by Max Hennessy
Loerner appeared, followed by a man wearing a parson’s collar. Some of the financial troubles that had beset the Courtney had reached his ears and he looked gloomy, as if he were beginning to feel his fees were suddenly unlikely to be paid. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘Nobody told me! It was the hotel that got me up. Why didn’t you let me know?’
‘Forgot,’ Ira said shortly. ‘There’s a lot to do.’
‘I saw Sammy,’ Loerner went on accusingly. ‘He’s still got his hands bandaged. You still saying he’s flying with you?’
‘If we change, you’ll be the first to know, Fred.’
Loerner gave him a suspicious glance and dabbed at his wet face. He managed a wintry smile at Ira. ‘I’ve heard that the French are waiting to welcome you,’ he said. ‘Because you’re English, I guess. That Nungesser business didn’t do us Yanks a lot of good over there.’ He stared round him, still with the clergyman treading on his heels. ‘Say, shouldn’t somebody inform Mr Courtney?’ he demanded.
‘I should forget my father,’ Alix said. ‘He’s got enough on his hands at the moment.’
‘Boyle then?’
‘Boyle’ll turn up. Stop worrying.’
‘Hey, Mr Loerner,’ one of the reporters interrupted, ‘what’s the Reverend for? Is he the new co-pilot?’
To their relief, Loerner turned away, brisk and efficient and now occupied elsewhere. ‘This is the Reverend Westcott Bone,’ he said. ‘Wedderburn Lutheran Church. He’ll be saying a short prayer just before the aeroplane leaves.’
‘The hell he will!’ Alix snorted to his back. ‘Whose idea was that?’
Loerner turned and gave her his thin smile. ‘Mine,’ he said. ‘I felt a prayer was the right thing to have as you took off.’
She gave him a contemptuous look. ‘You confine your activities to keeping the crowd back,’ she said, ‘and leave our souls out of it. It’d be a damn sight more use.’
Woolff gestured over Loerner’s head, pointing behind him. ‘Byrd’s here, Ira. He wants to wish you luck.’
The naval man’s handsome face appeared out of the shadows. ‘Best of luck,’ he said.
As they shook hands, the camera guns flashed and the thick magnesium smoke set the crowd coughing. ‘What about the Navy?’ someone called out, and Byrd gave a twisted smile.
‘They’re beginning to think I’m the world’s prize boob,’ he said. ‘But I’m after knowledge, not records.’
‘Fokker’s supposed to be coming down, too, Ira,’ Woolff pointed out as Byrd left. ‘And Grover Whalen and Chamberlin and Orteig’s son.’
Ira glanced at his watch. ‘They’ll have to hurry,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait.’
Sammy had left Mae now and was talking with Collins, the Wright official, by the engine. Alix moved away a little, alone in her isolation, watched curiously by the whispering crowds who shifted and curdled as the police and the few pressmen moved among them. No one bothered her and she seemed lost in a morass of her own thoughts.
‘Barograph’s fixed,’ Woolff said. ‘They’ll seal the tanks just as soon as we’re ready. We’ve got four hundred gallons in, so far. She’ll have four-seventy-five when we’ve finished.’
Ira nodded. ‘That’s a hundred and seventy-five more than she’s ever had before,’ he said. ‘What’ll she weigh?’
‘Five thousand three hundred.’
Ira smiled. ‘Let’s hope the Whirlwind’s built to lift it.’
‘The engine’s in perfect shape. It ought to deliver more than it was built for.’ Woolff looked at him. ‘How do you feel?’
‘As though I’m being prepared for execution.’
Woolff nodded at Alix. ‘How about…?’
Ira smiled, but he realised it was a little stiff. ‘She’ll be all right. How’s the ground?’
Woolff’s face grew sober. ‘Soft, Ira,’ he said.
Ira glanced at the sky and felt the rain on his face. ‘It’ll be softer still by the time Lindbergh gets here,’ he pointed out.
‘The wind’s right, though,’ Woolff said. ‘But it’s due to change.’ He gestured at a dark spiral of smoke beyond the field drifting lazily towards them. ‘Lindbergh’ll probably have to take off the other way.’
He looked at the dark sky. ‘It doesn’t look so goddam promising, Ira,’ he said uneasily.
