Trophy for Eagles

by Boyne, Walter J.

  Josten, speaking perfect English with an American accent, had taken him for a tour of the well-built factories, paternally laid out with housing and recreation for the workers. Modern aircraft were moving swiftly down the assembly line at a rate much faster than in America or England.

  At one plant, Josten had brought him to a "secret door." They had gone down a flight of stairs piercing a good six feet of concrete, and there, totally idle, was a complete duplicate of the factory above. All the machine tools, the conveyor belts, everything stood ready for a work force to begin. Josten had pulled him inside one of the empty glass-windowed offices that lined the factory side.

  "And look," he had said, pointing toward a drafting table. "Sharpened pencils, one hard, one medium, one soft. We are prepared for anything!"

  It was impressive, but too slick. Bandfield had seen immediately that the electrical cables for the machines were all too small to carry the current they would have required. It was obviously a Potemkin factory, good for impressing visiting dignitaries and for storing machine tools until they were needed.

  Slim hadn't spent much time working in a modern factory. The discrepancy wouldn't have been obvious to him. He was probably better able to analyze the personalities of the German leaders.

  Patty had her own ideas about them. As soon as she and Bandy had arrived in Berlin they had been invited to a reception that sent her antennae twirling like a bumblebee at a honey tree. Standing in the reception line, she had kept up a running sotto voce commentary on their hosts. Patty saw—as he had not—that underneath the cordial smiles of the young Luftwaffe and foreign ministry officers was an agonized need to be correct.

  As they worked forward in the line down the handsome marble halls, the usual high-decibel level of cocktail conversation declined. Most of the group were military, the men with frozen smiles, their wives looking anxious. As the group moved along the receiving line, the tense silence was broken only by the mumbled introductions that passed the guests from dignitary to dignitary. At the end of the line, they could see Goering, jovial in a well-cut uniform of the new Luftwaffe blue. He was of medium height, his rather long hair combed back, and not so much fat as heavyset. Behind him, shorter, beautifully dressed in formal civilian attire, Adolf Hitler was chatting casually with a young woman, holding her hand to detain her, gazing directly into her eyes as he spoke. Behind each man stood an interpreter.

  Patty had squeezed Bandy's hand and whispered, "These men are dangerous! They have cobra eyes!"

  Yet Lindbergh and his wife had found them charming. The American air attache had shown them a photo taken at a luncheon, Goering in one of his wild chamois hunting outfits, Frau Goering decked out in a gorgeous floor-length dress, the Lindberghs obviously enjoying themselves. What had they seen that he and Patty had not—or what had they missed? To know would help in the meeting today.

  The warrant officer's discreet cough brought Bandy back to reality, to the prospect of the imminent battle with Lindbergh. His reports had differed significantly from those that Slim had rendered, and an apparently outraged Lindbergh had demanded a face-to-face meeting. Caldwell wouldn't permit either to read the other's report, but gave them a brief summary that told Bandy that it was as if they had visited two different worlds.

  "You can go in now."

  Bandfield snapped out of his reverie and walked into Caldwell's office. Lindbergh stood up, but did not extend his hand.

  "Well, Captain Bandfield, I wasn't aware that you were a foreign affairs expert!"

  "Wait a minute, Slim. I'm just saying what I saw."

  Lindbergh sat down, looked directly at Caldwell. "Let's get this over with. I resent having someone sent to check my work. You asked me to go to Europe, and I went. My report stands as written. If you don't believe it, that is your privilege."

  "Look, Colonel Lindbergh, I'd like to keep personalities out of this if I can."

  "You can't. Bandfield has always been a minor Bolshevik, ever since cadet days, and I suspect that has conditioned his report."

  "Slim, that's not fair or true. What the hell has gotten into you?"

  "It is both fair and true. Besides that, you don't have a basis for comparison. You haven't been out of the country except for a trip to South America."

  "And Hawaii." It was a stupid correction, and Lindbergh's smile was tightly superior.

  "Ah yes, Hawaii, the famous industrial center."

  "That's enough, gentlemen. Let's get on with it."

  Caldwell referred to some notes.

