Lady Flyer, page 27
“And you’ll be heading up Dallas?” Baker cut in.
“I’m assigning Florene Miller,” she said. “I need to be more flexible and not tied to an office chair.”
The furrows between Baker’s brows deepened. “But as the director of the program, you should be located where it all started.”
Nancy took a careful breath. “I need to check out on as many war planes as possible, and I can’t do that here.” She handed over her prepared list of squadrons, leaders, and planes. “At Romulus, the WAFS will be flying L-2Bs, L-5s, PT-23s, PT-26s, AT-19s, and AT-6s. At Long Beach, the women will be ferrying BT-13s.”
Baker studied the list for a long moment, the deep lines between his brows still present. “Safety is paramount. We’re putting these women at risk when they fly planes they can’t handle. One major mishap and everything could be reorganized.”
Nancy glanced at Tunner. He was letting her take the lead, it seemed. “Safety is my priority too. The women will have to check out on each aircraft before copiloting or piloting a ferry mission. This is our standard procedure for any plane, no matter the size or the number of engines. Cochran’s classes are training on PT-19s and ending with AT-6s. As you know, I checked out on an AT-6 in Dallas and also flew one in Romulus. After a patch of bad weather, I flight-tested Lenore McElroy on the AT-6.”
Lenore was a former flight instructor, with 3,500 hours. Her husband was a ferry pilot at Romulus, and they were the parents of three teenagers, so having a women’s ferrying squadron in Romulus allowed Lenore to join the WAFS.
Baker looked at Tunner, but he returned a bland expression. With a sigh, Baker said, “Things are moving faster than I thought they might. I assume General Arnold is on board?”
“Yes,” Tunner said. “He’s been kept apprised of everything.”
That was the case, for the most part, although Nancy was staying out of anything coming from Jackie Cochran—letting Tunner handle that side of things. She’d heard plenty of secondhand information through the grapevine but didn’t feel like she could share it with anyone—not even Betty. Nancy wanted to be viewed as a leader who didn’t get mixed up in petty back-and-forth jabs. Bob was really the only one she could vent to, but their international phone calls were sporadic, and she didn’t want to fill their precious time with political angst.
December finally arrived, and Bob made it home by Christmas after all. His six-week international trip had felt like six months, and Nancy was more than ready to talk to her husband in person. So much had happened, and her heart was heavy for another reason too. During the month, news reports had reached the US about the Nazi’s mass extermination of Jewish people. The reports were horrifying, and like all war news, Nancy knew that only the bare basics were being shared with the general public.
“You’re thinner,” Nancy told Bob the moment she stepped off the train where she was meeting him for a too-short weekend at their Washington, DC, apartment. And he was thinner. His dark-red hair needed a good haircut, and the lines about his eyes let her know he hadn’t slept much.
“You’re more beautiful,” he said, pulling her close.
She melted into him. “Your memory needs work.”
“My memory is perfectly fine.” He drew away, and she noted the somber depth to his eyes. When he kissed her, she was able to forget the tragedies happening all over the world for a few moments. She supposed that kissing on the train platform went unnoticed nowadays, with people moving about the country, saying their goodbyes to loved ones.
As they drove to their apartment, Nancy said, “The news about the Nazis killing the Jews makes me sick.”
“It’s despicable,” Bob said. “I read the Declaration on Atrocities that the Allied nations put out.”
Nancy had read it, too, in the newspapers. December 2 had been an international day of mourning, and then on December 17, the declaration had been released, condemning the cruelties and extermination of Europe’s Jews. The Allies had vowed to punish war criminals as soon as the war was over. “Why can’t we do something now about the war criminals? Jews are being exterminated right now—where are the rescue efforts?”
Bob reached for her hand. “War progress is being made.”
“But not fast enough.” Nancy blew out a breath to steel her emotions, but the tears came nonetheless. “Two million Jews have already been murdered, and we’re just learning about it. All this time—I’ve been worrying about petty things while innocent people are being rounded up and killed. I can’t even imagine . . . What’s the purpose?”
Bob’s hand tightened on hers. “America knows now, so we can do something about it. I don’t know what, but this only fuels the war effort, makes our nation’s sacrifices even more justified.”
Nancy nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Over the next couple of days, she used Bob as her emotional sounding board. She needed to get it all out here, because once she returned to Wilmington, she’d have to again take on her leadership role and set an example of strength for everyone else. The nights in Bob’s arms were comforting, and she knew all too well that once she was sleeping alone again, the nights would be filled with the darkness of knowing others were suffering so deeply.
Much too soon, Nancy’s time with her husband was over, and she had to return to Wilmington. She was pleased, though, to welcome Lenore McElroy into the WAFS in January 1943.
“These are the women’s barracks,” Nancy said, giving Lenore the grand tour of the base.
“Not much to write home about,” Lenore said, but her smile was broad. “Looks like everyone has made themselves comfortable.”
“That’s a good way to put it,” Nancy said with a smirk. They were currently standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms. A lavender-colored comforter covered one of the beds, and someone had used a rope strung across the room to hang up pairs of stockings to dry.
