“In the fog, rain, and mud of the Houston airfield, [Lieutenant Alfred Fleishman] taught the women how to survive the army. ‘There is a simple directive about Army life. If the Army can dish it out, I can take it. If it should develop that women can’t take it, it might affect the whole program. You will have to stick out your chin and show them.’”
—Lieutenant Alfred Fleishman, Houston, February 1943
March 1943—Long Beach, California
A phone call from Jackie Cochran wasn’t always bad news, but this time, Nancy had to sit down as Cochran told her about the tragedy that had taken place that day. Margaret Oldenburg had been killed in a training accident at the Houston Municipal Airport, where the WFTD were based.
“What happened?” Nancy asked while sitting in her office at Long Beach, the coffee she’d had with her breakfast souring in her stomach.
Cochran’s voice was measured. “Margy was starting her second week of training with Class 43-4. She and her instructor Norris Morgan went up in their PT-19A. They failed to recover from a spin.” Her tone turned tight. “There were witnesses since they were only six miles south of the Houston Texas Army Air Field. They only said that it looked like the pilot was practicing a forced landing.”
Nancy rubbed her forehead with a trembling hand. “That’s tragic. We don’t know anything beyond that? No calls to the tower?”
“Nothing. Margy had three and a half hours overall in the PT-19, but her instructor had over twenty-one hours in the craft, and a total of 786 hours of flying time.”
“Do you think it was mechanical?” Nancy ventured.
“It’s hard to say,” Cochran said. “But right now, we’re considering it pilot error. Also, we’re not reporting the accident beyond command, but Major Walter Framer is going to flight check all instructors.”
“That’s good,” Nancy said. “And the funeral? What are the plans?”
Cochran’s voice stiffened. “Well . . . I’m sending my executive officer Leni Deaton to escort the body home to Oakland, but I’ll be paying the funeral expenses out of my own pocket.”
They both knew that some families were in dire straits. After hanging up with Cochran, Nancy sat in the stillness of her office for a few moments. Beyond her window, planes were taking off and landing. The work was going forward. Margaret Oldenburg had just given her life for it.
Nancy was glad that they were putting in place more measures to qualify instructors. The women deserved the best instructors, the best training, and the most mechanically sound planes. It was with this resolve that she decided to call Colonel Baker at New Castle to have a difficult conversation.
She knew the conversation had to happen, but she needed to wait until after the emotions over Margaret Oldenburg’s death had calmed, so it still took her a few days to do it.
The first person she called after hanging up with him was Betty. “I told him everything,” Nancy said into the phone.
“Everything?” Betty asked, clearly surprised.
“I was frank.” Nancy gazed out her office window. Beyond the midday blue sky, wispy clouds decorated the expanse like brushstrokes. “I told Colonel Baker I left Wilmington because of his reluctance to let women transition into high-powered aircraft.”
“Well.” Betty breathed out. “What was his response?”
“He blustered around for a bit, but then I asked him how you were doing.”
“I’m sure he gave you an earful,” Betty mused. “It’s been like pulling toenails around here to transition to anything larger than a Fairchild.”
“Be ready for that to change.”
“Really? Your phone call was that effective?” Betty sounded incredulous.
Nancy scoffed. “I don’t know about that, but he can’t hold any of the WAFS back, not anymore. We’re transitioning to fighter planes in the west, and he won’t want to be left behind. B.J. and I have already checked out on the C-47.”
The next day, Betty called Nancy to report that she’d been given permission by Baker to transition on the P-47. The plane, nicknamed the Thunderbolt or The Jug, was a 2300-horsepower single engine with a single pilot seat. To check out on the plane would be a solo flight, like the P-51.
“That’s wonderful,” Nancy said. “Is there one coming into New Castle?”
“No, I’m going to Farmingdale, New York,” Betty said, joy evident in her voice. “The Republic Aviation factory on Long Island is building P-47s there, and I’m meeting with the control officer.”
“Perfect.” Nancy couldn’t stop the grin on her face.
“My husband says I need to figure out a way to reach the rudder pedals, because if I slouch down to reach them, I won’t be able to see out of the windshield.”
