by Max Hennessy
‘It’s a cow path to the barns. We took down a fence and made two fields into one.’
‘Looks a bit rough.’
‘We had a roller over it.’
‘It still looks rough,’ Sammy said. ‘And it crosses at an angle. One wheel’ll hit it before the other. You might find a shock absorber’ll go.’
Cluff suddenly seemed faintly annoyed with their comments, as though he felt they were being unhelpful, and Ira tried to change the subject.
‘How does she climb?’ he asked. ‘You’re going downhill into a valley. You’ll have to climb out of it at the other side.’
‘We can do it,’ Cluff said firmly.
‘What revs can you get?’
‘Eighteen hundred. She’s flown nearly two thousand miles on it.’
Cluff sounded defensive now and Ira spoke earnestly. ‘Cluffy,’ he said. ‘Any machine ought to be able to stay up once it’s off the ground, so long as the pilot stays awake. It’s getting her off fully loaded. We’ve worked on this problem for weeks. Have you? Or have you just guessed at it?’
‘A bit of both,’ Cluff admitted with a smile. ‘We’ve always got her off before.’
‘Fully loaded?’
Cluff hesitated. ‘Well, no. I suppose not.’
Ira climbed behind the controls, watched from below by Pelletan and Cluff. Dulcie Cluff stood behind them, large and awkward, clutching the lumberman’s jacket round her as though she were cold. The suggestion of apprehension that he’d seen in her eyes had returned.
The cockpit was a shabby botched-up job, vastly different from the stripped-down but still well-finished cabin of the Courtney. Silently, he worked the stick and watched the ailerons move up and down. Looking back, he noticed it was impossible to see the tail.
‘Oughtn’t you to devise some scheme for watching your rear end?’ he asked. ‘Once you’re away, you’ll have no idea what’s happening to that extra undercart.’
‘It’s just not possible,’ Cluff said.
‘Couldn’t you fix a mirror or something? You’ve got to know when to cut the throttle if something goes wrong.’
They had clearly hurried the modification without enough thought either for design or for preparation, but Cluff was looking sulky now and was running his hand through his pale blond hair as though he thought Ira was being merely obstructive. He had clearly expected praise and their doubts were irritating him.
‘I think we can do it,’ he said.
‘How much petrol are you planning to carry?’
‘We can get four hundred gallons in the tanks.’
‘It’s barely enough, Cluffy – even in still air.’
Cluff gestured angrily. ‘We’ve got a dozen cans in a rack in the cabin as well. We can top up after we’ve been flying and dump ’em. It’ll make it four-fifty.’
Sammy was frowning heavily. ‘It might be enough,’ he said slowly. ‘Can you lift ’em off the ground? What’s the wing-loading work out at?’
Cluff didn’t seem too sure and was obviously becoming restless. He had been eager to show off his toy, and he was desperately seeking their approval. He ignored the question and turned to Ira.
‘Think she’ll do it, Ira?’ he asked.
For a moment, Ira moved the stick about between his knees and worked his feet on the rudder pedals. He decided the time had come to be honest.
‘No,’ he said.
He saw Cluff’s face fall and Pelletan begin to frown. Dulcie Cluff, whose expression had been growing more and more anxious as they’d talked, glanced nervously at her husband.
‘Not even with this runway?’ Cluff said.
‘Not even with this runway,’ Ira said firmly. ‘I don’t think your tyres are heavy enough. I don’t think your engine’s new enough to develop the revs you want and you’ve had no works expert on it. And’ – he jerked his hand forward – ‘I’d rather take a heavy plane off along a flat runway that ends in a flat field than down a hill into a dip. There are big trees down there, Cluffy, and you’ve got to gain a lot of height quickly. In any case’ – his voice fell – ‘I doubt if you’ll get that far with a load on. I think your undercart’ll go on the rough ground.’
Cluff looked stubborn. ‘I think we’ll make it.’
Ira shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m not a designer. I only fly the planes, but I know what they’re trying to put into their machines and I don’t think you’ve done it. Ask Sammy here.’
Cluff turned but Sammy’s sombre face precluded the need to ask the question.
