“Aviation will soar ahead, though its progress between our 1903 flight and today still takes my breath away. Women even fly military planes now! What kind of girl would want to fly an experimental jet? A pioneer like me, maybe?”
—Orville Wright in conversation with Ann Baumgartner, Wright Field, Ohio, 1944
April 1944—Cincinnati, Ohio
Nancy hadn’t been feeling well all morning, and she was about to head out of her office to speak to Tunner when her phone rang. She paused, debating, then finally answered it.
The man on the other end of the line said, “I’m calling from the New Cumberland airport in Pennsylvania, on behalf of Evelyn Sharp. Is this Nancy Love?”
Nancy immediately went on alert. She didn’t know the caller, but she knew that Evelyn had requested RON the night before because of bad weather over the Allegheny Mountains. Nancy had just met with her on April 1 in the Cincinnati office. Evelyn had checked out on the P-38, and her assignment this week was to deliver a P-38J to Newark. “This is Nancy Love,” she said into the phone.
“Mrs. Love,” the caller said. “I’m sorry to inform you that Miss Sharp was killed this morning shortly after takeoff. Her plane’s engine went down, and there was no recovering.”
A flash of disbelief shot through Nancy, hot and fast. “She didn’t bail out?” she asked in a whisper. How could this have happened to sweet Evelyn? She was only twenty-four, one of the Originals, and one of the brightest pilots.
“Unfortunately, there wouldn’t have been time. She hadn’t even cleared the trees.”
Nancy’s mind reeled with questions. She needed as much information as she could get. This wasn’t a time to crumple into a chair and block out the world. “Tell me everything you know.”
As the airfield employee spoke, Nancy wrote notes so she’d remember them later and could report to Tunner. Her hand shook as she recorded the details, and her stomach felt like it had turned inside out. Apparently, when Evelyn had landed at New Cumberland, she’d mentioned that one of her engines had been giving her trouble. This morning, everything had seemed fine in the precheck, and she’d been cleared for takeoff by the tower.
Evelyn had taken off, and almost immediately, black smoke had begun to pour out from the left engine. The P-38 had gone into a stall, then the left wingtip had clipped a cluster of trees, and the plane had dropped. She’d been in the air for one minute.
After hanging up, Nancy took a steadying breath, her eyes hot with tears. She dialed the Wilmington office, and Helen Mary Clark answered the phone. She’d taken over for Betty Gillies when Betty had been reassigned to Farmingdale.
“Helen,” Nancy said. “Are you sitting down?”
“I am,” Helen said warily.
Nancy dragged in a breath. “Evelyn’s been killed in a P-38.” She spilled everything, her voice choking with emotion.
“Not Evelyn,” Helen said with anguish. “Why would she fly with a problem engine? Or did they tell her it was fixed when it wasn’t?”
“We’ll get to the bottom of that later.” The pressure in Nancy’s chest only tightened. Evelyn had been set to take over as the commander of the new women’s squadron in Palm Springs since the pursuit school had been moved to Brownsville, Texas. “We need to get Evelyn’s body back from Harrisburg, then accompany it to her home in Ord, Nebraska. Probably by train. Can you assign Nancy Batson? I know she’s in Farmingdale, waiting to take a P-47 over to Newark, but can you have her return to Wilmington immediately?”
“Of course,” Helen said. “You don’t want to be the one to take Evelyn to Nebraska?”
Nancy paused, her throat like a vice. “No. I can’t.” Now wasn’t the time to confess that she still wasn’t over the death of Cornelia Fort. She simply couldn’t face another funeral. “We’re taking up a collection to present to her parents. There’ll be no money coming in from insurance or death benefits, as you know, since we’re not militarized.”
“I’ll reach out to everyone,” Helen said in a quiet voice. “I’m so sorry, Nancy.”
“We all are.”
After Nancy hung up the phone, she slammed her palm onto the surface of the desk. The pain of the action was muffled by the pain in her heart. Steeling herself, she rose and walked stiffly to the door, then headed to Tunner’s office to let him know the latest tragedy.
Three Originals had now been lost.
After speaking to Tunner, the numbness had worn off. There was much to be done. And she still had to prepare for the upcoming deposition she’d be giving to the Committee on the Civil Service of the House of Representatives.
By the time she got to her apartment, her head was pounding, and her throat felt sore and swollen. She checked the medicine cabinet for some aspirin when she noticed a few red spots on her neck. Upon closer inspection, she found red spots on her upper arms and on her back. She realized she’d itched throughout the night and this morning without paying much attention to it . . . It had to be chickenpox.
Over the next two weeks, Nancy dealt with isolation due to chickenpox, fighting to not scratch herself raw and getting updates by phone from Nancy Batson about Evelyn’s funeral. Nancy spent sleepless hours trying to combat the itchiness by writing long letters to Bob in Australia. She moved through the rest of her duties with a heavy heart as the newspapers continued reporting on the lambasting of the WASP bill.
The pilot shortage at the Ferrying Division, which the bombing of Pearl Harbor had instigated, couldn’t be denied, so Nancy couldn’t understand why the WASP bill was being so heavily criticized. The bill wouldn’t go to the House until June, so Nancy hoped her deposition would make a difference.