Nancy nodded to herself. Betty was only five foot one, and that would pose a problem for the P-47. “What does Bud suggest?”
“I’m going to talk to one of the pilots at Grumman Aircraft who’s flown them before. He’s a shorter man, and Bud says he’s been creative when flying larger planes.”
A few days later, Nancy had her report from an ecstatic Betty. On March 8, she checked out on the P-47, using a custom-made set of blocks over the rudder pedals. This way, she was able to reach them with her feet and still see out of the windshield.
“That’s brilliant,” Nancy gushed. “How long did you fly?”
“Fourteen hours,” Betty said with a contented sigh. “I didn’t want to stop, but the sun was setting. I practiced landing and taking off so much, I could probably do it in the dark now. I mostly landed at New Castle, but I landed at two other airports as well to pass the qualifications.”
“Nice job,” Nancy said. “When do you ferry your first P-47?”
Betty’s smile came through the phone. “I don’t know, but I’m ready anytime. What’s coming up on your docket next?”
“I’m flying every chance I get,” Nancy said. “B.J. is now copiloting with me on the C-47. Cornelia is going to join six male pilots in a ferrying mission from Long Beach to Dallas, delivering BT-13s.”
“Ah, good luck to them,” Betty said.
Her words turned out to be needed because luck was nobody’s friend on the ferry mission to Dallas.
On Sunday, March 21, Nancy received a call that she had hoped to never receive. At approximately 15:30 Central War Time, the landing gear of F/O Frank E. Stamme Jr.’s BT-13A struck the left wooden wing of Cornelia Fort’s aircraft.
With the wing clipped, Cornelia’s plane rolled, then plunged into an inverted dive.
Stamme was able to recover, but Cornelia did not, or she could not.
Nancy listened in disbelief as Dunlap shared the scant details he’d gathered from the initial call. Cornelia’s plane had crashed into the earth below, instantly killing her. She hadn’t even tried to bail out with her parachute.
After Nancy returned to her office, she sank onto a chair and cradled her head in her hands for a long time, absorbing the information. Whatever had happened, or not happened, Cornelia Fort was dead. She’d survived being targeted by a Japanese Zero in Pearl Harbor, yet now, she’d died as a civilian pilot on a routine assignment.
The numbness washed through Nancy, and she couldn’t think, she couldn’t move, and even breathing hurt—knowing that Cornelia would never draw in a breath again.
Earlier that day, she’d sat with Cornelia and B.J. at the mess hall for breakfast. Cornelia had been her usual quiet self, but she’d laughed at something B.J. had said—what had it been? Why couldn’t Nancy remember now?
Other words came to her mind—the conversation she’d shared with Cornelia only a few short weeks ago in the hallway when she’d talked about Pearl Harbor. The pilot instincts she’d relied on at such a time—something that was innate and couldn’t be taught except through years of experience. Which Cornelia had. She was one of the best and most talented pilots Nancy had ever known. Male or female.
Nothing about this made sense. Why hadn’t Cornelia bailed with her parachute?
Nancy’s eyes were red-raw, and her chest ached as if a plane engine were sitting right on top of her. The burning in her throat scorched all the way to her stomach as she tried to comprehend what had happened over Merkel, Texas. The image of seven BT-13s flying in formation took shape in her mind. Were they keeping in formation? Or were they racing? Hotdogging? Six men and one woman together. All professional, all trained and skilled. Why hadn’t Cornelia bailed out? She was an expert pilot. Had the canopy latches been stuck?
The idea of Cornelia trapped and desperate brought new horrors to Nancy’s mind . . . Cornelia fighting to control a damaged plane. Fighting to open a malfunctioning hatch. The worst-case scenario magnified as the plane plummeted. Her panic, then her realization that the end was approaching in seconds.
Nancy covered her mouth and stumbled to the waste basket, where she sank to her knees and threw up. She heaved until there was nothing left to expel. Then she sagged against the wall.
How was this real? What had made Stamme fly so close to Cornelia? Or was it the other way around?
