Sentimental Journey

by Jill Barnett

  “Why isn’t the pilot talking to the tower?”

  “She said she couldn’t get their frequency.”

  “She?”

  “I think it’s one of those ATA gals.”

  “I DON’T WANT TO SET THE WORLD ON FIRE”

  Charley counted off the hazards. “Three telephone pole . . . Jackson Avenue . . . Two power pole . . . ” One more to go. She knew she should clear it by about ten feet. She checked her gauges, the needles looked off.

  Rafferty’s voice bellowed into her earphones. “Morrison!”

  Suddenly the plane clipped the last pole. There was a horrific crunch. She swore and grabbed the controls with both hands.

  The nose shot up. The plane started to roll.

  Oh, God . . .

  She jerked on the controls, hard, gave the plane full power. It vibrated violently. There was a loud, high-pitched whining sound, like a human screaming. She jerked up the gear and tried to straighten the plane, both at the same time.

  It bucked like a bronco. “Come in, Whiting Tower. Tower? Come in.” Nothing on the radio.

  Damn . . . damn . . . damn . . .

  The plane lifted a bit and leveled out. She wasn’t rolling anymore. The plane began to shudder and pulled against her hand controls. She glanced at the instruments, but the plane was vibrating so much she couldn’t read them.

  The engine stopped screaming so sharply she froze for an instant.

  This is it.

  She pulled the emergency release handle on the cockpit so she wouldn’t be trapped inside, then waited for the engine to stall, then for that inevitable drop that would follow.

  But it was oddest thing. The drop didn’t come. The engine was still running, rough, but running.

  She looked down.

  The plane was in the air, flying low over the runway. But bad for her: over the end of the runway, and heading straight for an airplane hangar. The huge hangar door was open. She could see a trainer and a C-57 transport parked inside.

  Some men were waving their arms at her. The letters on the hangar—”Lockheed Aircraft”—grew bigger and closer. Way too close.

  She tried to get the plane up. Gunned it. Pulled on the controls, trying to get it up. She needed some altitude.

  Come on baby . . . come on . . .

  Now she could read the high-octane advertising sign that hung on the front of the hangar. It had a logo of a huge clipper plane on it, one that seemed to be coming at her.

  Desperate, she punched the engine to full power, not knowing what it would do.

  Get up there!

  The P-51 sluggishly responded. It was flying barely above a stall.

  The hangar was right there. In front of her. A huge metal coffin.

  She gave full throttle. “Dear God,” she whispered. “Please. Just let me get over it.” She gritted her teeth, then closed her eyes.

  It was one of those moments when everything stopped. Suspended. The world outside the cockpit just ceased to exist.

  The seconds slowed. Charley waited to die.

  One breath . . .

  Two . . .

  Three . . .

  She opened her eyes. The hangar roof was beneath her as she passed over it, barely. Some kind of low sound came out of her, from deep inside her, and she wasn’t sure if it was a curse or a prayer. She inhaled, took two quick, deep breaths.

  For as long as she lived—if she got out of this alive—she didn’t want to ever know by how much she had just cleared that hangar.

  Okay. You’re still flying. That’s good. Think, now. God, somehow I have to get to a higher altitude.

  After a minute at full throttle, the plane was actually gaining altitude again, a fact that made her racing heart slow down a little. She didn’t dare move a thing, just fought to hold the controls right where they were and to keep the plane up and level.

  Think. Think.

  She could hear an eerie, clanging sound coming from the starboard, as if a piece of the plane were banging against the hull. Or the angels were knocking on her door.

  She looked at the left wing. No angels there. She would have rather seen an angel. Hell, she would have rather seen a devil. Part of the wing was missing.

  She took a quick glance back at the tail.

  Half the elevator was gone. She glanced back again. It looked as if it had been eaten. She stared out at the sky around her and realized she was high enough now to bail out.

  Okay . . . she was going to live. She looked down below her for a second.

  The plane was flying well enough to gain altitude, and she had it under control, even though it was awkward.

  Do I really want to scuttle this plane?

  She thought she could try working with it a little, try to get the gear down and see if maybe she could land.

  Chewing on her lip, she glanced down again. No matter what, bail or give it a go, she had to get away from this populated area. And fast.

  Fighting like crazy to keep the plane straight, she headed away from the airport, north of town, where there was nothing around and if she went down . . . well, then it would only be her.

  “SO HELP ME”

  “Where the hell is she going?”

  “Sweet Jesus . . . I can’t believe she’s still in the air.”

  “Well, you can believe it,” Red said to the two men standing at the glass window of the tower. “The Charley Morrison I know doesn’t give up.” He crossed over to the radio, picked up the mike, sat down, and dialed an outside frequency. “Charley? Come in. This is Red Walker. Over.”

  He paused, then played with another frequency, one close to the ham radio operator’s.

  “Charley? Can you hear me? Over.”

  “Whiting Tower—” Her crackling voice spliced through, then there was nothing.

  “Charley!” He adjusted the dial. “Come in. We can hear you! This is Red Walker. Over.”

  “Red?” There was a pause. “Texaco Red?”

