“Last week came a shake-up . . . even the Air Forces weren’t agreed on which of the photogenic female flying chiefs would outrank the other. The ATC maintained that Miss Cochran’s job was merely advisory and not superior to Mrs. Love’s executive post. But officials at Air Forces headquarters insisted that Miss Cochran had ‘highest authority’ over women pilots: ‘If the Air Transport Command is not already aware of this, they will have to be made aware of it.’”
—Newsweek, “Coup for Cochran,” July 19, 1943
August 1943—Cincinnati, Ohio
“Can you believe it’s been a year since the WAFS started, and now—” Nancy bit off her sentence. The hour was growing late, and she should head to her apartment and sleep, but her mind wouldn’t shut off because of the news she’d received that day. She’d decided to give Bob a rest and had called Betty instead.
“And now we’re the WASP,” Betty said over the phone, irony in her words. “I went to bed a WAFS and woke up a WASP.”
Nancy laughed, but it was a dry laugh. “I was hoping when I woke up that it had all been some sort of topsy-turvy dream.”
“That would have been nice.” Betty stifled a yawn. “Are the rumors true, Nancy? Is the uniform changing too?”
“Yes.” Nancy closed her eyes for a moment. Brigadier General Tunner had briefed her, and she hadn’t even reacted. She’d felt numb, but now, the more she thought about it, the more the irritation crawled along her skin like vengeful red ants. “Not only are we being called the WASP, but our WAFS uniforms will be obsolete.”
Betty sighed. “You spent a lot of time putting them together—considering all the necessities—and getting things approved.”
“I’ve been usurped by a fashion designer.” Nancy rose from her office chair and walked around the desk. Through the window, the sun had set, and the Ohio sky glowed a brilliant magenta.
“What? Is Cochran now a fashion designer?”
It wouldn’t have been entirely surprising, especially since Cochran had coined the brand “Wings to Beauty.” “No, but she hired one from Bergdorf Goodman.”
Betty didn’t speak for a moment. “Are you joking, Nancy?”
“I wish I were.” She paused. “The uniform would be fine for any other organization, but it’s not the WAFS.”
“What color?” Betty sounded dubious.
“Santiago Blue.” Nancy drew in a breath. “It’s a pretty dark blue, I’ll give Cochran that. The blue will make up the wool gabardine jacket and skirt. The beret will match, of course. For flying, we’ll have a battle jacket and blue wool slacks. In addition, we have two shirts—cotton for summer and flannel for winter. And a tan-colored trench coat. Gloves and shoes are black calfskin. All topped with a pair of silver wings.”
“Sounds like something a cover model would wear in a magazine photo shoot,” Betty mused.
“I haven’t seen the uniform in person, but I’m wondering how long I can get away with wearing our WAFS.”
Betty laughed. “I’m not planning on changing until someone gives me a direct order.”
“It won’t be coming from me.”
“Mrs. Love, you still here?” Tunner tapped on her partially open door, and Nancy turned from the window.
“Yes, sir, I’m on the phone with Betty Gillies.”
Tunner stepped into the room. “Excellent. I need to speak to you both.”
“Of course.” Nancy returned to her desk, and Tunner sat across from her. She set the receiver between the both of them. “Can you hear us, Betty?”
Her voice sounded tinny through the receiver. “I can.”
Tunner steepled his fingers atop the desk. “Now, we have a situation in which I need you ladies’ help.”
Nancy wasn’t sure how many more “situations” she could stomach. She drew in a breath and focused on Tunner.
“We’re having trouble getting male pilots to ferry the B-17s over the Atlantic Ocean to the United Kingdom.” The skin about his eyes tightened. “So, I thought, Why not have a couple of our girls show them how it’s done?”
Nancy blinked.
“What?” Betty’s voice came through the phone. “You want us to transition on a B-17 and fly to Europe?”
The edge of Tunner’s mouth lifted. “I do. And it’s not to make you ladies into some sort of spectacle for the media. You’re seasoned and talented pilots. We’re just setting the example.”
