” her copilot asked as they called into the radio tower for landing permission at Love Field.
It was a common misconception, and her husband often fielded this question. “Love Field is named after 1st Lieutenant Moss L. Love. He’s from Wright County, South Carolina, and he was the tenth army officer to lose his life in an airplane accident. That was in 1913.”
“Ah, I’m sure it’s a common question you get.”
“For my husband,” Nancy said. “But you’re the first person to ask me about it.”
Her copilot chuckled.
She only smiled, her thoughts turning to smoothly landing the C-36, then checking out on the AT-6 as soon as she met with the 5th Ferrying Group.
By the time she’d met with the 4th Ferrying Group in Memphis, Tennessee, and the 3rd Ferrying Group in Romulus, Michigan, she’d checked out on the AT-6 and flown as copilot of the twin-engine B-25.
She asked Tunner to come to Wilmington for her meeting with Baker because she needed all the support she could get. She hadn’t quite gotten over the fact that Baker wanted the women to keep ferrying single-engines, because, in her opinion, that could not remain the status quo if they wanted the Ferrying Program to be a true success.
“Thanks for joining us,” she told Tunner as he met her in the hallway before they entered Baker’s office. She’d kept both men apprised of her meetings and her transitions. But talking in person would be a different matter because decisions needed to be made. Today.
“My pleasure,” Tunner said. “You have my full support.”
Nancy let a small smile escape. Tunner’s words meant a lot, no matter the outcome of this meeting.
They walked in together, and after some preamble, Nancy said, “We have agreement from the 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th Ferrying Groups for women’s squadrons. I’m going to be heading to Dallas for a short time in order to oversee the program from a more central location, and I’d like Betty Gillies to be in command here at Wilmington, with Helen Mary Clark as her executive officer.”
The announcement wasn’t a surprise to Tunner, but this was the first Baker had heard of it.
“That’s drastic, Mrs. Love,” Baker said. “And quite unnecessary.”
“It’s necessary,” Nancy said evenly. “Things are running like clockwork here, and I’m needed elsewhere. The Original WAFS are trained and ready to lead other squadrons. We all need to split up, and that includes me.” Before Baker could protest more, she pushed on. “I’m recommending Del Scharr to command the Romulus group, B.J. Erickson the Long Beach group—”
