“I can hear a plane. . . . It’s quite possible that somewhere up there, alone in the open cockpit of a trainer plane she is delivering, a girl is shivering in the wet wind, knowing she’ll have to be alone and cold for another seven or eight hours. She’s flying up there, a mile above the earth, so that some man may be released to fight for his country.”
—Oscar Schisgall, writing about Nancy Love in the Cincinnati Enquirer
May–August 1943—Long Beach, California
Nancy adjusted the straps of her parachute, then climbed into the four-engine B-24. Today, she was copiloting with Major Dunlap. She’d recently checked out on the B-25 twin-engine, medium-range bomber, the first woman to do so.
But this B-24 was a behemoth.
“Ready, Mrs. Love?” Dunlap asked.
“Ready, sir.”
The sky seemed to part like a river as the B-24 jolted through the air, taking Nancy’s heart to a new rhythm. Below, Long Beach became miniature, and the Pacific Ocean stretched out like a shimmering silver carpet.
Pride swelled within her. Pride and gratitude. Dents were being made on the warfront, and the news coming from both the European and Pacific Arenas was more promising than ever. The Allies had taken Tunisia, and German and Italian troops had surrendered in North Africa.
The WAFS were blooming. Betty Gillies had become the first WAFS to deliver the P-47 across the country. And Helen Mary Clark checked out on The Jug. There were currently at least a dozen more P-47s scheduled for delivery over the next few weeks, and the WAFS would be flying them.
So many changes were on the horizon. Nancy would be transferring to Cincinnati, Ohio, the newly designated Ferrying headquarters, on June 25. Tunner was insistent that Nancy be present, and she had agreed with him. They had twenty-three graduates from Cochran’s flight school, bringing the number of WAFS to forty-nine. The new graduates would be split evenly among the four ferrying squadrons.
But first, Nancy was making a stop at Avenger Field in Sweetwater, Texas. She wanted to speak to the upcoming graduates of Cochran’s program about what to expect when they started in the Ferrying Division. She asked Colonel Tunner to join her, now that they were back to tentative peace.
Not surprisingly, Sweetwater was in a heat wave, and the air was so humid, Nancy felt like she could drink from it. Practically the entire town had turned out, and the pomp included a marching band strutting along the open road, followed by the women in their uniforms, marching in tandem.
The graduation ceremony included short speeches by Cochran, Arnold, and Tunner, then Cochran’s presentation of silver wings to each graduate. The graduates also sang, and after the formal ceremony, they all met together in a meeting room. Out of the sun and humidity, thankfully.
“I’d like to introduce Mrs. Nancy Love and Colonel Tunner,” Cochran said to the gathered group of women.
Nancy surveyed each of the women in turn. Their eager expressions, their alert eyes, and their neat and professional appearances. Nancy was impressed. She felt an affinity toward these women already—they all had the same drive, the same passion, and the same dedication.
“Thank you, Miss Cochran.” Nancy stood before the women after Cochran sat down. “It’s a privilege to join you all today, and I look forward to seeing each of you progress to the Ferrying Division. At your assigned squadron, you’ll have the same privileges as the officers. Plan on a week’s indoctrination when you arrive. You’ll learn how to file paperwork for each plane you deliver. You’ll be on duty seven days a week, but you’ll always be given some time off after each delivery to take care of personal affairs. Any questions so far?”
She paused as one of the women raised her hand and asked, “How long are the trips?”
“Depending on where you’re based and the ferrying assignment, most trips are averaging 1,000 miles.”
A few of the women murmured, exchanging glances.
“When you arrive at each base,” Nancy continued, “you need to report back to your squadron leader so we have a record of where every plane is each day and each night.”
Another woman raised her hand. “What types of ships will we be flying?”
“You’ll start out on the PTs and BTs that you’ve checked out here,” Nancy said. “Once you have 2,000 cross-country miles on a PT, you’ll transition to the AT-6s and AT-17s. The speed of your progress will be determined by how fast you can learn and qualify on the bigger planes.”
Nancy continued answering more questions, and overall, she was impressed with the upcoming pilots. Tunner also gave a short speech and answered a handful more questions. Overall, the Sweetwater trip proved to be only positive, and Cochran was perfectly cordial.
Once Nancy was back in Ohio, settled into her apartment and working at the Cincinnati air base office, she updated Bob.
“Well, you’re closer to DC,” Bob told Nancy over the phone. “We’ll figure out a weekend when we can both get away.” Bob was back from England, but she hadn’t seen him nearly enough in the last couple of months.
“All right.”
Someone tapped on her office door and opened it.
She looked up to see Colonel Tunner dressed in his flight suit.
His expression was harried. “I need to speak with you.”
“Sure thing.” Nancy returned to the receiver. “Bob, I’ll call you later.” She hung up and motioned for Tunner to sit.
“Sorry about barging in. This news can’t wait.”
“No problem.” Nancy was grateful for Tunner’s mighty change of attitude toward the WAFS Program, but his serious demeanor was making her nerves dance in warning. “What’s going on?”
