“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.”
Nancy stayed quiet in case Cornelia wanted to share more.
“It was a regular Sunday morning lesson for my student,” Cornelia continued. “He was close to qualifying to solo, so we were practicing takeoff and landing skills. On our last route, I told him to take the plane higher. It was then I spotted a military airplane headed in our direction.”
She shrugged. “Not unusual since the civilian airport we’d flown out of was right next to the military base at Pearl Harbor. Except it wasn’t usual for a Sunday morning. That’s the first thing that crossed my mind. My stomach did a funny pinch, and I guess it was instinct or something, but I took over the controls from my student and jammed the throttle wide open to pull above the oncoming plane.”
“I wondered if the other plane had seen us because it passed so close beneath us that our celluloid windows rattled—thought they’d bust.” She drew in a breath. “I was furious and looked down to see which plane had buzzed us. That’s when I saw the red painted circles on the tops of the wings. I couldn’t believe it. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.”
Cornelia shifted her position against the doorframe, her voice quieter when she said, “I looked over at the harbor, and my spine tingled when I saw billowing black smoke.” She folded her arms and rubbed them, as if she were cold. “I still wasn’t comprehending it, thinking there had to be some sort of explanation.”
Nancy pictured the sight in her mind—and the same emotions of disbelief from when she’d first heard the news on the radio swept through her.
“I saw the formations of silver bombers flying in,” Cornelia continued. “A silver object detached from the planes and fell straight to earth. I watched one of those bombs explode in the middle of the harbor.” She paused.
Nancy didn’t move. She couldn’t fathom what it would be like to have witnessed all this from the air.
“We sped toward the landing strip, and another civilian plane behind us was peppered with bullets. Once we landed, we ran to the hangar to report the Japanese planes.” Cornelia shook her head. “Everyone laughed. Thought it was a joke—but who would joke about that? It wasn’t until one of the mechanics ran in a few moments later and reported Bob Tyce’s death that they got it. He was the airport manager. Everyone knew there was no joking going on.”
She dragged in a heavy breath, and Nancy rested a hand on her shoulder. “Your instincts were incredible,” Nancy said, “and you saved your life and your student’s.”
Cornelia gave a little shrug. “It’s surreal to think about, even now. One misstep in either direction could have made the end result much different. Others weren’t so lucky, of course, and it leaves me wondering why. Why me? Why them? Why anything?”
Nancy didn’t have those answers and likely never would. “I don’t know if we’ll ever truly know. All we can do is move forward each day. One hour at a time.”
“Yes, and sometimes one minute at a time.”
Nancy squeezed her arm. “You’re a remarkable woman, Cornelia. You’ve seen the worst of humanity firsthand, yet here you are, still serving because you want to.”
“Because I want to, and because I can, and because I should.” Cornelia placed her hand over Nancy’s. “Thank you for your service, too, Nancy. None of this would have happened without your persistence.”
Nancy gave her a half smile. “I don’t know about that. There were others pushing too—Cochran wasn’t about to relent.”
“Most things would still be mired in red tape if Cochran had been at the helm,” Cornelia said. “She wasn’t about to relax her hold on her agenda. With you running the Ferrying Program, things fell into place much quicker. And now hearts and minds are already changing about women’s ability to fly larger aircraft, and Cochran will have her militarized pilots eventually.”
“You think so?”
Cornelia smiled. “You’re about to check out on a P-51—so I’d say yes.”
Nancy held up her manual. “Speaking of that, I have a long night ahead.”
“You do, and good luck. I’m going to be adding your feat to my diary.”
“I’m honored.” And she was.
Moments later, Nancy settled into her room at her desk, manual opened. As she read, she wrote down notes, nearly copying the whole manual. It helped her process the information. She’d be meeting with her instructor Major Samuel C. Dunlap tomorrow to go over the specifications of flying the P-51, and she wanted to be prepared. If she was fully prepared, she’d learn more from Dunlap, who was currently serving as operations officer of the 6th Ferrying Group.
As Bob had told her, preparation was the key. This wouldn’t be like her first solo flight when she was sixteen, when she’d flown the Fleet Biplane with her instructor Jimmy Hansen until he had declared her ready to solo.
That wouldn’t happen with the P-51 Mustang because there was only one seat in the pursuit—for the pilot. Her first flight would be solo.
When the sun finally rose, Nancy wasn’t sure if she’d slept much. The night had been spent in a state of semiwakefulness as her thoughts spun with the details from the tech orders. But now her thoughts were clear and the sky outside her small barracks window an endless blue.
Nancy dressed in her WAFS uniform, pulled on her flight jacket, grabbed her helmet and goggles, then tucked the manual under her arm. She was ready. For whatever the next step would be. And she hoped that would include flying today.
Dunlap waited for her in the early-morning light at the start of the taxiway, just as he’d said he would.
“Good morning, Mrs. Love.”
“We go way back, Major Dunlap,” she quipped. “You can call me Nancy.”
“I’m your instructor, so we’re being more formal.”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes crinkled with a smile. “Let’s begin.”