Ira nodded without speaking and Woolff went on nervously: ‘Nobody’s pushing you, Ira.’
Ira managed a wintry smile. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘The decision’ll be mine.’
‘I’m not asking you to risk your neck just to break a record or win a prize,’ Woolff said earnestly. ‘I can do without both. You don’t have to worry about me, Ira, if you think the weather’s too bad.’
Ira slapped his shoulder and said nothing, and as he moved away Woolff stared after him, his eyes anxious.
Collins reappeared. ‘Almost ready, Captain,’ he said. ‘I’ve checked structure and controls and the tyres are up to pressure and axles greased and the bearings are oiled.’
Ira stared at the bulging rubber. ‘They’ll need to be,’ he said. Surrounded by mist, cut off by the damp particles that hung in the air, and achingly alone with his decision to go or not to go, he began to walk along the runway, feeling the wet clayey ground with his toe and watching how the water oozed up round his boot. He noticed the eyes of the watching people rest on him, distant, speculative and wondering. They knew the chances as well as he did and many of them had been there when Fonck had crashed in flames.
He noticed Hal Woolff alongside him again, gesturing ahead at the runway.
‘Police have cleared it,’ he said. ‘And it’s marked halfway along. You’ll know how far you’ve got to go.’
‘I’ll make up my mind there,’ Ira decided. ‘If we seem too slow, I’ll close the throttle. If we seem OK, I’ll chance it.’
He glanced back. Not far from where they stood was the little dip in the ground marked with a bent propeller where two men from Fonck’s Sikorsky had died eight months before. The ground was still bare and blackened where the great machine had burned.
Ira drew a deep breath, knowing just what Fonck had been faced with. It wasn’t easy for a pilot to decide whether his machine had passed the point when safety had gone and a take-off had to be abandoned. With an overloaded machine, the margin was terribly slight.
Silently, he dug at the turf again with his boot, aware that the rain had stopped at last, then he looked up at Woolff. ‘I wish it were all concrete, Hal,’ he said. ‘A nice stretch of new road would be useful down here. If there’d been one handy, I’d have used it.’
Woolff nodded and Ira stared along the field. He had walked its length many times and knew every dip and hollow. At the far end there were only telephone wires and then open country where people were already waiting on the golf course to see him pass overhead.
Probably thinking they were in the best position to see the crash, he thought wryly. The spectators weren’t all aviation enthusiasts and the attitude of many of them to aeroplanes was only that they fulfilled their appetite for death-defying bravado. It would be all the same whether they succeeded or whether they failed. The excitement would be of the all-or-nothing sort. ENGINE FAILS. PLANE PLOUGHS INTO CROWD. It didn’t matter what the headlines said or what the reasons were. It wasn’t hard to believe that the crowds weren’t all there just for a take-off.
Sammy appeared. His face was strangely solemn. ‘She’s ready, Ira. They’ve sealed the tanks.’
‘OK.’ Ira turned, making his decision, his features set. “Let’s go.’
A man was standing by the plane, smiling, and Ira recognised him as the official who’d arrived to seal the instruments and the tanks and fix the barograph. He held out his hand. “Everything’s ready,’ he said. ‘I’d better wish you good luck.’
Woolff’s mouth twitched in an uncertain smile. ‘Watch that tail-heaviness, Ira,’ he advised in a flurry of nervous and unnecessary last-minute advice. “Keep the nose down till you’re well clear and watch f
or a stall as you lift off. She’ll be awkward till you’ve burned off some of that main-tank gas. We’ve got somebody following in a roadster with a fire extinguisher, just in case.’
Ira nodded, hardly hearing, then Alix appeared out of the mist. She looked tired and he knew that she must be.
‘Ready?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded.
‘Get into your gear, Alix,’ he said. ‘And keep out of the way till the last minute. You don’t want any interviews with the press.’
She nodded and pushed through the crowd to where she had parked her car. Ira touched Sammy’s arm.
‘Sammy,’ he said. ‘Disappear! We don’t want anybody suspecting a switch. They’ll tear her apart if they do and she’s got as much as she can handle at the moment.’
Sammy didn’t argue and vanished abruptly.
From where he was standing with his parson, Loerner had been watching the little episode. As Sammy vanished, his eyes grew narrow with suspicion and he slipped under the wing and appeared alongside Ira.