  He laughed a little. “Sounds like you’re in some trouble. Over.” There was silence, and he wasn’t sure if he’d lost her or not.

  “I’m struggling up here.” Her voice came through, only cutting out a little.

  “Repeat.”

  “The engine noise is really something awful and the instrument panel’s vibrating like crazy. I can barely read it. I don’t dare take my hand off the controls.”

  One of the men grabbed the mike from Red’s hand. “Morrison? This is Rafferty. Turn that goddamn plane around and get your ass back here! You hear me?”

  There was no response.

  Red wanted to wrap the mike around this Rafferty’s thick neck.

  “Morrison!”

  “Give me back the mike.” Red held out his hand. He stood about four inches taller than Rafferty, but the guy tried to bull-dog him. Rafferty took a step closer and looked up at him, chin out like his granddaddy’s old mule, ready to have it out.

  “Look.” Red nodded in the direction of the plane. “She’s up there now on nothing more than a wing and a prayer. Screaming at her like some drill sergeant is only going to make it worse.”

  “I’m responsible for those ATA women and for that plane. She knocked out the frigging airport power pole. Last we saw of that plane, half the wing and tail were gone. Hell, I couldn’t see her goddamn landing gear.” He drove a hand through his hair. “Shit! What a mess!”

  “Exactly. You yell at her. You shake her up, and she’ll crash that plane in the middle of a civilian neighborhood.”

  “He’s right, Bill. Give him the mike. Maybe he can sweet-talk her down.”

  Sweet-talk? Obviously neither of these men knew Charley. But Rafferty backed off and handed him the mike.

  “Charley. It’s me again, Red. Tell me what’s happening. Can you turn the plane? Over.”

  “This is one sick puppy. I’m holding hard left rudder and right stick to make it fly straight.”

  “Jesus . . . ” the other man muttered.

  “I’m thinking
I should try to head out of town and then bail out. Over.”

  Rafferty swore viciously.

  Red looked at him.

  He glared back. “That plane costs a fortune!”

  “Red?” Her voice sounded too quiet. “I’m here.”

  There was a pause; then she said, “I hate to destroy the plane when I can still fly it straight.”

  He wondered if she’d heard Rafferty in the background. “It’s getting dark. You don’t want to land it in the dark.”

  “I know . . . I know . . . but let me try something first.”

  “What?”

  “Just a minute.”

  The engine noise in the background of her transmissions suddenly disappeared.

  Red didn’t know if they’d lost communication or if the engine had stopped. He waited for her voice. God, don’t let her crash.

  A moment later her voice came over the radio loud and clear. “It worked! Red, it worked! I throttled back and raised the nose. I think I can do this. I think I can control her enough to land.”

  “How much fuel have you got?”

  “Not much. Maybe enough to get back to the field.” She paused. “If I can find it.”

  “There are no lights on the field.” Rafferty’s voice was snide. “She knocked out the power.”

  Red turned to the other man. “What about smudge pots?”

  “They were shipped to Fort Worth by mistake. We’ve been trying to get them back here for months.”

  Red turned back to the mike. “There’s a problem on this end. We have no lights for you, Charley.”

  Another voice crackled into the radio. “Five-niner-three. This is Ed Hunter in Hangar B.”

  It was the ham radio operator.

  “We’re moving the trucks out of maintenance and onto the runway. Their headlights will light the field for you. They’re already moving. Give us two minutes.”

  “Charley? Did you hear that?” Red asked.

  “Roger. I heard.” Her voice sounded as if she were crying.

  From the tower they could hear the drone of her engine. “We can hear you, but can’t see your landing lights. Can you see the runway?”

  “I’m not sure. There are streetlights all over. I can’t even be certain where the field is.”

  “Take a chance. Pass over it once. Over.”

  “Roger. I can’t read the gauges. I have to be flying on fumes. Wait! I think I see you!”

  “We can’t see you.”

  “I need to be certain where my landing light switch is. Ask Bill Rafferty where the toggle switch is for the landing lights. I don’t want to flip the wrong switch.”

  Rafferty grabbed the mike and barked out the answer.

  “There she is!”

  Red turned and could see the dim lights of the plane about a quarter of a mile out. Silently, the three men watched her approach.

  Red spoke into the mike, “I can see your wheels down, Charley. Looks good.”

  “Thank God . . . I think I just spotted the runway.” She paused. “Yes! That’s it!”

  “Good girl.”

  “Red?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I swear I won’t hit the gas pumps.”

  Joking at a moment like this. “Hell, Charley, they’re not Texaco pumps. You can clip ’em if you want to.”

  “I think I’ve clipped enough things for one day.”

  Red watched her approach, the plane weaving in the air. He could imagine what she was doing to control the plane. Alone. “You can do this, Charley.”

  “I guess we’ll find out now. Here goes . . . ”

  The plane turned and now was headed for a radio transmission tower.

  “Charley! The radio tower!”

  “I see it! But I’m already at full throttle. I can’t get her up!”

  Red’s heart stopped.

  “Oh, God . . . ”

  At the sound of her voice, they all shifted closer to the glass. It was so quiet, you could have heard a feather float.