Dulcie Cluff’s face had gone pale. ‘Don’t do it, George,’ she said quickly.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Cluff snapped. ‘We’re all right!’
She stared at her husband, her face beautiful in its concern for him. She was still clutching the ugly jacket about her, awkward, clumsy, her expression begging him to reconsider. Then she glanced at Ira, a suddenly bitter glance as though she lay at his door all Cluff’s ambitions, as though she felt it was because of what he was attempting in New York that Cluff’s uncertain temperament was being directed into channels where it didn’t belong. Her eyes rested on his face for a second, then swung back to Cluff’s, tragic in their intensity of despair.
‘No, please, George!’
‘Why not?’ Pelletan looked angrily at Ira and spoke harshly, the question coming abruptly and rudely. ‘Why do you say we can’t fly her?’
Ira shrugged. ‘I’d suggest doing a bit more thinking first,’ he said. ‘Not only about aeroplanes, but about organisation. Get some curves worked out and decide what you’re setting out to do. Get some expert advice.’
‘That’s why I got you up here,’ Cluff said bitterly.
‘OK,’ Sammy interrupted. ‘And that’s what you got. You heard what Ira said. That’s advice. And it’s bloody good advice to my mind! Don’t try it.’
‘For Christ’s sake’ – for some time as he had listened to their comments, Cluff had been building up a head of steam and now it burst out in an infuriated frustrated rage – ‘we flew the bloody thing from Quebec to Winnipeg and from Winnipeg to Toronto, and Toronto to here! We came up that bloody slope right in front of you.’
‘What was it like?’ Ira interrupted. ‘Bumpy?’
Cluff glanced at Pelletan. ‘It stopped us,’ he said shortly.
‘I can see a dozen folds in it on the way down.’ Ira glanced into the valley again. ‘If it makes you bounce before you’re ready, it’ll be curtains. Look, Cluffy, I’ll try to get Hal Woolff up to look at her. He might as a favour to me.’
Cluff gestured angrily. ‘Let me take you up and show you what she can do.’
‘No.’
Cluff turned away, his face sullen. ‘Well, stay here then and let me show you how she gets up off the ground.’
Ira glanced at Sammy. ‘No harm in that,’ he said. ‘I’ll watch and then I’ll think again.’
‘OK.’ Cluff was reaching inside the plane now for a helmet. ‘We’ll show you.’ He gestured at Pelletan who gave them a quick confident grin and produced his own helmet.
‘She’s half-full now,’ Cluff went on. ‘That’s more than she’s ever had to lift before. If she gets up all right with that load, we’ll try her again at three-quarters before we try the full load.’
Dulcie Cluff’s face was tragic now. ‘Why not leave it for today, George?’ she suggested. ‘Think about it. Sleep on it. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll come up with a solution.’
Cluff gestured angrily at Ira. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘he’ll be back in New York with his wealthy friends. We’ll do it now while she’s warm.’ He glanced at Ira and went on with a trace of bitterness in his voice: ‘Does your contract allow you to swing the prop for us?’
Ira nodded silently and Cluff climbed into the cabin of the aeroplane. Settling himself into the pilot’s seat as Pelletan locked the door behind them, he held up his thumb.
‘OK. Contact.’
Sammy gave him a cold contemptuous look and, linking hands
with Ira, they put their strength into the pull. The big engine burst into a crackling roar and the few blackened maple leaves that remained in the folds of ground from the previous autumn whirled back into the barn with the scraps of chaff and grass clippings. Moving to one side, Ira and Sammy took up a position alongside Dulcie Cluff, who held her clenched fists to her mouth, watching, her eyes suddenly empty.
Pelletan’s uncle stood behind her, his heavy gnarled hands hanging by his sides, his eyes on the plane, his face devoid of expression.
For a while, Cluff let the engine tick over, then he lifted his thumb again and Sammy and Ira jerked the chocks away. As the throttle was opened the big machine began to roll forward, lumbering clumsily over the brow of the hill towards the valley, then, as it reached the slope, speed began to build up quickly.
‘Not much headwind, Ira,’ Sammy commented flatly. ‘He won’t get much help.’