“I’m tickled pink to be here for training,” Lenore said. “My kids are kind of in awe too. At least until they get tired of cooking their own meals.”
“They’ll be even more grateful when you return after training,” Nancy said.
“No children for you and Bob?” Lenore asked. “Sorry if that’s too personal. Tell me if I’m being too nosy.”
Nancy didn’t mind. Lenore was open, friendly, and very talented. “No children yet. We’re not opposed. Things haven’t happened like we thought they might.”
Lenore’s expression turned thoughtful. “Well, maybe it’s a medical thing. Ever get checked by a doctor?”
“Not yet.” It was still in the back of Nancy’s mind though. “I haven’t had time. Not really a priority right now, anyway, with a war going on and every day being an unknown. Don’t know where a fussy baby will fit in.”
Lenore rested a hand on Nancy’s shoulder. “Well, we’re all in flux right now. War can’t last forever though.”
“Right.” Nancy hadn’t realized that she kind of needed this talk. Having children was always bouncing somewhere in her mind, but she also wasn’t trying to prevent getting pregnant. She hadn’t ever voiced her private concern of whether she could have children to someone who wasn’t her mother or Betty. “Another advantage of the war being over will be living in the same house as my husband.”
Lenore nodded, her smile coy. “No one would disagree.”
Two days later, on January 25, 1943, a letter came from General Arnold with a directive to Colonel Tunner. When Tunner called Nancy with the details, she immediately called Bob at his ATC office.
“It’s set in stone, apparently,” she told Bob. “General Arnold has mandated that we can’t take on any more WAFS unless they’re graduates of Cochran’s Women’s Flying Training school in Texas, now called the WFT.”
Bob sounded as fed up as she felt. “Those graduates won’t be arriving until May—and it’s the end of January. What are you supposed to do until then? You’re already operating on such a small squadron of women while the ferrying demand is increasing weekly.”
“Believe me, that’s only half of what I complained about to Tunner.” Nancy rubbed the back of her neck. “The Original WAFS are putting in as many hours as humanly possible, and the demand for new bombers only continues to increase. The pilot shortage is a real concern, yet General Arnold is blocking perfectly qualified recruits.”
“What’s Colonel Tunner going to do about it?” Bob asked.
“He says his hands are tied. Ironically, I received a letter from Helen Richey—remember her from my airmarking days?”
“I remember her. There were two Helens.”
“Right, Richey and MacCloskey,” Nancy said. “Anyway, Helen Richey wants to join the WAFS. But under this new guideline, she’ll have to attend Cochran’s school. Which, by the way, the school is being moved to Avenger Airfield in Sweetwater, Texas.”
“Oh boy. That’s an arid place. The wind will rattle their bones, and they’ll be constantly battling dust, not to mention boiling temperatures most days.”
“It will be all women, apparently,” Nancy said. “And at least they won’t have to compete for flying hours with the male pilots there.” The first few weeks in Houston had been really rough for the women. Since there weren’t available barracks, the women had to find rented rooms or inexpensive hotels. In addition, they weren’t allowed to use the airfield’s dining room or the bathrooms. So, the women had to walk a half mile to the nearest toilet.
“Wait, I just remembered something about Helen Richey,” Bob said. “Hasn’t she been over in Europe with the ATA?”
“Yes, Cochran put her in charge of the ATA’s American women flyers when Cochran returned here in September. Richey has more than 2,000 hours, and she’s flown for major airlines.”
Bob whistled. “That’s some training Cochran has in Texas.”
Nancy smirked. “Yes, well, we could use Richey.” She sobered and added, “I’ve told Colonel Baker I’m leaving Wilmington. Dallas will be a nice change.”
“Just a little farther of a plane trip away from me,” Bob mused.
“That’s definitely a downside.” Her voice softened. “I can’t wait until this war is over. I’ll be able to live in the same house as my husband again.”
“Amen.”
Nancy’s job in Dallas lasted only a month. She requested a transfer to Long Beach in order to help with the new squadron. B.J. Erickson was heading it up, with Cornelia Fort, Evelyn Sharp, Barbara Towne, and Bernice Batten under her.
Nancy looked forward to flying the bigger war planes—anything that would end this war quicker and put a stop to the overseas atrocities. She knew the smaller stature of a woman could be a complication, but she wouldn’t let it be a barrier.
She herself was five foot six, which was about midrange for the WAFS. Fort, Scharr, Richards, and Nelson were all taller. But Gillies, Burchfield, and Batten were all about five foot or five one, at the max. Height would make a difference in flying the larger planes since they’d been designed for a man’s larger stature, and the women had to be able to see through the windshield. They also needed enough strength to control the toe brakes as well as shoulder strength for the more powerful throttle.
Nancy knew that Cochran had added physical training to her school’s program, such as running, push-ups, and pull-ups. The more endurance and upper-body training the women had, the better and the more easily they’d qualify on the bigger planes.
It was what Nancy thought of as she did her own workouts. Because at Long Beach, she planned to fly the P-51 Mustang.
Chapter Thirty-One
“The heavens have opened up and rained blessings on me. The army has decided to let women ferry ships and I’m going to be one of them.”