  "Let's talk about aircraft quality first. You both flew the Messerschmitt and the Hurricane. I wish they'd let you fly the Spitfire. Slim, which was best?"

  "The Messerschmitt, by a large margin."

  "Bandy?"

  "I'd agree that the Messerschmitt was perhaps a little more modern than the Hurricane. But the Spitfire was clearly superior to them both."

  "That's the sort of amateur response I resent. You can't tell anything about any airplane unless you fly it yourself!" As Lindbergh argued, he seemed to draw more into himself, to grow taller and leaner. His mouth was set and his eyes almost shut with the intensity of his anger.

  "I disagree entirely! The RAF showed me the performance specs. The Spitfire is a winner."

  Shaking his head in mock exasperation, Lindbergh assumed a quiet, diplomatic tone. "One cannot always believe performance specs!" Then he rasped, "Look, you saw the Heinkel factory. They are demonstrating four prototypes—a bomber, a fighter, a dive bomber, and a reconnaissance plane—all first-class. I defy you to name another manufacturer in the world capable of such a display of technology."

  Caldwell sighed. This was getting to be like a kids' fight. "What about strengths and production figures? Slim?"

  "My report is clear on that. Germany probably has six thousand first-line combat planes today, and can produce, in wartime, at the rate of fifteen thousand or more per year."

  "I strongly disagree, Slim. The training base wasn't there for an air force that big. I'd say they had half that number now, and no more than a four thousand annual production rate even in wartime. "

  Lindbergh's voice grew colder still. "Captain Bandfield, I saw things that you were not privileged to see. I saw a duplicate underground factory, complete with equipment, offices, everything. There were even three pencils on each desk, sharpened, one hard, one medium, one soft."

  "Jesus, Slim, they show that fake factory to everyone! It's a con game."

  The taller pilot stiffened with rage, infuriated both at being opposed and at the possibility that he had been duped. Once more Caldwell intervened. "The difference in production estimates is really crucial. Can we agree on something in between?"

  Bandfield asserted himself. "I've run a factory, and I know what can be done. I stand by my estimate."

  "You are wrong. And events will prove you wrong. Germany has done in four years what it took the United States nineteen years to do, what hasn't yet been done in England or France. They will roll over France and then defeat England from the air! You mark my words."

  Caldwell was not enjoying the tension, and he decided to end the meeting soon. "Just a few more questions. What do you think of the overall leadership, Colonel Lindbergh?"

  "Goering is deceptive. He is genial and personable, but he is a hard-hitting executive, the kind who could run General Motors if he had to. Hitler is initially off-putting, but the more one sees and hears of him, the more impressive he is. Udet is a brilliant flyer, well qualified to run the technical development." He went on down a list of officers, most of whom Bandfield had not met, commenting favorably on almost all of them.

  "Bandy?"

  "It's hard for me to say; I only saw Hitler once, briefly. Goering I met twice, but he didn't impress me as a businessman. I have to say that my wife was distressed by what she saw in each of them—hired killers."

  Lindbergh was pained. "Now your wife is the expert, is that it? It's utter nonsense to say that the German people would elect kill
ers.

  The Nazis didn't stage a revolution, you know, they came to power legally."

  Bandfield spun. "Did you see the signs warning people about shopping in Jewish stores? Did you see, as my wife and I did, a gang of Brownshirts beating up a Jewish couple?"

  "Straight Communist Party line, Bandfield. We have more problems with Negroes in the South than the Germans do with Jews. Have you ever heard of a Jew being lynched like those colored boys in the South? Besides, Hitler is right when he says that the Jews have an unreasonable representation in the professions, in banking, in commerce. They have a stranglehold, and he's going to break it. I don't blame him at all."

  Bandfield looked at him. There was no doubting Lindbergh's sincerity or his patriotism. But he was so far off base, Bandfield wondered what his real politics were—not Democratic or Republican, for sure.

  Caldwell pressed on, weary, relentless. "And Udet?"

  Bandfield hesitated. "A charmer, but technically incompetent. He is out of his depth, and knows it very well."

  Lindbergh stood up.