The old farmer who had directed them from the main road had appeared on the track alongside the field now, slogging up the hill in the muddy old Model-T. Seeing the big plane begin to move, he drew his car to a stop and they saw him stand on the seat to watch as the metallic howl of the engine filled the valley and rebounded from the trees.
The machine was gathering speed more quickly now and as it crossed the cow path to the next meadow, they saw the wings swing abruptly as the starboard wheel dug into the softer earth. As Cluff wrenched the machine straight again, a small cry escaped his wife but she didn’t move and, glancing at her, Ira saw she still had her fists against her mouth, her eyes wide and large.
Cluff tried to haul the machine on to its course again, but it began to swing once more and at the next fold of land it swerved even more wildly and, as it shot over the curving ground, they saw the wheels leave the grass. Nobody spoke as the wheels slammed back on to the brow of the next fold with a spattering of muddy earth, then, quite clearly, they saw one of the struts of the rear undercarriage slowly buckle. Immediately the whole framework began to break loose and drag behind the plane, the struts flailing the ground and throwing up clods of earth, one of the wheels detaching itself and bouncing high into the air.
‘For God’s sake,’ Sammy breathed. ‘Close the bloody throttles!’
In his seat up at the front, however, Cluff had no means of seeing what was happening behind him and the heavy plane slammed onwards, bouncing and swinging, the struts of the ruined undercarriage tearing the tailplane to shreds.
It was obvious now that Cluff would never get the machine off the ground and they saw fragments of wood fly into the air from the damaged elevators. Then the rudder, which he was using to correct the yaw, seemed to become jammed by part of the damaged undercarriage, and the machine swung suddenly to starboard again and began to career wildly across the slope in a wide arc that grew tighter and more dangerous with every yard.
A thick groaning sound escaped the old man behind them. Dulcie Cluff’s hands opened and covered her face, and a thin wailing sound came from her throat, hoarse and terrified like a frightened animal’s cry.
Neither Sammy nor Ira spoke as they watched the plane with narrowed eyes and taut faces. Cluff had obviously realised at last that something was wrong and they saw the broken auxiliary gear finally fall away as he pulled the release lever. But he was already far too late and the wreckage bounced up under the tail surface, hammering at the ground in a loud whacking sound that they could hear even at the top of the slope. Even while the howl of the engine died as Cluff slammed back the throttle, the machine was swooping wildly for the next fold in the ground, hitting it at a sharp angle. As the wheels lifted and touched again, Ira saw the starboard shock absorber go and started to run. A wing tip touched and crumpled, then – as though Cluff had jerked the stick hard over to lift the weight off the damaged side – the machine swerved to port. But the collapsed undercarriage slammed down again at once, dragging the machine back to starboard, until it was almost facing uphill again, and the rattling swaying juggernaut swung wildly towards the fence, mud and clods of earth flying into the air in its wake.
The old man watching from the muddy Ford dropped back into his seat abruptly and let in the gears to pound up the hill out of the way as the Bréguet smashed through the fence exactly where he had been watching. They saw split rails flying up into the air, piercing the wings and fuselage, then the whole machine began to disintegrate into flying fragments of wood, steel and fabric.
The trees jerked wildly and they saw the brushwood waving as the huge plane, completely out of control now, smashed through it.
A long yellow wing rose into the air – quite slowly, it seemed – like the agonised pennon of an exotic dying bird, then at last it came to a stop, its tail high in the air, and the leaves began to flutter down on top of it, and Ira and Sammy were pounding across the field as fast as they could go.
The Bréguet had ploughed its way through fifty yards of brush and had ended up with its wings torn off and scattered about in fragments of wood and fabric, and they had to fight their way through the smashed shrubs and splintered trees. Stumbling over the twisted metal of an engine cowling and past the broken fragments of the rear undercarriage, they stopped among the flattened brushwood, fighting for breath and wondering how to get at the two men inside the wreck. The cockpit was ruined but Ira could see Pelletan trying to fight his way out. Plunging into the tangled splinters of timber and torn fabric to wrench wood and metal aside, Ira was trying to drag him clear when he heard the thud of the petrol tank going up. He was sprayed with burning petrol that half-blinded him as he heaved at the screaming Pelletan, then with a jerk the Canadian came free and they fell clear of the flames. As he looked round for Cluff, smelling his own singed hair, he saw Sammy trying to fight his way into the cockpit, one arm across his face. His jacket was already alight and Ira scrambled to his feet and leapt after him.