Nancy was listening but not fully comprehending. “This isn’t setting a speed record to Canada, like the WAFS did for the PT-26s. Or when Del Scharr checked out on the P-39 that the men were complaining about, thus proving anyone could take on the flying coffin. Scharr even wrote her own checklist.” She paused. “This is across the ocean, sir. We’d have to . . .” Her mind jumped ahead through the many hoops. “We’d have to transition up the chain.”
Tunner gave a curt nod and produced a paper upon which he’d outlined the process.
Betty couldn’t see the paper, so Nancy read aloud. “Begin sandbagging in the B-25 immediately.” Sandbagging was flying along with an instructor. Nancy had already checked out on the B-25, so Betty would be next. “Start Army instrument training and check out on the B-25.”
She scanned the rest of the list. “You want us to check out on the BT-13, C-78, C-73, and then finally the B-17?”
“Exactly.”
Betty seemed to have no reply from her end.
“This will take weeks,” Nancy said. “We’d have to move our schedules and—”
“Drop everything else.” Tunner straightened his shoulders. “Things like name changes to the WASP or uniform redesigns are the least of our concerns right now. The inter-office politics will eventually sort themselves out. We have a bigger frontier to conquer, ladies, and a war to win. The ATC needs to deliver the B-17s and their crews to the AAF squadrons in England. The B-17s are rugged and strong. Not only can they reach Germany and return again without fueling, but they can be ferried across the Atlantic without ships. They don’t go down easily in a fight and can return our men home even if they’re damaged. Saving lives is what will happen.”
Nancy knew the specs of the B-17, its 103-foot wingspan and 74-foot length. The plane was powered by four Wright 1,200 horsepower radial engines, and it could fly 300 miles per hour at 30,000 feet.
Nancy released a slow breath. What would Bob say? He’d be supportive, but . . . it would be a lot. She and Betty would be making history, sure, but she didn’t care about that. Nancy could see both the fire and the desperation in Tunner’s eyes. He needed them to do this, and she knew she’d never have anyone better than Betty to undertake this task.
“Ladies,” Tunner continued, “flying the B-17 on the Snowball route will light a fire under those men’s wings.”
Nancy knew that the Snowball route began in Gander, Newfoundland, or Goose Bay, Labrador, to Prestwick, Scotland. From there, on to England. It was bothersome that the male pilots were complaining when the deliveries were desperately needed. But even if the men weren’t pushing back, this was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up.
The momentum of the war continued to shift. In July, the Allies had landed in Sicily, leading to the German evacuation. The Allies had bombed Rome, and the British had completed a bombing raid on Hamburg. Mussolini had been arrested on July 25, and the Italian fascist government had crumbled. Marshal Pietro Badoglio seemed willing to negotiate with the Allies.
“I’ll do it,” Nancy said. “Betty can decide for herself—”
“I’m in too.” Betty’s voice rang out, loud and clear from the receiver. “What’s first?”
The tightness around Tunner’s eyes relaxed, and his mouth curved. “Well, ladies, first task is to get your vaccinations, including your first: a typhoid shot.”
It turned out that Nancy called her husband that night anyway.
“Can I come?” Bob asked the moment Nancy filled him in.
“That would defeat the purpose,” Nancy said with a laugh, although nerves were starting to take over as well. What had she agreed to?
“Fine, but I’m going to give you a lot of advice,” Bob said, both amusement and pride in his voice.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from my know-it-all husband.”
“I don’t know it all.”
“You sure act like you do,” Nancy said.
The smile was evident in his voice when he answered. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Can you fill me in on that, Mrs. Love?”
“Come to Cincinnati,” she said immediately. “I’ll take you to watch the Cincinnati Reds play baseball at Crosley Field, and you know the beer is world-famous.”
“You don’t need to bribe me, sweetie. My best girl is there.”
“Who would that be?”
“I think I need to show you a few things on the B-17.”
“Sorry, Mr. Love. You’ll be the student in this situation.”
He laughed. “Can’t wait.”
Next, she called her parents. Her father answered, and she gave him a rundown of her assignment. “We’re keeping things hushed for now, Daddy, so don’t tell anyone except for Mother.”