The waiting felt agonizing, but thankfully, Bob was back in the US after his Australia assignment by the time the date of the deposition arrived.
“I’ll come in with you,” Bob said the morning of the big day. They’d been able to spend a few precious, short days at their apartment in DC together. “I’ll wait in the lobby until you’re finished. I want to make sure you’ll be all right. It’s so soon after Evelyn.”
Nancy exhaled, blinking against the stinging in her eyes. “I’m doing this for all the WASP, especially for Evelyn, who literally gave her life for the program. Her family received no benefits for her sacrifice, and some of these families can’t afford much.” She reached for Bob’s hand. “They can’t use the excuse that we’ve negligently lost pilots in the program—we’ve lost some, yes, but even General Arnold has pointed out that the total casualties are much less than expected.”
Bob squeezed her hand. “I can still come.”
“I don’t know if having you there would look good or bad. Good because my husband is supportive of his WASP wife. Or bad because you work for ATC, and they might think there’s unfair favoritism going on.”
Bob’s forehead creased, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I understand. I’ll be the one pacing like mad behind closed doors.”
“It’s just a deposition, Bob.” Nancy rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I’m answering questions I could answer in my sleep.” At least, that was what she kept telling herself.
Bob’s hands moved to her waist. “You do talk in your sleep.”
“Hardly.”
“Okay, you mumble.”
Nancy smirked, then she looped her arms around her husband’s neck. “Have I told you that you’re wonderful?”
“Not for a while.” The edge of his mouth lifted. “Are you about to tell me now?”
“I am.” She gave him a light kiss. “You’re wonderful. But don’t let it go to your head. We need fewer egos in the world.”
Bob chuckled, then kissed her back. “Go get ’em, sweetie.”
Nancy smiled, even though her pulse had started a low thrum. She’d be happy to refute claims of women pilots being favored over the men or that women were given better assignments or even that men were doing ground assignments while the women were flying the planes in their stead.
That Sunday morning in April was a busy one overseas. The morning news reported that the Soviets had driven out the final pockets of German resistance in Yalta. The British RAF flew air raids from bases in Italy, targeting Romania. And American warships in the Atlantic Ocean sank the German submarine U-550.
Less than an hour later, Nancy took her seat in the stark deposition room before the Committee on the Civil Service of the House of Representatives. Across the table sat the two male investigators for the Ramspeck Committee who were tasked with questioning her: Colonel McCormick and Mr. Shillito. Robert J. Ramspeck, who was a congressman from Georgia and a former deputy US Marshall, was the man leading the WASP investigation and the one who had formed the committee.
“Mrs. Love,” Colonel McCormick began, “how would you rate the qualifications of the girls who graduated from the training school at Avenger Field?”
“The women are good pilots.” She hoped the nervousness pulsing through her would settle down. “We follow the same regulations and qualifiers as the male graduates of the Training Command.”
The stenographer typed her answers as Nancy spoke, and Nancy tried to ignore the tapping sound.
Mr. Shillito asked the next question, his gaze owllike through dark-rimmed glasses. “What is the policy on pursuit pilots?”
Nancy wasn’t sure if such a simple question needed an answer, but she obliged. “We need pursuit pilots.”
Mr. Shillito waited for more, but that was Nancy’s answer.
McCormick spoke next, his dark mustache sporting a bit of salted gray. “Mrs. Love, what is the relationship between you and Miss Cochran?”
Nancy tamped down the frustration at the question, but she’d expected this line of interrogation, so she was prepared. “Miss Cochran oversees the administrative duties of the WASP, and I handle the operations side.”
McCormick’s expression didn’t change, but there was a sternness there. “Would you say that you and Miss Cochran have conflicting opinions?”
Nancy chose her wording carefully. “There is no battle between us, sir.”
Neither man appeared convinced, but they could believe what they may. Just because she and Cochran had differences of opinion didn’t mean they were in some sort of battle. There was enough war going on in the world.
The next question from Mr. Shillito wasn’t a surprise either. “Why do the girls want to be militarized?”
Nancy had heard many reasons over the past year, but they all narrowed down to a handful. “For recognition and protection. When a female civilian pilot arrives to pick up an airplane, she isn’t always trusted and is sometimes viewed as a spy. Also, if the female pilots were militarized, they’d receive compensation and insurance for their families, as the male pilots do.”
The stenographer typed away.
McCormick’s next question was unexpected. “Off the record, Mrs. Love, how much do you think the uniform is worth?”
Besides the fact that the fabrics were good quality and a fashion designer had designed it under the tutelage of Cochran? “I have no idea, sir. I haven’t taken an interest in clothing, as others might.”
The men glanced at each other, then Shillito asked, “What items are issued? What are purchased?”
This was straightforward, at least. “The basic uniforms are issued,” she said. “We’re given two winter and two summer ones. All accessories are purchased by the women.”
“How much are you paid?” Shillito pushed up his glasses.
“I’m paid $142.08 every two weeks.”
“And the other WAFS?”
