“When I walked into General Arnold’s office to keep my appointment I had the press clipping in my hand and asked him what it was all about. He was mad all over and when mad, General Arnold could make the fur fly. He said that he had asked the Ferry Command to prepare plans for activation of a women’s group, but expected to have such plan submitted to him and through him to me for study and approval.”
—Jacqueline Cochran, The Stars at Noon
June–September 1942—Washington, DC
“What are the qualifications?” Betty asked Nancy over the phone.
Nancy sat in front of a fan, lounging in her house dress, with all the windows opened in the apartment. “Five hundred hours.”
“Check,” Betty said.
“Commercial license.”
“Check again.”
Nancy continued. “Between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five. And a high school diploma.”
“I fit the age requirement, but why is the cap at thirty-five?” Betty asked, dubious. “I mean, I understand the high school diploma requirement. A pilot who can stick with something and has more education is probably better than one who can’t.”
“Well . . .”
“Nancy?”
“It’s ridiculous, really, but I’m picking my battles. Some men, and I won’t name names, think that when a woman reaches menopause, she can’t make logical decisions.”
Betty was silent for so long that Nancy wondered if their connection had been lost. “Betty?”
Betty wheezed.
“Are you laughing?”
“I can’t . . .” Betty gasped. “I can’t believe someone said that. You must tell me who. I’m going to start sending them long letters and article clippings—”
Nancy laughed along with her friend. “Don’t you dare.”
“Besides, how many thirty-five-year-old women do you know who are going through menopause?”
“Can’t think of any.”
When Betty’s laughter died down, she said, “This reminds me of during my term as the Ninety-Nines president, when I had to petition against the Civil Aeronautics Authority over their pregnancy regulations.”
“I remember that,” Nancy said. Jackie Cochran was the current Ninety-Nines president, having taken over from Betty in 1941. “A woman should be able to fly when pregnant, or she’ll lose the ten required hours every six months that’s needed to retain a commercial license.”
“Exactly. I wouldn’t be where I am today if I had to take time off for every pregnancy. It would have been expensive to take all of those tests again.” Betty snickered. “And now they’re bringing menopause into it. Well, I must say, despite all that, this is very good news. What else is on the list?”
So, Nancy told her about the requirements of the 200-horsepower rating, letters of recommendation, and US citizenship. “Salary is proposed at $250 a month plus a $6 per diem on ferrying trips.”
“That’s less than the men,” Betty observed. “Fifty dollars less.”
“Colonel Tunner says it’s because the women will be ferrying lighter aircraft, and that will make it an easier foothold to be approved.”
“Huh.” Betty paused. “When will you hear back?”
“Soon, we hope.” Nancy turned the kitchen fan more toward her face. The apartment had yet to cool off with the setting sun. “Colonel Tunner’s already sent our plan to both General Harold Lee George and General C.R. Smith, and he’s also visited Colonel Baker at the New Castle Army Air Base.”
“Oh, is the NCAAB where the program will be centered?”
“That’s the plan.” Nancy felt the excitement build once again. “Colonel Baker is being very accommodating. The base is currently under construction, and he’s going to figure out living quarters and a mess hall for the women. He also suggested that I be commissioned a first lieutenant and given the job of operations officer over the women.”
“Sounds excellent, and I agree.”
Nancy smirked and rose from her chair. “Although Colonel Baker is recommending that twenty-five women be part of the trial instead of fifty.”
“Twenty-five is better than none,” Betty said. “We can make a real dent. Prove that more women should be invited. Assuming I make the cut?”
“You’ll make the cut,” Nancy said with a laugh, then sobered as she walked to the open kitchen window. “Are you sure you want to do this? Will Bud be able to manage the children?”
“I’m not fooling myself that it will be easy—especially after losing little Barbara. But my mother-in-law has already told me she’d help with caring for them. I think she wants to see me doing what I love again.”
“You’re definitely on the list,” Nancy said, gazing out at the quiet neighborhood, “but I’d totally understand if you couldn’t come.”
“I’d love to come, Nancy. Maybe my mother-in-law is right. I need to do something like this to move on from grief.” Her voice quieted. “It comes in waves, you know, and sometimes I can hardly breathe. But speaking to you makes me feel like I’m on top of the wave instead of beneath it.”
Nancy’s heart lifted a little. Betty had been keeping busy as a utility pilot for Grumman Aircraft. Her husband, Bud, was still the vice president and engineering test pilot for Grumman Aircraft. Betty mostly flew the engineers and the Navy inspectors to their wartime meetings. She also went on errands to pick up parts from satellite manufacturers, flying them back to the factory on Long Island. Everyone was busy, but everyone wanted to help as much as possible.
“Well then,” Nancy said, “I’ll let you know that we’re already talking about uniforms. Can you send me your measurements?”
The smile came through Betty’s voice. “No problem.”
“We still have to get this through General Arnold,” Nancy said, more subdued. “Once that happens, we have a lot of work to do getting the pilots to commit, plus writing up the training syllabus.”
“I can help wherever and however you need me to.”
“Thanks, Betty,” Nancy said. “That means a lot.”
Memos and letters continued between departments the rest of June and into July. Nancy met with Tunner more than once, so she wasn’t surprised when he called her one evening while both she and Bob were at home on another sweltering night.
When she answered the phone, Bob set down the newspaper and turned his attention to her.
Tunner’s voice came through the phone clearly. “General Arnold is asking for an outline of the women pilots you expect to get.”
Nancy exhaled. “Does this mean he’s accepted the proposal?”
“Not technically,” Tunner said, “but I’m taking this as good news.”
She sat in a kitchen chair, next to Bob, feeling a weight slide off her shoulders. “Did he say anything about your suggestion regarding me leading the organization?”