‘What the hell are you guys up to?’ he demanded. ‘Sam Shapiro’ll never fly with his hands bandaged like that.’ He stared at Ira for a second, then he swore. ‘By God, you’d got this thing planned!’ he said indignantly. ‘Alix Courtney’s going in his place!’
Ira grinned. ‘You’ve got it, Fred!’ he said. ‘First go!’
Loerner looked round, as though he were desperate to get his hands on a telephone. ‘For sweet Jesus’ sake!’ he said. ‘This is the story of the year, and now you tell me!’
‘Hold it, Fred!’ Ira grabbed his arm. ‘Nobody’s passing it on to anybody yet. Alix needs newspapermen bothering her just now like you need a dose of the smallpox. Leave her alone. Half an hour from now, we’ll be away, and then you can tell who the hell you like.’
Loerner’s mouth opened and shut for a while and Ira grinned. ‘Why don’t you just relax, Fred,’ he suggested, ‘and enjoy the spectacle? Your fees are safe and if you wait around, you might even see the Ryan following us.’
Loerner stared at him, baffled, and Ira gestured.
‘Fred, say nothing and you can have your sky-pilot say his prayer.’
Loerner scowled, then he shrugged. ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said. ‘There isn’t a goddam thing any of us can do now, not even if the sainted aunt of the Apostle Paul’s going.’ He extended his hand and managed a grin. ‘Except wish you the best, I guess.’
Ira shook hands. ‘Right, now let’s get on with the business before the wind changes. We don’t want to have to transfer the plane to the other end of the field.’
Watched by the crowds – some of them straight from the nightclubs and still in evening dress – he walked slowly round the Dixie, just as he had when she’d first been rolled out for his inspection at Medway. He moved the rudder and the elevators, checking the hinges, then he walked along the starboard side of the machine, running his hand along the fuselage, his eyes flickering over the wing surfaces, along the ailerons and round the wing tips, then he moved to the front of the machine, his eyes on the bulging tyres and the newly greased axles, round to the other side, and to the pilot’s cockpit.
Woolff was waiting for his nod of approval.
‘OK, Hal,’ he said. ‘Get Alix, then start her up.’
Alix appeared wearing her bulky flying suit buttoned to the neck, her hair tucked out of sight inside a white helmet. Heavy goggles and a scarf hid her face but Ira could see she was nervous.
The last goodbyes were said, and the camera guns flashed once more as Ira shook hands with celebrities. A reporter pushed forward. ‘How about Mr Courtney, Mr Loerner?’ he asked. ‘Is he coming down to see the take-off?’
Loerner gestured. ‘Miss Courtney’s making the decisions today,’ he said. ‘The Dixie belongs to a consortium she heads and she’ll be seeing it off’
Ira smiled. ‘You’re doing all right, Fred,’ he said. ‘You can wheel on your parson.’
As he spoke, the engine started with a crackling roar and little jets of flame and puffs of blue smoke jerked from the exhaust stubs. Woolff, sitting in the cockpit, glanced down from the window at Collins who was standing in front of the machine, staring up at the engine. Ortese was gazing at the quivering wings, then he walked slowly down the length of the machine to study the tail.
Struggling into his flying suit, Ira was aware of the curious looks of the crowd. They were clearly of the impression that he no longer belonged among them.
Sammy appeared wearing Hal Woolff’s overcoat and a voluminous cap pulled low down over his eyes. In the poor light, with the milling crowd, nobody looked twice at him.
As the cameras were lowered for the last time, Boyle’s stooping figure pushed through the newspapermen. He stood by the cockpit and began to shout above the engine.
‘The hotel woke me, Ira,’ he said. ‘They’d heard and they thought I ought to know.’
‘How’s my father?’ Alix demanded.
‘He hasn’t changed, but he’ll be OK.’
As they turned towards the plane, Loerner’s parson stepped forward, his spectacles on the end of his nose, dandruff like cigarette ash all over his collar.
‘We should be glad to have the company of the Lord with us on this trip,’ he shouted above the engine.
Sammy glanced under the brim of his cap at Ira, his expression sharp. Sammy had a dislike of all forms of religion and was cynical about the Almighty.