She thought it was interesting he said WAFS instead of WASP. “$250 a month. Overtime hours takes it to about $280.” She didn’t know why this needed to be asked in a deposition. Payroll was a firm detail, not an opinion.
“Mrs. Love,” McCormick said next. “Which girls are competing for Air Medals?”
She had to tamp down a laugh as she remembered how B.J. had felt mortified to be awarded the medal. B.J. had been doing her job, no more than any other pilot had. “I have no idea what you mean, sir,” Nancy said pointedly, although she was proud of herself for keeping calm. At least on the outside. “The Air Medal was awarded to Miss Erickson.”
McCormick’s mustache twitched. “How did Miss Erickson make those deliveries so fast?”
Again, Nancy suppressed a laugh. “Well, the weather was good, sir. Miss Erickson is a good pilot and a hard worker. She also had fast airplanes.”
Neither of the men seemed amused.
The questions continued, and she had no trouble answering them. She only had to keep her mirth in check.
When the deposition was finally over, she was asked to sign the six-page document. She shook everyone’s hands, including the stenographer’s. Walking out of the office, Nancy held her head high, pleased with her answers. She had been direct. She hadn’t faltered. And now it felt like a weight of stones had been lifted from her shoulders.
As she headed to her car, her step was light and her heart happy. Then she paused on the sidewalk. A young boy across the street shouted the most recent newspaper headlines: “Today has been declared Black Sunday! Massive number of US fighter planes lost!”
Nancy’s pleasant mood evaporated in a blink. She waited for a passing car, then crossed the street. Paying for the copy, she stood a few paces from the newspaper boy and read the headlines.
The US Fifth Air Force division had successfully completed a bombing raid over Hollandia, New Guinea, but upon return, twenty-six planes had been lost in foul weather. The three squadrons of the 475th Fighter Group had lost more men in this single mission, due to weather, than it ever had in a combat mission.
Nancy’s eyes burned, and swallowing became impossible. The war news was terrible every day, even when Allied forces prevailed. Why was this so different from any other news? Because it involved pilots and bad weather? A risk for every pilot?
Nancy folded the paper and continued to her car, her mind wandering to the men lost in those planes and the families who’d received the devastating news. War was truly a waste, for everyone. On the earth or in the skies, at home or abroad. Everyone was suffering some sort of loss, and maybe Nancy could be grateful that her brother had never been sent into combat. Hadn’t ever endured the unspeakable.
By the time she reached the apartment and stepped into Bob’s arms, she felt ready to collapse.
“Was it so terrible?” Bob asked gently, his hand slowly moving up and down her back.
“The deposition was fine. Partly ridiculous but mostly fine,” she said, muffled against his chest.
“Then, what’s wrong, sweetie?”
She drew away from him. “I read the newspaper—have you been listening to the radio?”
A line appeared between his eyebrows. “No, I’ve been on the phone a lot. What’s happened?”
She pulled out the newspaper tucked inside her handbag.
Bob snapped open the paper and began to read as he slowly walked to the couch. Sitting down, he read the entire article, his face grave, before he looked up at her. “I can’t imagine why they were ordered to fly into near-hurricane conditions.”
“I can’t either.”
Bob’s gaze moved over her. “Come here. Sit. I’ll make you something to eat. What are you hungry for?”
Nancy joined him on the couch and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’m not hungry. I want to sleep for a day or two. Is that possible? Can you take my calls?”
Bob’s chuckle was soft, and he set his arm around her. “You can sleep as much as you want today, but tomorrow, I’m afraid we both have to get back to work.”
She nestled closer to him. “I don’t want to miss any of our time together, so I shouldn’t sleep too much.”
He pressed a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll feel better knowing you won’t be flying back to Ohio in a catatonic state.”
Nancy closed her eyes, breathing in Bob’s familiar scent. “Don’t think about moving. I’m comfortable.”
Whether or not she would have actually fallen asleep would never be discovered because the phone rang. And rang. Bob finally answered, and it was clear he was speaking to Tunner. Bob looked over at her, as if asking her permission to hand off the phone.
“I’m awake,” she said and rose on aching limbs. She answered Tunner’s call and gave him a rundown of the deposition.
He congratulated her, but she felt no warmth from it. Her countrymen overseas were in a literal fight for their lives, and now her country was questioning the value of the WASP Program. Squirreling for nonexistent infractions. Shouldn’t they all be working for a common cause and fighting for a common goal? Instead of asking petty questions about the cost of a uniform or if there was friction between herself and Cochran?
None of that mattered in the long run. Bringing the war to an end and stopping the senseless loss of life was what mattered.
As Tunner summarized his own findings for the report he was putting together, one thing stood out to Nancy. He’d found that the WASP pilots were logging in fewer hours than the male pilots. In addition, regardless of gender, all pilots in the Ferrying Division had been utilized. And the only reason a pilot wouldn’t fly as much as another was due to which planes they were qualified to fly.
“And finally,” Tunner said, “we’ve been canceling all leaves requested by Ferrying Division pilots because we’re still in a pilot shortage.”
“So nothing should be standing in the way of the WASP?” Nancy clarified. “We’re still needed?”
“Definitely.”