As they talked their way through the details of the plane and the bones from the inside out, Dunlap quizzed her mercilessly.
The cockpit was three feet, three inches from panel to seat, and the width only two feet. Good thing she wasn’t claustrophobic. She ran through the details of everything inside and outside the plane: the hydraulic-controlled landing gear, manual backup system, trim tabs on the ailerons and on the elevator, the gauges in the cockpit and what they monitored, the pressure of the engine coolant, fuel consumption, the gyroscopic vacuum, exhausted gases, just to start. Also, she went over the navigational radio equipment, then how to use the throat microphone.
Dunlap’s questions became more complicated, but Nancy managed to stay a step ahead of him until he finally said, “Is there anything you don’t know about the P-51, Mrs. Love?”
Nancy leaned against the plane and folded her arms. “I don’t know what it feels like to fly one.”
Dunlap chuckled. “Well, ma’am, how about you take her up?”
Nancy’s eyes about popped out. “What? Now?”
The major motioned a hand toward the cockpit. “I don’t see any reason to wait another day, unless you do.”
“No, sir, I don’t.” She wanted to run to the office and phone her husband, but instead, she decided it would be more fun to tell him after she’d checked out on the plane.
Dunlap grinned and motioned for a crewman to join them.
Nancy walked around the plane, checking everything, including the tires, the landing gear, the tailwheel, and the level of fuel.
She stuffed the manual into the pocket of her flight jacket, then she strapped on the parachute pack, securing it over her shoulders, clipping the straps across her chest and around each thigh. She climbed up onto the wing and settled into the cockpit. The seat was tight, and she wondered how the larger men fit inside. They probably couldn’t move more than an inch.
Dunlap followed her up and squatted next to her, perched on the wing. He ran over all the controls with her once again. Her next test was the rudders and the toe brakes. Once she verified that the control stick moved in all directions, she did her radio check.
“Don’t forget, every touch is amplified in this beauty,” Dunlap said. “Response time is faster, the engine is faster, and you’ll have to account for all that. Especially on landing.” He patted her shoulder. “Take your time up there. No harm will come to you in the air. Get a good practice in.”
“Yes, sir,” Nancy said, her pulse drumming, her mouth dry. “Thank you.”
Dunlap hopped down from the wing and took several steps back. “Anticipate in advance,” he called out. “Once you’re in the throttle, you’ll feel like you’re in a rocket.”
She fitted her goggles, then secured the hatch. Next, she moved the throttle to idle cutoff. The crewman whom Dunlap had called over turned the propeller several revolutions, then stuck the battery charger into the side of the engine. When the engine started, it sent goose bumps across her skin. She activated the microphone at her throat and called the tower to get clearance for takeoff.
As she made S-turns along the taxiway, she craned to look out both sides of the plane, her front vision obscured. She inhaled as she worked the rudders, keeping the toe brakes on and keeping the engine’s power at bay until she was ready to push the throttle forward. At the end of the taxiway, she ran through her checklist again. She counted down, for no other reason but to try to calm her own thumping heart. Calling the tower once again, she was cleared for takeoff.
This was it.
She released the toe brakes and eased the throttle forward, though there was no easing with the Mustang. There was no resistance either.
The airplane surged forward, and Nancy’s breath stopped in her chest. She continued pushing the throttle until it hit the firewall, and seconds later, the tail lifted. Smoothly. Even though she couldn’t see the runway in front of her. Somehow, she managed to take a full breath. The tail lifted more, coming even with the nose, then the plane lifted, climbing. She was airborne.
And she could now see straight down the runway, but she was flying above it, and fast. She knew the maximum speed was over 400 mph. Which was why the Allies had great hopes for the British-developed P-51. Its performance rivaled Germany’s premier fighters, the Me 109 and Fw 190. And now the United States had been given license to produce the Mustangs with the new Rolls-Royce Merlin engine. The Packard Motor company was currently building new engines, and there would be a plethora of new P-51 Cs and Ds by the summer. Another reason why the women needed to be ferrying them so the men could start training on them.
If Nancy could get checked out on this plane, which was the current model with the 1325-horsepower Allison engine, the transition to the Merlin engine wouldn’t be a huge step. But it would be one more step in the chain of winning this war. The blue of the sky engulfed her as she rose the next few thousand feet, and all she could do was think about how fast, how smooth, how powerful this plane was. Operating it wasn’t all that different from any other plane, although it was, as Dunlap had said, quicker at everything. More finely tuned.
Everything she did with the control stick and rudders brought an immediate response. It was fantastic. She spent over an hour in the sky, growing accustomed to the superior machine and reveling in the way she felt like she was truly soaring. Above the earth. Above civilization. It was just Nancy and the blue sky. A surreal, almost lonely feeling bloomed inside her chest, as if she were the only person in the world right now.
She was the first woman to fly the P-51 Mustang.
After her final maneuver, she headed toward the runway, slanting downward. The runway was coming fast, and as she pulled up to land, she lost her central view. But the plane was smooth, responding to the lightest pressure.