‘May the wings of His angels support you’ – the droning voice rose over the pounding of the cylinders – ‘May their guidance direct you. May His great love wait over you and His great compassion protect you.’
As the prayer came to an end, they climbed thankfully into the machine and Woolff leaned into the cabin to push a harness belt across to Alix. Behind him, looking like a strange sort of bodyguard in the long coat and cap, his bandaged hands thrust deep into his pockets, Sammy grinned up at her.
‘I reckon you can get to Paris without any help of that kind,’ he said. ‘Them wings he was talking about would be a bloody sight better flapping about underneath to lift her off when the time comes.’
Ira had climbed into the other seat now and Sammy went round to him. ‘This is it, Sammy,’ Ira said.
‘Look out for Isaac!’
Ira grinned. ‘Wish you were coming too, Sammy.’
‘Aw’ – Sammy took his hand from his pocket and nudged him with the back of his bandages – ‘you’ll be well looked after.’
Alix gave him a thin tense smile, and as he stepped back into the crowd, Ira saw a reporter move forward, look closely at him, then turn angrily to Loerner. Sammy grinned at him, impulsively took off his vast cap, and waved at Ira. Loerner gave him a resentful look and occupied himself with the sudden flurry of argument among the reporters. One of them moved forward, as though he were intending to try to question Alix even as she sat in the cockpit, but Loerner pulled him back and Ira slammed the door hurriedly and locked it.
Alix gave him a bleak smile, as though she couldn’t trust herself to speak, clearly nervous but holding herself well in check.
Strapping himself in, Ira put one hand on hers. She looked up at him for a moment, then she turned away and began to pick up the maps.
Sitting in the cabin, amid the acrid fumes of petrol, Ira took out his log book and filled it in briefly. It wasn’t his habit normally to enter details before a flight but this time it might help to indicate who he was if anything happened to them and it was found.
Date – 20.5.27.
Type aircraft – Courtney-Wright.
Marking – N2 209.
Journey – New York–Paris.
Pilot – Self.
He left the time spaces empty, then after staring at it for a second he thrust it into his overalls and sat back, looking at the rev counter. Frowning, he moved the throttle forward and felt the plane surging against the chocks, and listened to the drumming roar of the engine.
‘She’s not giving full revs,’ he
shouted down to Collins who was standing by the cabin. Sammy moved forward from the crowd to join them and held up his thumb.
‘She will, Ira,’ he said. ‘Soon as you get above the weather. Lindbergh’s’ll be the same, I bet.’
Ira frowned. ‘It’s not when I’m up I want the revs,’ he said. ‘It’s now.’
Collins looked anxious from behind Sammy. ‘Can’t do anything about it, Captain,’ he said. ‘Wait for the weather to change, you’ll see a difference.’
Ira nodded, making his mind up. He had to go now. If he waited for the weather to improve and the revolutions to increase, the start he’d gained over the others would be lost.
Loerner approached the side of the machine. ‘They say Lindbergh’s arrived at Curtiss,’ he said. ‘He’ll be here any time.’
‘OK,’ Ira nodded, and opened the throttle wider, his gaze fixed on the round dial of the tachometer. The needle moved up, paused and stopped, still short of maximum revolutions.
‘It’ll catch up,’ Sammy yelled.
Ira nodded again, not speaking. No matter what Sammy said, or Hal Woolff or Collins, the decision was still his. He had to decide whether it was safe to launch this overweighted machine into the air and risk his own life and that of his passenger.
He pulled the throttle back, listening to the idling engine, and his eyes met Alix’s. She was sitting in her seat, her safety belt fastened, holding the roll of maps and charts they ’d made up.
She gave him a questioning look, but he didn’t say anything, sitting motionless, surrounded by the sharp smell of dope, warm oil and hot metal, almost as though he were communing with himself. The runway was soft and he could see huge puddles glinting in the early light. The rain on the grass would act as a brake for the wheels and, with an engine delivering less power than they expected, they were taking off with more weight aboard than they’d ever lifted before. It was a decision that rested more on instinct than on what he knew from the performance curves the machine would do. Despite all the figures and the tests they’d made, everything was thrown away when the weather didn’t measure up and they were back once more to instinct – seat-of-the-pants flying, by guess and by God, call it what they would – the subtle alchemy of sheer experience. He turned and glanced at her.