—Telegram from Cornelia Fort to her mother, 1942
February–March 1943—Long Beach, California
“Sweetie, there’s no rush,” Bob told Nancy over the phone.
“You’re lucky you’re not in the same room with me,” Nancy said. “Someone would have to hold me back from clobbering my own husband. It’s all about the rush, Bob, in more ways than one. You said so yourself—we need pilots. If we can’t move bombers, how will they get ferried in time to make any sort of difference in the war? More people are dying every single day.”
Bob’s sigh came through the phone. “The P-51 Mustang is the fastest of all the pursuits in America.”
“I know.”
“I know you know, but I’m trying to say that you need to study the heck out of the machine. Know it from the inside out. You can’t know too much about it.”
“I can fly from the back seat of the AT-6 with someone sitting in front of me, so I’m ready.” She paused. Flying the AT-6 from the back seat should be similar to flying the P-51 since visibility was limited with the shoulders of the person in the front seat adding to the size of the engine cowling. The pilot had to look to the sides of the runway to taxi and to land. Nancy had learned to guide the AT-6 into a series of S-turns in order to see where she was going.
“Or I will be ready, that is,” she amended, “and I’m not going to fly until I’m ready.”
“Good girl.”
She smirked, although Bob couldn’t see her. “I wish you were here to be a witness.”
His chuckle was low. “It would be a beautiful thing to see. Won’t Baker be surprised?”
Nancy sighed. “I don’t know why he’s taken such a hard stance lately. He was very supportive all the way through until I started pushing for the more powerful planes.”
“He has a comfort zone, that’s all.”
Nancy thought about this, but the longer she was away from Wilmington, the more she knew she needed to have an honest conversation with Baker. She needed to tell him why she really left. “If I had a comfort zone, I’d be teaching French history to high schoolers.”
“If you were teaching history to high schoolers, I don’t think we would have met,” Bob said. “That’s not a happy thought.”
“So come to Long Beach, and I can make all your thoughts happy.”
His familiar laugh warmed her through. “Unfortunately, I don’t think the ATC will assign me there anytime soon.”
After hanging up with him, Nancy left the office. It was after hours anyway, and the sun had already set against the blue California sky, turning everything violet as she made her way to the women’s barracks. She’d be up late tonight, continuing her reading of the P-51 manual and memorizing all the technical aspects.
“Are you really going to fly the Mustang?” A soft voice came from one of the doorways as Nancy walked down the hallway.
She turned to see Cornelia Fort leaning against the doorframe of her room. The lighting was dim, but Cornelia’s wildly curly blonde hair was unmistakable. Even wearing a night robe with scalloped edging, she looked the proper Southern belle, which, of course, she’d left far behind when she’d become a flight instructor in Fort Collins.
Nancy smiled at Cornelia. “I am. Tomorrow maybe, or later in the week. Whenever Dunlap says I’m ready.”
“You’ll make it seem easy,” Cornelia mused. “The men can’t balk if the women are flying the pursuits.”
Nancy tilted her head. “Exactly. What are you doing up so late?”
The door across the hallway opened, and B.J. appeared, wearing a robe and curlers in her hair. “We’re all up late,” she declared. “Too excited for tomorrow?”
Nancy laughed. “I don’t even know if I’ll be flying, girls. Dunlap says we need to review everything first.” She held up the manual. “I’ve got to get through this tonight.”
B.J. checked her wrist as if she were wearing a watch. “Well, get a move on, Mrs. Love.”
They all laughed, and B.J. nodded, her grin still in place as her dark eyes sparkled. “Good night, everyone. I’ve got a letter to write.” She shut the door with a click.
Cornelia didn’t move, though, so Nancy said, “Writing letters too?”
“Writing in my diary.”
“You’re so diligent at that.”
“Helps me get through things, I suppose, by dumping all my thoughts onto the page.” She offered a small smile. “I always feel better after. Like I’ve shared something with a good friend.”
“I should try it more, I guess,” Nancy said. “I think I run out of words after talking on the phone to Bob or my parents, or bossing the WAFS around.”
“I understand that,” Cornelia said, tugging on one of her curls. “I guess I keep my thoughts to myself, and they need to go somewhere eventually.”
Cornelia did keep to herself more than most. She was always a part of what everyone did, but she didn’t usually start conversations.
Since it was only the two of them and Nancy was more than curious, she asked, “Did you write about Pearl Harbor too?”
“Sure did.” Cornelia didn’t even hesitate. “Not for days afterward, though, and I don’t think I’ll ever read through it. But I wrote down every detail that I could remember. From the feel of the morning air when we loaded up in the plane to the color of the pale-blue sky to the first moments I realized the plane coming at us was a Japanese bomber.” Her voice cut off. “I guess I am talking about it.”
Nancy stepped closer to Cornelia and leaned against the cool wall a couple of feet from her. “You told me a little when you first arrived at New Castle.”
“The basics,” Cornelia said.
Nancy nodded, hoping the woman would continue but not wanting to force anything. She could tell this subject was still an ache in Cornelia’s heart—in all their hearts.
“The mind and body are an interesting pair,” Cornelia said thoughtfully. “I’d flown a lot of hours, and I knew that plane like the back of my hand.”