Nancy lost track of time, not caring that her stomach rolled and her head pounded. Far away, she heard a ringing phone and another. Why did phones have to ring so much? Where was everybody? Why weren’t the phones being answered?
“Nancy,” someone said in a soft voice. A hand settled on her shoulder, the pressure light. “Nancy,” he repeated. “Your husband has been trying to reach you.”
She lifted her head and stared with bleary eyes at Major Dunlap. His face seemed etched with new lines, as if he’d aged ten years. And perhaps he had. Perhaps they all had.
“Does he know?” Nancy whispered, a hot tear sliding down her cheek. She’d thought she couldn’t possibly have any tears left.
“Yes.” Dunlap crouched before her, his hand still on her shoulder. “Do you want him to come out? He’s getting leave, he says—”
“I don’t know.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t know anything anymore. Where is he?”
“On the phone. I said I’d find you.”
She shifted away from the wall. Dunlap stood and extended his hand, and she grasped it. Her legs were like water, but somehow, she followed Dunlap into his office. He led her to his chair, and she settled into it, grateful that she hadn’t fallen over. Her head felt stuffy with hollowness and grief and unanswered questions, but she took the receiver that Dunlap held out.
“Bob,” she whispered. “Cornelia’s gone.”
“I know, sweetie,” he said in a rasp. “I’ve been calling you for over an hour. Are you all right?”
She shook her head, then drew in a breath. “No. I don’t know what to do. She was only twenty-four. She wrote in her diary every night. She survived bullets from a Japanese bomber, Bob. She survived Pearl Harbor.”
Her voice was cracking and her pitch hysterical, but her soul hurt too much to care.
Bob’s words became a murmur, adding to her already buzzing thoughts.
“I sent her on that mission, Bob,” she whispered, her throat scraping raw. “I chose her to go on that mission. I inspected the plane with her. She smiled and thanked me. Thanked me. As if I weren’t sending her to her death.”
“Nancy,” Bob said, his voice firm now. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. Cornelia Fort volunteered for the WAFS. She wanted to join. She knew the risks; everyone knows the risk. Every pilot knows the risk every time they step into a plane.” He paused to draw in a breath. “We don’t know the details yet, but even when we do, none of this will be your fault. It’s a terrible accident and tragedy, Nancy. And now it’s time to honor Cornelia’s life. We’ll do that and make sure she’s never forgotten.”
Nancy had no strength left. No energy to shed another tear. Her body felt like a sock puppet discarded on the floor. “We won’t forget,” she whispered.
“No, we won’t forget,” Bob echoed. “I’m getting on a plane in a few minutes, and I’ll see you tonight. Okay?”
“No.” Nancy swallowed at the painful pressure in her throat. “I don’t want you in the air. I don’t want—” Her voice broke off. Logic was telling her one thing, but pain and fear jagged through her, overtaking all that. “Stay where you are, Bob. I couldn’t bear it if something happened.”
Eventually, Bob agreed, and she hung up after telling him she’d call if she needed to talk more. She felt wrung out, boneless, but somehow better after talking to her husband.
When Dunlap returned to the office, he got Nancy to eat something. She insisted on walking to the barracks alone though. She needed to move, she needed to think, and she needed to be alone.
Curling on top of her bed, she tried to sleep, but it proved impossible. Even though her mind and body were way beyond exhaustion. The darkness of the night seemed to crowd around her, pressing into her skin until it was hard to breathe. Finally, she climbed out of bed and pulled on her robe. She left her room and moved along the dark hallway. Her hands trailed across the doors of the WAFS—likely all sleeping inside, with troubled thoughts of their own.
Nancy opened the door that led out of the barracks. The chilly night air met her skin, and she drew the robe tighter about her torso. She inhaled the clean, sharp air, lifting her chin and gazing at the moon—a pale, silvery sphere that hovered above the earth. So high up yet visible from every corner of the world.
Cornelia’s body might have crashed to the earth, but her spirit had not.
Her spirit would never be buried. Her love of flying, her love of adventure and serving her country—all would live on.
Nancy took a shaky breath and stepped back into the hallway, then walked to the barracks phone.