Tunner sat, then hissed a sigh. “Jackie Cochran has written a rather extensive letter to General Arnold with many demands, and it looks like things are going to fall into place according to her recommendations.”
Nancy could only stare. “What does the letter say?”
“I don’t have a copy, but I can give you the summary.” Tunner leaned forward, his forearms propped on his knees. “Cochran pointed out that the ferrying group will reach nearly 1,000 women by the end of this year.”
Nancy nodded. Her calculations had come up with the same result. Thus, her move to Ohio to manage things from a more central location.
“She’s suggesting that before the women are militarized—”
Nancy opened her mouth to protest, but Tunner held up a hand.
“Before they’re militarized under the Air Force, she wants their training and routines established so that it will be a natural transition.”
Nancy bit her lip. It wasn’t that she didn’t want female pilots to have the option to become part of the Air Force—but focusing on two agendas right now, while they had plenty of battles to fight already, complicated things. “All right . . . I understand that. It’s been Cochran’s goal from the beginning. Why is this something urgent now?”
“Because . . .” Tunner drew in a breath. “Cochran thinks that because the Ferrying Program is headed this direction anyway, she should be made the director over the entire Women’s Pilot Program.”
Nancy didn’t need it further spelled out. “Including the WAFS. Which would put me . . . where?”
Tunner linked his hands together. “I’m not exactly sure yet. I’m speaking to General Smith soon, then we’ll have to meet with General Arnold.”
“So quickly? Are things official now?” Nancy’s stomach plummeted. Maybe she’d be relegated to a squadron leader. Cochran would shake up the entire system. Maybe even put in her dreaded relay routes. That couldn’t happen, though, right? It would be like going backward. Many of the WAFS had proven their long-distance ferrying capabilities.
“Things are fairly official.”
Nancy stilled the questions battling in her mind. “What does that mean?”
Tunner ran a hand over his jaw. “It means that General Arnold has created the Office of Special Assistant for Women Pilots, and Cochran has been named the director of Women Pilots.”
Nancy leaned back in her chair. “What exactly does that mean for me at ATC?” She was repeating herself, but she was also trying to wrap her mind around these developments.
He puffed out a breath. “We’re not entirely sure. It seems that Cochran’s new position entails deciding where the women pilots will best be used, determining graduation standards, setting up rules of conduct, overseeing the women’s welfare, outlining the militarization plans, and making visits to inspect the women pilots’ living conditions.”
Most of which Nancy was overseeing. Had she just lost her job? “Does ATC have any recourse?”
Tunner straightened. “Yes, of course. And I don’t plan on having to explain ATC directives to Cochran every time I need to issue something.”
Nancy smiled. She might not have been happy butting heads with Tunner previously, but she didn’t mind being on his side now.
“We’re going to assign you a new appointment,” Tunner continued. “One that can’t be interfered with, not even by Cochran.”
Now they were getting somewhere, but still, Nancy wasn’t looking forward to extreme changes or a difficult working environment with mounds of red tape.
“We’d like to give you the official title of executive for the WAFS, and you’d be on my staff, of course. You’d still be over the ferrying squadrons and their schedules. Cochran will be considered an adviser to the WAFS. We will regulate our own people at ATC.”
“I accept,” she said.
“Excellent.” Tunner pulled a folded paper from his flight suit. “I’ve written up these duties, and if you agree, we’ll make them official. The press is going to pounce once Cochran’s position is announced, because ATC is going to announce yours too.”
Nancy took the paper from Tunner, but before reading through it, she asked, “Does any of this have to be reported to the press? I mean, Cochran and I are on the same side in the long run. At least from my viewpoint. We both know Cochran is forwarding her agenda in every way possible—but since I have you at my back, I don’t think we need to publicly air our differences of opinion.”
“The press will be involved because General Arnold and Cochran are involved.” He motioned toward the paper. “Read it, and tell me what you think.”
Nancy read through the duties that Tunner had sketched out by hand. “Advise the Ferrying Division headquarters in the matter of how to delegate the WAFS assignments.” She looked up at Tunner. “Agreed.” She read the next lines. “Allocate which WAFS join which ferrying group. Supervise the introductory training and additional training on advanced aircraft. And finally, formulate the rules and regulations that govern conduct of the WAFS, as well as oversee the morale and welfare.”
She met his gaze. “This is well-thought-out and what I’m mostly doing already.”
Tunner folded his hands. “But now it’s in a more official capacity that we’ll include in our announcement.”
“I don’t have any additions.”
“Excellent.” Tunner rose to his feet and retrieved the paper. “I’ll get you a typed memo soon. And I know I don’t have to ask you this, but as a reminder, keep any comments to the press as innocuous as possible. We’ve been able to keep a lid on things for months, and I know that Cochran has been shutting down media at Sweetwater as well.”
“I was planning on it.” Nancy rose and shook Tunner’s hand. They all wanted the program to stay on task and not be embellished or minimized in the newspapers. The press mostly portrayed the WAFS as glamour girls. Articles such as “Girl Pilots” published in Life had disparaged the dedication of women by reporting, “The girls are very serious about their chance to fly for the Army at Avenger Field, even when it means giving up nail polish, beauty parlors, and dates.” As if the women cared about any of those things. They were giving up spouses, children, homes, and jobs. Not nail polish. Nancy steeled her emotions. “Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Love.” He paused. “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye on some details, but what you’ve done for this program has changed our future. One that we can be proud of. Make no mistake that the WAFS have been instrumental in altering the tide of this war.”
