Amerika

by Paul Lally

  After letting that suspicion race through my carefully arranged list of possible actions to take if that were the case, I stuffed it away and dialed Stone’s heading into our Sperry autopilot. Fatt looked away, pretending he wasn’t watching but I knew he was. Masters of Flying Boats grow eyes in the back of their heads.

  I unbuckled my seatbelt. ‘Got to see a man about a horse.’

  Fatt cocked his head to one side but said nothing. We both knew I didn’t need to go to the head.

  ‘Be nice.’

  ‘I will. Unlike you.’

  He grinned.

  Before talking with Stone, I stopped briefly at the radio operator’s station directly and marveled again at the immense size of the Boeing’s flight deck. Because of my six foot three-plus height I had to duck slightly to keep my head from hitting the padded, soundproofed, six foot-high ceiling, but compared to the cramped cockpits of the Sikorsky and Douglas aircraft I’d flown in the past, hunched over double, this was like strolling along the deck of an ocean liner.

  Allen, our radio operator, earphones clamped on his head, held court before two immense radios as he rapidly worked the Morse key. From long habit I mentally pictured the letters forming into words as he busily reported our position back to Baltimore. But the further we flew across the Atlantic, the weaker the signal would become, until finally silence would descend and he’d have to put his earphones down - for a little while at least - and we would be at the mercy of Stone’s calculations.

  When Allen finished sending his message I said casually, ‘What kind of music you got, Sparks?’

  He brightened and grinned. ‘Some Benny Goodman. Want it on the speakers?’

  ‘Nope, just give me a reverse bearing on it if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sure thing, cap.’

  He dialed up a radio station frequency on one of his receivers, and then slowly turned a small wheel located in the padded ceiling directly above us. The action, in turn, rotated the loop antenna located outside the fuselage. He smiled and rocked his shoulders back and forth to the beat as his earphones picked up swing music coming from some radio station three hundred miles behind us. We both watched the needle on the S-meter rise higher and higher, and then fall off to null as he turned the loop the other direction. He did it two times to confirm the exact bearing, jotted it down, and then found another radio station and did the same thing.

  He made a face at what he heard in his earphones. ‘They’re saying Brylcreem helps you win the girl, and I’m using Wildroot.’ He repeated the tuning action until he got another bearing.

  I took the numbers and crossed over to Stone, who was acting like he was absorbed in his work all this time, but I knew for a fact he’d been watching my every move.

  ‘Do me a favor,’ I said quietly so that nobody else could hear.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Run these numbers for me.’ I handed him the bearings.

  He frowned and started to say something, but I lifted my hand slightly.

  ‘No offense to the United States Navy, but something tells me we might be off course a tad.’

  ‘We’re absolutely not.’

  ‘I know, you told me. But I disagree.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘This.’ I pointed to my gut. ‘Plus, how confident you acted when you gave me the course.’

  It happened fast: a flicker of doubt in his eyes. I smiled to make myself look friendly, even though I wanted to ream him out. But that would get me nothing but an enemy. We needed a navigator.

  ‘Do me another favor,’ I said.

  He stared hard at me. A real cement-head in the making, if I didn’t do this right.

  ‘If you come up with a different number than the one you gave us, don’t tell Fatt, okay? This is just between us navigators, okay?’

  He hesitated and I continued, ‘Look, it takes one to know one, okay? Remind me to tell you the time I almost sent a clipper into the side of a mountain because I was absolutely, positively sure we were right on course.’ I picked up his well-worn protractor and idly examined its etched numbers, waiting for him to respond.

  ‘So, what happened?’ he finally said.

  I nodded in Fatt’s direction. ‘That man at the wheel is what happened.’

  ‘What’d he do?’

  I handed back the protractor. ‘The same thing I’m doing to you. And I didn’t like it either, but you know what? The son-of-a-bitch was right.’

  And I was too, when five minutes later I dialed our adjusted course into the autopilot. Fatt made sure he was looking in the opposite direction when I did so.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he said casually as he stared out the window.

  ‘Nope, just trying to get used to this autopilot. It’s different than the S-42’s.’

