Herbert Carter and Mildred Hemmons Carter had a love story so epic that it deserves its own spot on the big screen.

Dubbed the “First Couple of Tuskegee,  Herbert and Mildred met in 1939 and kept their love burning strong until Mildred’s passing in late 2011. They found love at 30,000 feet, combated racism and career disappointments, and cemented their place in history among Tuskegee’s finest.  CNN recently took a deeper look at their love story and found a bond so strong that literally nothing could break it. We encourage you to read the full article  over at CNN.com. We have some excerpts for you below.

How they met:

The two first spotted each other in 1939. He was a senior football player in high school at Tuskegee’s then-boarding school. She was a college freshman and a majorette in the band.

Their paths crossed during practices.

“Who’s that?” Mildred asked a friend when she saw the handsome 5-foot-7 quarterback.

He was instantly attracted to her. She wasn’t like the timid, shy girls around campus. There was something about her confidence, like she knew she was going places.

“I could just see her energy.”

He worked at a local grocery store run by his brother. He’d see her shopping and wave. He couldn’t muster much courage beyond that. Socially and academically, he felt below her.

But by the next year, he was enrolled in Tuskegee’s civilian pilot training program. He didn’t enter to become a war hero. He was just trying to “get the draft board off my back.” His plan: Get his pilot’s license, serve his time in the military, then become a veterinarian for farmers in Texas, flying from farm to farm.

“But I got into that first plane and something bit me.”

He kept hearing there was a young woman in the program, too.

“One day, I’m coming out of class, and who is there but Mildred!”

He grew more intrigued. For their first date, he took her to a campus dance. A brass band played mostly melodies. It was, he says, “magical.”

Love in midair:

Flying was intoxicating. It provided Herbert and Mildred a sense of freedom — to be themselves, to dream big. The in-your-face racism of the segregated South was gone, if only for a while. In the air, the sky was literally the limit.

It takes pioneers to force change. Herbert and Mildred would play their part in the years ahead. But in those early days, they didn’t see themselves as trailblazers. They were young and in love.

More than anything, flight provided a rare opportunity to see each other. He’d call her up on Fridays: “Are you gonna be flying this weekend?”

“Of course,” she’d say.

They’d pick a time to meet. Their rendezvous point: 3,000 feet above a bridge at Lake Martin, 25 miles away. He’d be flying a repaired AT6 trainer. She’d be in a much slower Piper J-3 Cub.

“When I’d get to Lake Martin, I’d see this bright yellow Cub putt-putting along,” he said. “I’d be real proud: She was on time and on target.”

He’d pull down and fly in formation with her. They couldn’t communicate by radio; her Cub didn’t have one. All they could do was smile, wave and blow kisses.

Seeing each other in flight created a bond. When they flew together, it was as if they were holding hands in midair. At the end of their aerial encounter, he’d peel away, only to circle back. He’d sneak up behind her, pull in front and leave her in a trail of airwash. Her tiny craft shook mightily. She’d come to expect it every weekend.

“It didn’t faze me,” she’d say. “I was the better pilot. … I just didn’t fly the fastest aircraft.”

Racism rears its ugly head:

Determined to fly for her country, she applied to become a WASP, a member of the groundbreaking Women Airforce Service Pilots who ferried planes from factories to airfields. (Women of any race were barred from flying combat at that time.)

By then, Mildred had her business degree and well over 100 hours of flying. She was named “Miss Tuskegee Army Flying School” by the airfield newsletter, and Anderson ranked her among his best pilots.

But the rejection came swiftly. “The U.S. government does not have plans at this time to include colored female pilots in the WASP.”

Shaken, she called Herbert.

“Mil, what is it?” he said.

“It’s race again,” she said.

He rushed to her side. She ripped up the letter. He hugged her.

“Keep the faith, Sweet. We’ll get there.”

Her rejection made him more determined to succeed.

“I thought, ‘Well, damn it, I’ll show them that we can do it.’ ”

They held each other’s hands.

During painful moments, that’s how they communicated. “So much physically can be translated by holding hands between people who are close without having to verbalize,” he says.

He called it “her hand of understanding, her hand of ‘I care.’ ”

“When things would get rough on me,” he says, “I had to remember that Mildred wouldn’t let this get to her.”

She’d reach out her hand and say, “Geno, it’s going to be OK.”

“That’s all I needed. And I’d go out there and fly the hell outta that plane the next time.”

Read their full story here.