  She was having trouble controlling the plane. It slipped up, then down and struggled. He expected to see it dive down any moment. Suddenly, the nose shot up. He could hear the engine rev up. She missed the tower.

  “God . . . She’s got an angel on her shoulder.”

  The nose of the plane tilted down. She was heading down and for the runway, but so slowly that the wings of the plane were waving as if the plane were bouncing on air. At her slow speed, it was a struggle just to stay up in the air.

  Closer to the ground . . . closer, then closer. She landed the thing like a rock, just dropped heavily onto the ground, because she had so little speed left.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch. She made it.” Rafferty was shaking his head.

  Red dropped the mike and ran down the tower stairs. He heard the others on his heels. He shoved the doors open so hard they slammed against the walls; then he ran across the field, through the glaring line of headlights.

  She taxied the plane toward a hangar. By the time Red got to her, there was a crowd surrounding the plane. She hadn’t moved. Her head was face down on her arms, which were resting on the control panel.

  Red shoved his way through the crowd.

  She lifted her head and turned as if she knew he was there; then she smiled and gave him a weak wave and shook her head as if she couldn’t believe she’d made it either.

  He jumped up on what was left of the wing, squatted so he was eye level with her. “Charley?”

  She took off her headset, unstrapped her helmet, and looked at him. “I don’t think I can get out of here. I’m shaking so bad.”

  Her hands were trembling.

  “It’s really cramped in here.” Now her teeth were chattering.

  She was in shock, and he didn’t blame her one bit.

  “You need help?” someone called out.

  “No. I got her.” He pulled her out, then just held her. She was so limp that she clung to him, her face in his shoulder, and he could feel her take in deep breaths. “It’s okay.” He rubbed her back. “You did it. I don’t know how in blazes you did it, but you landed this plane with half a wing gone, part of the tail ripped off, and the belly split like a gutted catfish.”

  Some of the mechanics were walking around the plane, talking among themselves and looking at the damage, shaking their heads.

  She turned back toward the plane. “My God. Look at that. One of the propeller blades is half-melted.”

  He kept his hand on her shoulder to steady her. She was still shaking.

  “It must have melted from the power lines.”

  He turned her back toward him and looked down at her stunned face. “That was some flying.”

  She closed her eyes and looked down, like she was going to cry.

  “Especially for a woman.”

  Funny thing, then. Her head shot up.

  He gave her a wink.

  She gave him a weak smile, but it looked like her tears were gone. “Help me down, will you?”

  He didn’t let go of her shoulders. “You’re sure you’re okay? I’ll wait if you need me to hold you up a bit longer.”

  “I’m okay. Right now all I want is to feel the ground under my feet.”

  He jumped down, then turned and half-caught her when she slid down from the wing. A group of women pilots, all of them talking at once, closed in around them, hugging her, two of them were crying. Over her head he watched as Rafferty came forward and put his hand on her shoulder.

  Charley turned around and saw who it was. Her smile melted like that propeller, and she stiffened, almost as if she were waiting for a blow. The other women grew suddenly quiet, all of them looking at Rafferty, then at her, then back to Rafferty.

  “Good job, Morrison.”

  Her jaw dropped open when he took and shook her hand.

  Rafferty said nothing else, but didn’t move.

  She recovered quickly. “Thank you, sir.” Then the women took her hands and swept her along with them, chatt
ering and heading for the outbuildings.

  Red turned when he saw Rafferty walk away and join the group of men who were looking over the plane.

  “Can’t believe she landed it.”

  “Amazing. For a dame.”

  “Yeah. That was some flying.” One of them whistled.

  “Did you see her almost clip that radio tower? Jeez . . . ”

  “You’ll have to pass her, Rafferty. She’s a damn good pilot.”

  “Yeah, anyone else would have probably bailed or ended up dead.”

  “Hell,” Rafferty said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if the bitch goes and kills herself. I just don’t want her doing it when I’m in charge.”

  Rafferty spun around.

  And Red knocked him out cold.

  “I WAS LUCKY”

  Three hours later, when the last of the ATA gals and a few of the airfield employees finally left, Charley and Red were alone at a table in a nearby bar. A local band called Joe Corn and His Five Cobs was performing on a makeshift pinewood stage in a dimly lit corner. The bandleader, a great trumpet player named Guy Jay, had just announced they were ending the set with a special arrangement of “Deep Purple.”

  Charley set down her whiskey sour and began to pick out the chili-coated pecans from a snack dish shaped like a longhorn steer.

  “Those women are something.” Red shook his head. “They all talk at once.”

  She laughed. “We’ve become good friends. It’s been hard. So many have been washing out because of Rafferty.” She swallowed, then looked Red in the eye. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for what you did.”

  “There’s nothing to thank me for. I didn’t do anything. You did it, not me.”

  “I was so scared I just reacted by instinct.” She paused, looking into her drink and remembering how scared she had really been. She looked up and admitted, “It was easier to think more clearly once I heard your voice. I guess what I’m trying to say is that thanks to you, I didn’t feel as if I was alone anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to try to land that plane for all the oil in Texas. Most pilots would have bailed.”

  “Rafferty would have killed me if I’d ditched that plane.”