‘Sammy, you bloody fool!’
Diving into the black smoke again, he felt the heat shrivel his skin, and, grabbing Sammy, he swung his slight frame round with all his force and flung him clear. Throwing himself after him, Ira fell across him, beating out the flames on his jacket and hair and arms.
Pelletan was rolling in the grass now as though he were in a fit, his face black with burns. There was thick blood on the blistered flesh and his mouth was a pink hole soundlessly screaming with pain. The farmer with the Model-T came across the grass at a lumbering run to where Ira was just scrambling to his knees and helped him to drag Sammy away from the searing heat.
‘The other guy didn’t get out,’ he was yelling hoarsely. ‘Danged things, they’re always killing folk and smashing barns down!’ He was making little plunging runs at the flames then stopping and stumbling away from the heat, his eyes shut, yelling all the time in a distraught hoarse voice, tears running down his gaunt face.
Ira climbed slowly to his feet, his face hard, aware that he’d lost his eyebrows and some of the hair at the front of his head. The cockpit had collapsed under the flames now and was nothing but a bright glow like the open door of a furnace, which scorched his face and forced him back from the smoke. There was no sign of Cluff.
The farmer was still hopping about on the edge of the blaze, scared and horrified. ‘He’s burning to death!’ he yelled. ‘How do we get him out?’
Ira dragged him back. ‘We don’t,’ he said shortly. ‘We can’t. Save your breath and go and get help. It’s about time someone around here started behaving with a bit of intelligence.’
The old man gaped at him, his mouth open, then abruptly he swung round and began to shamble off across the grass to where his car stood, his hat falling off unnoticed, his knees lifting, his arms pumping.
Ira stared after him for a second, then he swung round to Pelletan who had flopped back in the grass now and had rolled over on to his face, heaving himself about on his elbows like a blackened seal, his legs broken and useless, and Ira saw that his clothes were burned clean away and that the flesh of his back was wrinkled and ugly in a livid sca
r.
Sickened with rage, knowing Pelletan wouldn’t live, Ira lifted Sammy gently to his feet, his jacket burned and looking strangely bare without eyebrows or eyelashes. His face was a vivid pink and he was staring down at his hands. He lifted his eyes, his expression shocked, then gazed down at his hands again, and Ira saw they were raw with burns. For a moment, overwhelmed with anger, he was unable to speak, then as he looked up, he saw the older Pelletan lumbering heavily towards them down the slope, his mouth working as though he were trying to shout something and couldn’t. Behind him, still where they’d left her, where she’d been when the machine had begun its roll forward, Dulcie Cluff stood as though petrified, her hands to her mouth, her whole clumsy frame hunched up and shaking with terrible tears.
* * *
It was late when Ira returned to Erwin’s Hotel. Boyle was waiting in the apartment, smoking a cigarette. He looked angry.
‘Ira,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. Where the hell have you been?’
Ira dragged his jacket off and flung it into a chair. ‘Getting myself into something I shouldn’t,’ he said heavily.
Boyle gestured. ‘Ira, I’ve been going through all Courtney’s contracts ever since the war. Hughesdens have nothing on us. Nothing.’
Ira said nothing and the old man continued eagerly: ‘The only contract over instruments was one he signed for them to supply gear for his automobiles. I guess we just decide they’re bluffing and go as soon as we can.’
He thrust a late paper forward as Ira began to search for cigarettes. ‘And the sooner the better,’ he ended. ‘Have you seen this? There’s a report in now about a new guy in the race, a guy called Cluff. Some hick reporter in Newburgh’s filed a story about a converted Bréguet.’
Ira lifted an expressionless face to the old man’s. ‘You needn’t worry about Cluff,’ he said slowly.
Boyle stopped dead. ‘You know about him?’ he asked.