  A soft chuckle. ‘Was he mad as hell?’

  ‘Oh, you bet.’

  ‘You were too. That’s when I knew you damn well weren’t going to make that dumb ass mistake again. And you never did.’

  ‘And I never did.’

  ‘Of course you made others too numerous to mention.’

  He returned to his thousand-yard stare at the cloud-filled horizon.

  ‘Wake me in time for dinner. I’m starving.’

  As ‘Master of Ocean Boats,’ Fatt’s duty was to preside over the first dinner sitting in the Clipper’s lounge, while I inherited his hallowed left- hand seat in the cockpit to pilot the clipper ever onward as ‘Officer of the Watch.’ I could picture him presiding over the crowd like an aerial Falstaff, slugging back club soda instead of scotch. No drinking on duty for flight crews, but we always made up for it later.

  I checked the time: 8:16 pm. Fatt would be returning to the bridge soon, and according to Pan Am tradition it became my turn as first officer to host another ‘Captain’s Table’ for the second sitting, so as not to overlook any VIP.

  Most captains detested this social function as not being germane to their lofty title. But I enjoyed it. The secret was to let everybody else do the talking and just listen and nod. Never a shortage in that department. The amount of nervous energy contained in a flying boat six thousand feet above the water is an awesome thing to behold.

  Passengers endure an alien environment where every bounce, every strange noise, can freeze them into immobility like defenseless jungle creatures trying to survive the night. No wonder their laughter is louder, arguments stronger, drinking heavier. Me? I was just putting in another day’s work - at six thousand feet, true - but work all the same.

  The last rays of the setting sun touched the high clouds gliding overhead. The ocean played occasional peek-a-boo through broken clouds as we sailed serenely in between, the engines a faraway roar, their noise muffled by thick insulation. I watched, fascinated, as our autopilot nudged the yoke slightly to starboard, and then a moment later, satisfied that the clipper was maintaining the correct heading, returned the yoke to center.

  In order to preserve night vision, I reached for the curtain separating the cockpit from the rest of the flight deck. But just as I untied the hold- back loops, Orlando’s laughter boomed out. My partner had arrived on the flight deck an hour ago and began peppering Mason our engineer with questions while they busily monitored the Yankee Clipper like hotel concierges pampering a favored guest, making sure everything is in perfect order.

  Their talk was miles over my head. Sure, I understood basic things like fuel-mixture ratios, cylinder head temperatures and cowl flap settings. But when their conversation soared into the high atmosphere of potentiometer readings, pyrometers and thermocouple sensors, I left them to their sacred rituals and just flew the damn plane, or in my case, watched the autopilot do it for me.

  A pounding sound on the floor and I became instantly alert. If I had been flying an S-42 or the S-38, I would have immediately known what was wrong. Planes are like people, each one has their own quirks. But the Boeing 347 was still new to me, and no matter how many hours I had as a pilot, no matter how confident I acted,
new was still new and unfamiliar was unfamiliar, and I felt my chest tighten in a mixture of fear and dread like I was nineteen again and a novice.

  By now Orlando was standing on top of the closed stairwell hatch, bent over, listening. Suddenly I understood, and felt relief as he unlocked the hatch and swung it open.

  Fatt clumped up the stairs and onto the flight deck. ‘Damned thing got stuck.’

  I said, ‘How was dinner?’

  ‘Okay, if you like listening to everybody talk German.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘You’ll find out. Now, scram out of here and let me get some peace and quiet.’

  I stood and stretched. Fatt dropped into his seat with a contented grunt and pulled out his familiar baseball-bat-sized cigar. ‘Yank that curtain before you go, willya’ kid?’

  I left him and the cigar smoke to follow Orlando down the staircase to the lounge, filled with sudden bursts of laughter, bright chatter, and the clink of glass and silverware.

  Like aerial magicians, Nawrocki and his steward Addison had transformed the passenger lounge from what had been a stylish cocktail bar an hour ago into a formal dining room complete with white Irish linen tablecloths, flute-edged, Lufthansa-monogrammed china, Gorham sterling flatware, and fresh flowers. They had also reconfigured the tables and upholstered chairs for the passengers to sit in groupings of two, four and six.