“It’s been my pleasure.” Nancy released his hand and stepped back. After he walked out of her office, she didn’t move for a moment. Cochran would be taking on a much more prominent position in women’s aviation now, and Nancy could only hope that the ripples would be small and that it wouldn’t detract from the true intent of the WAFS mission.
Despite what Nancy hoped and what Tunner predicted, the media went into a frenzy once both announcements were made on July 5. Newsweek’s article was titled “Coup for Cochran,” and under their photographs was the caption, “Miss Cochran and Mrs. Love: Which one bosses women flyers?”
When Nancy finished reading the article, she met with Tunner, plus General Smith on the phone. “This is ridiculous,” Nancy said to Smith once he answered. “These articles are filled with half-truths and are taking the focus away from what the WAFS Program is all about by making it seem like Cochran and I are on the phone every day arguing over whose ideas are better.”
“This will die down soon,” Smith said in a tight voice. “I don’t like the reporting either, but the media embellishes to get a more sensational story.”
“I hate it,” Nancy said. “If we can’t trust the media, where can the general public get reliable information? If they’re making my assigned duties into something newsworthy, then how are they twisting other news stories? We should be working, doing our jobs right now, instead of having these types of phone calls.”
Smith’s grumble came through the line. “Have you or Colonel Tunner spoken to Cochran?”
“Colonel Tunner spoke to General Arnold,” Nancy supplied.
“Yes,” Tunner confirmed. “Generally, Cochran doesn’t seem bothered by the media reports.”
This irritated Nancy, but she was tired of letting these articles weigh her down. Her job was busy enough. She had plenty on her plate, checking out on more planes and keeping the WAFS running smoothly. And she missed her husband. She didn’t want this war as much as the next person, but nothing in her wanted to be in the middle of the circus that seemed to constantly lump her and Jackie Cochran’s names together.
“I’m sure your office is too busy to deal with henpecking that’s not even happening,” Nancy told Smith. “Colonel Tunner is getting a promotion and will need to focus on that.” Tunner’s promotion was to brigadier general. More changes afoot.
Cochran was already taking her director position and putting plans into action. Nancy didn’t particularly like them, but she was staying out of the decision that Cochran had made to redirect a group of graduates from Class 43-3 and send them to Camp Davis to be trained on towing gunnery targets.
Yes, the women could perform the duty, but Nancy didn’t love the idea of highly trained female pilots becoming target practice for live gunfire by male combat pilots in training. But she kept her head down in the Cincinnati office because they were moving from four women’s ferrying squadrons to six. In addition, she had determined that she would transition on every single plane that the WAFS would be assigned to fly.
But Nancy could no longer keep her calm when August brought another blow, this one impossible to gloss over. Cochran’s next plan was approved. The WAFS Program and the WFTD classes in Sweetwater, Texas, would now combine to be named under the single organizational name of Women Airforce Service Pilots, or WASP.
No matter where the women pilots worked, or for which division, they would all be considered WASPs, starting officially on August 5.
The past year of building and creating and growing the WAFS Program would now be defunct in name and recognition.
Nancy decided she was taking a couple of days off. She called Tunner and told him, barely keeping her voice steady.
“I’m sorry, Nancy. I know this is a blow. It is to all of us. The WAFS was our brainchild, and now . . .”
When he didn’t finish, Nancy felt a rising wave of anxiety. “What aren’t you telling me?”
His silence spoke volumes, silence so dense she could have waded through it.
“Colonel Tunner?”
“The uniform is going to change too,” Tunner said in a firm tone. “I suggested the Original WAFS keep theirs—the one you designed—to set them apart as the forerunners of the program. But . . .”
“But you were overruled.”
“Yes.”
“By Cochran, who has General Arnold’s ear.”
“Yes.”
Nancy closed her eyes. “I don’t want to know anything more right now. It can all wait. I’ll be back in two days. I need to see Bob.”
“Of course.” Tunner spoke somberly. “Have a safe flight.”
It wasn’t too hard to find a plane to ferry, and when she landed in Washington, DC, later that afternoon, Bob was waiting at the hangar to greet her.
She gave him a fierce hug, then drew back. “Do I look like an old lady?”
His brows dipped. “What?”
“I feel like I’ve aged thirty years,” she said, the tears building. “I know it’s silly. I’m healthy and safe, and you’re healthy and safe, but I want to go to our apartment, lock the doors, and never come out again.”
Bob cradled her face with his hands, his blue eyes intent on hers. “Sweetie, none of this diminishes the program you’ve built. The WAFS are still the WAFS but with a new name. And I’ll spend the next two days trying to convince you, but mostly, I want to feed you.” He kissed her forehead. “You don’t look older, but you’re thinner. Come on, we’re hitting up the nearest diner, and I want you to order anything you like.”