“I won’t, my dear,” he said. “People might wonder why I’m glowing with pride though.”
Nancy smiled to herself. “You tell them you’re happy because the weather is fine.”
Her father chuckled. “You’re remarkable—although you’ve probably figured that out by now. Everyone is so proud of you.”
By “everyone,” she knew he always referred to her brother as well.
“How’s Mother?”
“She’s busy with quilting most of the time,” her father said. “Joined a ladies group. It’s been good for her. Keeps their hands and minds busy—which we all need during this war as we wait for news.”
Over the next few weeks, Nancy followed Tunner’s outline, while Betty was doing her part in Wilmington, becoming instrument rated on the B-25. Nancy traveled to Romulus to earn her instrument rating on the BT-13, C-78, and C-73.
Then, in August, Betty and Teresa James flew a ferrying mission of P-47s to Fort Myers. The following day, Betty arrived in Cincinnati, meeting Nancy.
“Finally, I get to talk to my copilot in person,” Nancy said, striding toward Betty as she walked into the hangar.
The two women embraced, then Nancy stood back. “Let’s look at you.”
Betty wore her full WASP uniform, and she did look smart. But it wasn’t the colors of the WAFS, so the sight was bittersweet.
“Thought you might be wearing the WAFS uniform,” Betty said with a smirk. “Didn’t know what to pack.”
Indeed, Nancy wore the WASP blues, too, but she still had the khaki WAFS uniform hanging pressed in her closet, ready to go at a moment’s notice. “We have more urgent matters to deal with,” Nancy said, linking her arm with Betty’s as they walked to Tunner’s office. “Don’t need the media stirring up more rumors. We already have enough of their attention.”
They headed into Tunner’s office, where Captain Robert D. Forman waited.
“Betty, this is Captain Forman,” Nancy said, making the introductions between the pair.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gillies,” Forman said, shaking Betty’s hand. His eyes were friendly, his gaze perceptive, his hair a faded red. “I’ve heard nothing but good from General Tunner.”
Betty smiled. “He said you’re the best, and he only wants us working with the best.”
“I’ll try to live up to that,” Forman said with a laugh. “But call me Red. Everyone does.”
“All right, Red, what do you have for us today?”
“How about copiloting the B-17E?”
Betty grinned and glanced at Nancy. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“Come this way. I’ll introduce you to her.”
Nancy walked with the pair, her skin prickling with anticipation.
“Her official name is B-17E #41-2550,” Forman continued. “But we call her the Flying Fortress.”
Nancy and Betty would spend the next weeks with Forman, as mandated by Tunner. They’d be training on cross-country runs, which included night flying and night landing. Next, they’d become instrument rated and checked out on the B-17.
The following day, Nancy woke before the sun, happy she’d slept a few hours. Her mind was already thinking ahead to their flight workday of practicing landings and short distances with the B-17, then flying to Middletown about thirty miles north of Cincinnati.
Once she and Betty had a quick breakfast and suited up in their WASP flying outfits, they met Forman on the tarmac.
“We might have a bit of an audience today, ladies,” he said as he walked them through the precheck. “The Aeronca Aircraft Corporation in Middletown is receiving the Army-Navy ‘E’ Award in honor of their production of war equipment.”
Nancy had heard of the prestigious award. “Should we fly to another location?”
“Of course not,” Forman said. “They’ll love seeing the B-17 swooping in. We might make the papers though.”
“That’s nothing new when Nancy Love is involved,” Betty quipped.
Nancy narrowed her eyes at her friend. “I’m not the one who asked for this assignment. If the men were doing their job . . .” She winked at Forman, and he returned a grin.
“We’ll show Middletown how it’s done,” Forman declared. “Then they can spread the news.”
“What does Aeronca build?” Betty asked.
“The L-3 liaisons and the PT-19s and PT-23s,” Forman said. “But even more interesting is they build the elevators for the B-17.”
“Ah, so this is all part of a plan?” Nancy asked. “Flying in for the ceremony?”
“Something like that.”