  Before entering the dining area, we stopped by the closet-sized galley where Addison, now dressed in a starched white waiter’s jacket, was making up a tray of appetizers.

  ‘What’s on the menu?’ I said.

  He rattled away like a machine gun, ‘Chilled Utah Celery, Consommé Madrilene, Grapefruit Supreme, Breast of Chicken with Peas Francoise, Parsley Spring Potatoes… ’

  ‘Lots of French-sounding food for a bunch of krauts.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt, sir. Followed by after dinner mints, Fresh Fruit, Brandied Dates, coffee, tea or milk, wine or beer as well.’

  Orlando said, ‘What, no Wiener Schnitzel?’

  He rolled his eyes like a suffering saint, ‘That’s coming, I’m sure.’

  As we entered the lounge I noticed that Nawrocki had made good his promise and I could have socked him, because sitting at the captain’s table was my Gestapo buddy Bauer. Fortunately, Ava and Ziggy were there too, along with the New York Times reporter who – naturally – only had eyes for her. So did the other passengers too, only they studiously avoided looking our way, as if traveling with a famous movie star was par for the course on a clipper flight. And they were right.

  Soaring across the Atlantic in a matter of hours instead of suffering days on an ocean liner represented the height of luxury, privilege and glamour. Not all of the diners exhibited that stylish quality, however. Only the Americans. The rest were dour-faced Nazis mercilessly plowing through their food the same way Hitler finished off Poland, counting the hours until they were back in Berlin for their bratwurst und bier und frauleins.

  They did, however, bring their food assault to a momentary halt when Orlando and I made our entrance. And it wasn’t me who caused it, I can tell you that. Not a first officer doing his duty but the sight of a Schwarzie standing in the same room with them, not dressed in a waiter’s jacket and scraping and bowing, but instead sporting a stylish business suit and gracefully bowing to Ava before he took his seat beside me at the captain’s table.

  ‘What an honor it is, Miss James, to meet you at last,’ Orlando said smoothly. His southern accent had a rolling, theatrical cadence that made you want to hear more.

  Ava slid in, right on cue. ‘Now tell me what it is you do, Mr. Diaz. I saw you going up to where they fly the plane. Something the matter?’

  ‘Not a thing, Miss James.’

  ‘Call me Ava unless you hear otherwise.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I work for Pan American Airways and I happen to know all there is to know about engines.’

  A frown wrinkle touched her smooth brow. ‘Something wrong with them?’

  I said, ‘If there were, we wouldn’t be sitting here enjoying dinner.’

  Ziggy waved a piece of celery. ‘The menu doesn’t look too bad this time.’ He turned to Bauer, ‘You like chicken, Herr Bauer?’

  He shrugged. ‘I can eat anything. And over the years I think I have.’

  ‘I do hope the asparagus is fresh this time,’ Ziggy lied away, playing the role of experienced world traveler. ‘On my last crossing it was terribly overcooked. Like shoe leather.’

  Bauer said, ‘You travel often on these flying boats?’

  ‘In my line of work it’s one sleeping berth after another. Train, boat, plane, makes no difference.’

  ‘You are Miss James’ theatrical agent?’

  He brightened. ‘One and the same.’

  Bauer sighed and turned to Ava. ‘You seem to live such a glamorous life. Tell me, is it true?’

  ‘Do you want it to be?’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Then it is. Every bit of it. Every champagne-filled moment of my life is filled with excitement, adventure, and lots and lots of money.’

  As she spoke, Bauer contemplated his silverware as if seeing it for the first time. When she finished he looked up at her calmly. ‘You are a great actress. I believed every word.’

  She nodded her thanks.

  ‘If I ever had to interrogate you, I don’t believe I’d find out a thing.’

  ‘Now, you’re the bad actor. When the Gestapo wants answers, it gets them. Am I right?’