Bob might be asleep, and if he was, would he sleep through a ringing phone? She didn’t want to wake him, but she wanted to hear his voice. She needed to hear his voice.
He answered on the third ring in a sleep-edged voice.
“It’s me,” Nancy said. “Sorry to wake you.”
“It’s fine. How are you doing?”
Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice remained strong. “I can’t sleep.”
“I wish you’d let me come out there.”
Nancy exhaled. “Dunlap said we’re going to Washington, DC, after the funeral. There might be fires to put out once the official report is released.”
“I hope there aren’t any fires,” Bob said. “But I want to see you—so that will be a good thing. I hate that it’s because of these circumstances.”
They both went silent for a while.
“What do you think went through her mind in her last moments?”
“Nancy,” Bob gently chided. “Don’t torture yourself like this.”
She blotted her wet cheeks. “I know. I can’t help but wonder.”
“I think it was too fast for her to fully comprehend, and I think it was painless.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” His voice held conviction. “She’s in a better place now.”
“Everyone says that, but what does it really mean?”
Bob was soothing when he spoke. “She’s free of mortal pain, physical and emotional turmoil. She’s moved beyond the world’s hardships and the atrocities of war. For whatever reason, her time was up, and she took her final solo flight. Her life will always be an example for the rest of us who remain on Earth.”
Nancy let his words sink in. He was right, or at least, she had to believe he was right. Her body was finally starting to feel the weight of sleep. Would her mind follow? She stifled a yawn.
“You should sleep now,” Bob said. “You’ll be involved in the arrangements and need a clear mind.”
“I know. I’m sure I’m breaking some sort of curfew rule, as it is, by calling you.”
Bob released a soft chuckle. “I’ll answer to Dunlap in the morning if anyone complains.”
“No one will complain.”
“Good,” his voice rumbled. “Now, sleep, sweetie.”
“Good night, Bob.” She hung up and headed to her room. Once there, she climbed into her bed, pulling the covers over herself, wishing Bob were here, his arms around her. Secure and warm. She focused on his words, replaying them over and over in her mind until she finally tipped into the blessed nothingness of sleep.
The morning brought storm clouds and dreary rain, and with it, the weight of the dark memories of the day before. Nancy might have convinced herself it had all been a terrible nightmare, but when she opened her gritty eyelids, she remembered.
It had been real, all of it. Cornelia was truly gone.
Nancy rose and prepared for the morning, her eyes smarting, her nose running, but her hard day and her grief would be only a fraction of what Cornelia’s family must be going through. She’d do as Bob had suggested: focus on the memory of Cornelia and honoring her life.
Nancy called Bob at home, but there was no answer, so she tried his office.
“Did you sleep?” she asked, her voice merely a scratch.
“A little,” Bob said. “How are you?”
“Terrible.”
“It will get better, eventually.” He was somber, just how her heart felt. “Keep me posted on what you discover. Find out what the investigators are reporting. Cornelia’s family deserves answers more than anyone.”
And Nancy found herself very grateful for tasks. Action—she needed to take action. That was how she’d get through the clenching grief inside her.
She threw herself into her work, and three days later, she was on a C-47 with B.J. and Major Dunlap, flying to Cornelia’s funeral. They flew to Albuquerque first, then nonstop into Nashville. Major Dunlap piloted, and Nancy and B.J. rotated copiloting so they could take turns napping during the all-night flight.
“It feels like a day for a funeral,” B.J. said as they flew into Nashville.
Sure enough, there was spitting rain and a fairly brisk wind, and it didn’t look like it was moving on anytime soon.
They headed into the airport office to make phone calls and find a hotel room. Once they found a place that could accommodate them, they borrowed a car and headed to the hotel to get cleaned up.
Nancy’s head pounded, but there’d be no time for rest or real sleep. Once she and B.J. were trussed in their full WAFS uniforms, complete with skirts, ties, wool gabardine jackets, and brown leather pumps, Nancy dialed the number of Cornelia’s family home to let Mrs. Fort know they’d arrived safely.
When Mrs. Fort answered, Nancy’s emotions pricked. The woman sounded so much like Cornelia.