“No, and he didn’t mention Cochran either, although she’s tied up in England still.”
Nancy wasn’t sure what Cochran’s reaction would be to all that had been going on these past few weeks, but there would certainly be a lot more negotiating if she were in the picture right now. “Once I get that list, are we in the clear?”
Tunner chuckled. “Not quite, but we’ll keep pushing forward as if we are. Colonel Baker wants you to work with one of his top flight instructors, Lt. Joe Tracy, on the training syllabus for the program. Outlining everything from base rules to physical conditioning to ground school and flight instruction policies. We also need you on our board—unofficially—to review the women’s applications.”
Hope zinged through Nancy. “No problem.”
The weeks passed, and by August, there was still no further word from Arnold, but Nancy continued working with Tunner and Baker on their planning. She crafted a training syllabus with Lt. Joe Tracy’s input, and when September rolled around, everyone became more antsy.
And then Mrs. Roosevelt unintentionally propelled the momentum with her “My Day” column.
“Read this,” Nancy said, walking into Bob’s ATC office. She’d been spending the week in the Washington, DC, offices to work with Tunner.
Bob took the newspaper from her and read aloud, “It seems to me that in the civil air patrol and in our own ferry command, women, if they can pass the tests imposed upon our men, should have an equal opportunity for noncombat service. . . . Women pilots are a weapon waiting to be used.”
Bob looked up at Nancy and grinned. “Even the First Lady agrees. What could be better than that? Has Colonel Tunner seen this?”
“He showed me.” She returned his smile.
“That’s right,” Tunner spoke behind them, coming through the doorway. “General George is going to reach out to General Arnold again. This article gives us more weight and an excuse to do so.”
“Excellent,” Bob said.
A few days later, on September 5, Nancy’s more than two-year-long wait came to an end.
Several people were gathered on the Washington, DC, airfield as she landed the Fairchild after a day of working in Baltimore—Bob, Tunner, and even General George. Either they had very bad news or very good news. She hoped it was the latter. She taxied toward them, turned off the engine, then climbed out of the cockpit. All three men were striding toward her, and Nancy’s heart felt like it was bouncing around in her chest as she removed her goggles and unfastened her helmet.
Bob was smiling, though, and her hope soared.
“Mrs. Love,” Tunner said. “We’ve received word from General Arnold.”
“Yes?” Nancy asked in a guarded tone.
“General Arnold has directed that the recruiting of women pilots should begin immediately, in the next twenty-four hours, and you are to be appointed the director of the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron—otherwise known as the WAFS.”
Nancy clapped a hand over her mouth, the tears forming instantly. Then she shook Tunner’s hand, followed by George’s, followed by throwing her arms around her husband’s neck. He chuckled and pulled her in tight.
“I can’t believe it.” She drew away, wiping at her eyes. “Can this be true?”
“It’s true, Mrs. Love,” General George said with a broad smile. “I suggest you begin sending out the telegrams right away.”
“Yes, of course.” She slid her hand into Bob’s. “I already have the messages drawn up.” Her head spun, but she’d send out all the telegrams today even if it took her until midnight. She already knew there were eighty-three.
Over the next few days, Nancy monitored the replies to the telegrams. Betty Gillies was in, of course, and Barbara Towne, Gertrude Meserve, Evelyn Sharp, Dorothy Fulton, Aline Rhonie, Teresa James, and Lenore McElroy had all confirmed. It was a decent start.
Bob accompanied Nancy to General George’s office on September 10, where Arnold would make the official announcement to the press. Nancy wore one of her nicer dresses along with a hat and gloves for formality, but when she walked into the general’s office, there was no Arnold and no press.
General George stepped forward to shake her hand, his dark brows pinched. “I’m glad you arrived early. General Arnold was called away unexpectedly, so we’ll be making the announcement with Secretary of War Stimson.”
Nancy exchanged glances with Bob but didn’t want to say anything in front of the general. It was odd for Arnold to be conveniently gone when he’d been the one to give final approval for the WAFS.
The group of them headed to Secretary Stimson’s office, where Stimson himself greeted them. He smiled beneath his carefully groomed mustache. “Welcome, Mrs. Love. I’m honored to be part of this banner day for women pilots.”
Nancy thanked him.
Several journalists gathered to take notes on Stimson’s announcement, ask questions, and take photographs.
“Today, I’d like to introduce to you Nancy Love,” Stimson said with a regal nod of his head, “if you don’t already know who she is.”
The journalists chuckled. Nancy didn’t recognize any of them, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t met them.
“If you don’t know Mrs. Love, I’ll tell you that she’s one of the two most important ladies who have so far come in contact with the Army—one is named Love, and the other is named Hobby. That will show you how respectable the Army is.” He paused as a few reporters scribbled notes. Stimson put on glasses to read the paper he held. “It’s an honor today to introduce the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron, which will comprise a highly specialized all-women squadron. This group will consist of twenty-five women pilots and will be hired by the Ferrying Division and be attached to the 2nd Ferrying Group at NCAAB in Wilmington, Delaware. These women are not militarized but are considered Civil Service employees.”
After Stimson’s speech, and after he and Nancy fielded questions from the journalists, Nancy posed for a photo with Secretary Stimson and General George. Other than her wedding, she didn’t think she’d smiled so much in one day.
“We should celebrate,” Bob said as they walked back to his office, hand-in-hand.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Dinner at a diner?” he teased.
Nancy laughed. “That actually sounds heavenly. And what would be even better is taking tomorrow morning off and sleeping in a little.”
“You, sleep in? I don’t think I’ve ever been a witness to that.”
She nudged him. “You’re about to see history in the making, then.”