  The soup course saved Bauer from responding. We ate in tortured silence, pretending we were hungry when in fact we didn’t know where to go in the conversation, until the New York Times reporter, a thin, intense man named Nick Anston said bluntly to Bauer, ‘So, what’s next on Hitler’s plate?’

  The inspector took pains to daub his plump lips with his napkin before he said with a wink, ‘The moon, I’m told.’

  We smiled at his little joke and he nodded sheepishly. ‘Mind you, a person could get arrested for saying a thing like that about our dear leader.’

  ‘By the Gestapo, right?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. And I hereby announce that I place myself under arrest - after I finish this lovely dinner, that is.’

  And so it went, this surface-level conversation, each of us with a different agenda, and none of us revealing what we were really thinking or feeling, but somewhere, deep down, all of us aware of our fragile setting; drinking wine and chatting merrily, six thousand feet above the ocean while

  Europe and Asia were going down in flames.

  I had originally planned on making a graceful exit after coffee and mints impeccably served by Nawrocki and Addison, whose demeanor bore not a trace of impatience, even though they still had another dinner seating before making up everybody’s sleeping berths for the night.

  I started making ‘excuse-me’ noises, but Bauer touched my arm and said, ‘I realize I am not your ordinary VIP passenger, but I understand you give tours of the flight deck. Do you think it might be possible...?’ He let the question hang.

  Ziggy chimed in. ‘I’ve always wanted to see your guys’ office. C’mon, show us around.’

  Nick Anston piled on after the whistle. ‘Make that three. I’ll give you boys good ink in the paper if you do.’

  I turned to Ava, who shook her head. ‘Not my cup of tea, thanks.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Count me out. This sounds like a toy store made in heaven for men.’

  She stubbed out her cigarette and rose gracefully. On cue, we scrambled to our feet and the whole place watched as she snaked her way aft, acknowledging their admiring smiles with a dazzling one of her own and a delicate wave of her manicured hand.

  Moments later I led the conga line of men up the spiral crew staircase, and swung the counterweighted hatch upward. The men entered the dim, instrument-lit space with the same awe and reverence of entering a church to witness h
igh priests going about their sacred duties.

  I made introductions all around: navigator, radio operator, flight engineer, and I must say that these navy guys had a flair for acting. They projected the epitome of lean- jawed, keen-eyed professionals, intent on their duties, yet graciously willing to acknowledge the men who stood before them in silent awe.

  Fatt was the highest priest of all as he sat at his ‘Master’s Station,’ the small office space against the rear bulkhead, head down, busily doing paperwork, which was actually part of his job. But the way he did it; with feigned officiousness and hunching of shoulders in concentration, was pure theater. And then, as if on cue, he lifted his noble head and regarded our visitors like Neptune would his loyal subjects.

  ‘Welcome to the bridge, gentlemen. The heart and soul of this magnificent flying boat.’

  For the next few minutes he regaled them as only Fatt could about the workings of his mighty airplane, interspersed with off-color anecdotes. But then, this was a gathering of male eagles in a nest six thousand feet above the ocean, was it not? A place where brave deeds and sex and excitement were the very things that kept the plane flying, aided now and then with one hundred-octane avgas, of course.

  Ziggy, Bauer, and the newspaperman asked their share of questions, to which Fatt responded clearly and simply, with occasionally tosses to me when he felt so inclined. And then, as only Fatt could, he suddenly looked pre-occupied with the grave duties of leadership and nodded to me.

  ‘Captain, would you please show these men the pilot station?’

  ‘Gentlemen?’ I said temptingly.

  They beamed like puppies.

  Fatt intoned, ‘Reducing lights, stand by.’

  With a turn of a dial, the golden yellow light on the flight bridge slowly faded to darkness, leaving only the dials and control panel lights gleaming like so many stars. I slid back the curtain to the cockpit. The relief pilot and first officer didn’t acknowledge our presence at first; they were too busy adjusting dials and twisting knobs, but this too, was an act because the Sperry autopilot was flying the plane and their job was to sit there and watch. But no way would they do that for an admiring tour group, so they ‘flew’ instead.