“I’m glad you’ve arrived safely, Mrs. Love,” Mrs. Fort said. “Please come over to our home. Everyone would like to meet you.”
Nancy agreed, and after hanging up, she turned to B.J. “Let’s see if Major Dunlap is in the lobby yet.” There was no delaying what was going to happen today, so there was no use hanging out in the hotel room any longer. “Mrs. Fort has invited us to her home.”
The skin around B.J.’s eyes was tight, but she nodded. “I wish we could give them answers since that’s what they’ll be hoping for.”
“Most likely.” Nancy picked up her WAFS cap and gloves. “We might not have any new information to share with them, but we can at least tell them about their daughter’s selfless service.”
“Very true,” B.J said, and it turned out they were absolutely right.
Nancy and her group were introduced all around to members and extended members of Cornelia’s family. Major Dunlap had carried the boxes of Cornelia’s belongings in through the side door, and the family would go through her things later, thankfully, since Nancy knew she couldn’t bear to be around to see it. Packing them up had been heart-wrenching enough.
All eyes were on them as they sat perched on a couch, surrounded by vases of funeral flowers and condolences notes, when Mrs. Fort asked them to explain exactly how Cornelia’s plane had gone down.
Nancy released a breath and looked at Dunlap, who nodded for her to answer.
“We don’t have the official report yet.” Nancy tried to keep her voice from quaking. It was hard to do because she saw Cornelia’s features in the faces staring back at her. “We only know that there was a midair collision when Frank Stamme clipped her wing. Cornelia’s plane couldn’t recover, and it went into a dive.”
No one seemed surprised at the information, but everyone was clearly upset. One relative was opening crying behind a handkerchief while her red-faced husband kept his arm about her shoulders.
“Did she have a parachute?” someone asked.
“Of course.” Nancy had seen Cornelia wearing one herself. “She didn’t bail out though.”
“Why not?” another asked.
The questions kept coming, and Nancy tried to answer them as best as she could, but it was like sitting in the audience of a theater production—a tragedy—where everyone had their lines to deliver, but the most important person was missing: the leading actress. And everyone was waiting for her to walk onstage, but the minutes ticked by, and she never did. Emotion rose in the room, suffocating and heavy, and grief once again clawed at Nancy’s heart.
Major Dunlap took over at some point, giving Nancy a reprieve. “The moment we receive the report, we’ll notify the family,” he said in a calm, assured voice. “We’re very anxious to find out what failed in the mission and how it can be prevented in the future.”
“It could have been prevented if Stamme hadn’t flown into her,” someone muttered.
Dunlap lifted his hand. “We don’t know what happened. From all accounts, it was an accident. Let’s not dish out blame until we have the official report.”
Heads bobbed in agreement, but the pain in the room had become a sharp knife, cutting through everyone. When Nancy lost her brother, she’d endured myriad emotions. The pain over the loss of Cornelia was still fresh, still new, and even more so for her family. Nancy understood their shock and grief, and even when their questions were all answered, it would still take time to heal.
After Dunlap had answered the rest of the questions that were possible to answer, Mrs. Fort approached Nancy. “If you’d like to say a few words at the funeral, we can make room for it.”
Nancy would have loved to say yes . . . but dread vibrated through her. Dread at losing her stoic battle of calm and breaking down in front of everyone. This day was about Cornelia and her family’s loss, and it shouldn’t be about how Nancy Love couldn’t stop crying.
“I don’t want to detract from the other speakers,” she told Mrs. Fort quietly. “And I don’t think I could put my feelings into words, but I want you to personally know that I miss her terribly. I loved her and loved her passion for our country.”
Mrs. Fort’s eyes filled, and she clutched at Nancy’s hand. “I know one thing,” she said in a quavering voice. “If she could have chosen a way to die, it would have been doing it in the service of her county, in an Army airplane.”
Nancy wiped the tears falling onto her own cheeks and embraced Mrs. Fort. It was too bad that Cornelia was not eligible for military burial or honors and that the family wouldn’t be allowed to drape her casket with an American flag. If anyone deserved the honor, Cornelia Fort did.