When the wheels touched the runway, her heart was thrumming with the engine. She pressed on the toe brakes, then put her weight into it. As the plane finally came to a stop, she realized a small crowd had gathered near the closest hangar.
Climbing out, her heart feeling two sizes too big, she grinned when she heard people clapping and cheering. She tugged up her goggles and wiped her eyes. The WAFS were all lined up. B.J. Erickson and Cornelia Fort were clapping along with Evelyn Sharp, Barbara Towne, and Bernice Batten.
“You ladies are next,” Nancy called out, and they all cheered.
Major Dunlap reached her first, a wide grin on his face.
“Can I see your logbook, Mrs. Love?”
She handed it over, her hands perspiring.
He opened it right there and inscribed, “Qualified at Long Beach, California.”
She’d just checked out on the P-51.
After congratulations all the way around, Nancy met with a couple of reporters who had been called in after Dunlap had sent her into the air. She posed for a photograph, then answered their questions as patiently as possible, but really, she wanted to call Bob to tell him the news.
“What was it like flying the Mustang?” one of the reporters asked.
“It reminded me of my first solo—not the speed or the engine, of course, but the feeling of being the only person in existence. It’s a lonely but wonderful feeling.”
The men madly scribbled her replies into their notebooks. After she’d chatted with them for a few more minutes, she headed toward her office. But Dunlap stopped her in the hallway before she could escape. “I need a copilot this afternoon if you don’t have other plans.”
Nancy stared at the man. “Which airplane?”
Dunlap’s smile appeared. “The C-47.”
Nancy’s brows peaked. The C-47 was a twin-engine cargo plane with 1200 horsepower, one of the planes her husband had flown on his international trip to China. Copiloting with Dunlap would be the next step in transitioning as pilot. “I’m not busy.”
He clapped her shoulder. “See you after lunch, Mrs. Love.”
In a bit of a daze, she headed into her office. Taking a deep breath, she called Bob and told him about checking out on the P-51. “In addition, I’ll be copiloting a C-47 with Dunlap this afternoon.”
Bob hadn’t said a word. “Bob? Are you there?” Had their line been severed, or was he speechless?
“Today? Just now?” he asked, his voice incredulous.
“Just now. You can read about it in the papers tomorrow.”
Bob laughed. “I’ll do that, sweetie. Congratulations. I’m so proud my wife is the first female to fly one of the fastest airplanes ever built.”
“That’s what I hear.”
Bob laughed again. “And the C-47 too? You’re going to be famous, Nancy dearest, you know that? I’m talking about worldwide. Boy, oh boy. Wait until Colonel Tunner and General Arnold hear about this. Are you going to let it go to your head?”
He was teasing, but she scoffed. “I don’t think I could let any of this go to my head, knowing why Americans are racing to build the P-51 in the first place. War is never anything to inflate an ego over. Besides, sleeping in barracks at an army base keeps me humble.”
“True, so very true.”
Nancy sat back in her office chair, her legs stretched before her. Today had been a good day, a really good day. Made some of the frustrations of the past seem like such small things.
“Evelyn Sharp, Barbara Towne, and B.J. Erickson are going to transition next.”
“Woo-ee, that’s fantastic. Really. Incredible.” Bob paused, his voice filling with emotion. “You’re changing the lives of women pilots everywhere. And their contributions will lead to other lives saved. The sooner this war is over, the sooner we can start rebuilding.”
Nancy blinked at the burning in her eyes. Accolades hadn’t ever been her goal. She wanted only to prove to her superiors that she and the WAFS were all in with the war effort. Female pilots could do the hard work. They were qualified, trained, and ready to help.
“Are you going to call Colonel Baker?” Bob asked in a soft voice.
She knew what he was asking, what he was saying. “No, he can read about it in the papers. But can you call Colonel Tunner for me? I’m meeting the ladies in the mess hall for lunch, and I’m sure I’ll be answering tons of questions. Then you can watch for me in the C-47.”
He chuckled. “Sure thing, sweetie. I love you. Fly safe.”
“I love you, too, Bob.”
Two days later, on Monday, Nancy took another flight on the P-51, followed by a third flight the next day. She’d flown it enough now that she’d proven that a woman could fly pursuits. Besides, Sharp, Towne, and Erickson were now all in furious study to transition as well. Nancy didn’t have a particular need to fly other single-engine pursuits, the P-39, P-40, or P-47. No, she’d leave that to the other girls.
Bob’s letter that arrived that day made her laugh. He’d obviously written after that first phone call since he mentioned her becoming famous again. His letter included, “I’m so afraid you will be so famous and involved with things that you won’t care for the things that we have longed for before.”
Was he really that concerned? Did he really think she’d let things go to her head? She’d been talking to reporters and posing for photographs since her days at Vassar. None of this was going to interfere with her future with her husband, and their lives after the war. She’d just have to assure Bob of that.
But for now, her next aim was to transition on the twin-engine pursuits—the P-38 and A-20 attack bombers. The four-engine aircraft would be down the road, this she knew. She could wait, but not too long.