  "That is poppycock! Udet test-flies the aircraft personally! He shot down sixty-two airplanes in the last war. Do you think for one moment that General Goering would put Udet in charge of something if he was not competent?"

  The tall pilot's rage was translated into a nostril-ripping snort that surprised and embarrassed him.

  "Excuse me." He drew himself to his full height. "Colonel Caldwell, if you are weighing Captain Bandfield's testimony equally with mine, I'm afraid I'll have to ask to be excused. He is obviously unaware of what is going on in Germany. My personal feeling is that Captain Bandfield is attempting to take some petty kind of revenge because I failed to buy an aircraft from his factory."

  Bandfield's contained anger and resentment oozed out the seams.

  "Jesus, Slim, you know that's not so. And since when are you an expert on factories? You've been a hero so long you've forgotten what it is to actually do some work. You—"

  "That's enough!" Caldwell's voice jarred them both. "I thought we'd get some benefit out of a face-to-face meeting. I was wrong. You are both excused."

  Lindbergh nodded and strode out. When Bandfield reached the door, Caldwell said, "Just a second, Bandy. Sorry about the argument. Can you stay another five minutes to talk about another subject?"

  "Yeah, if I get to talk about one myself."

  They eyed each other in the growing discomfort of his crowded office. The building's ancient coal-fired heating plant had failed again, and while they had argued a haunting graveyard cold had seeped through the poorly fitted windows of the "temporary" buildings put up in 1917.

  Bandfield's anger began to subside. "I'm sorry I got sore, Henry, but the crack about the business really hurt." He grinned. "Partially because he's not all wrong."

  "You have to remember he's been through hell with the press, Bandy. You have to make allowances."

  "I guess, but the thing that worries me is that they fooled him! He's a smart guy, and if they can fool him, they can fool most anybody."

  Caldwell watched Bandfield's quick fuse gutter out. "How's married life?"

  "It's okay—we've got some problems, but who doesn't?"

  "Well, I hate to tell you, but you're going back to Europe. And this time Patty can't come."

  "Jesus, Henry, she'll kill me. Where am I going, back to Germany?"

  "No, Spain. You're going as Jorge Trego Gomez, a Spanish expatriate. You're going to fly with the Loyalists, check out the Russian equipment they're getting."

  "Come on! I speak a little Spanish, but no one will believe I'm a Spaniard. And why me? Don't you have anybody else?"

  Caldwell laughed. "Well, I sure as hell can't send Lindbergh! Besides, you've seen the German aircraft; it'll help you to evaluate what the Russians are using."

  He paused, then went on, "Don't worry about the language. You probably won't have to speak much Spanish, and it won't make any difference if they know you're American. Few of the Americans volunteering for the Loyalists speak Spanish. It's just a dodge to get you into Spain. Once you're there, nobody will care whether you're Greek or Chinese. Everything will be greased, don't worry about it."

  "No sense in arguing, is there?"

  "None at all. I want you to go to New York, stay at the Waldorf just like you had good sense. They'll get in touch with you there."

  "Well, I've got no job, and damn little money. Might as well." Bandfield tried to sound indifferent; inside he pulsed with excitement at the prospect. He thought about his father—he would be pleased that his son was to fight on the Loyalist side. The way the world was, it was a wonder they didn't have him flying with the Germans!

  "Any chance that Hafner will be there with the Nationalists?"

  "No idea. He'd be a natural, but we don't have personnel reports yet. I'll keep you posted if we hear anything."

  Caldwell grinned and said, "Okay, that's my nickel. What's yours?"

  "What is all this business about Patty making some sort of a secret flight with Earhart?"

  "Beats me. The only thing I know about the caper is not to know anything at all. If I were you, I'd just butt out."

  "Don't stall me, Henry. There's damn little that goes on in the Air Corps that you don't have a finger in, one way or another.'*

  "Look, I'm telling you I don't know." He looked at Bandfield, and grinned. "Ah, shit. Here it is. This is secret—don't talk about it with anyone, not even Patty. Amelia asked for her. Amelia is a great fair-weather pilot, I guess, Bandy, but she knows her limitations. She wants Patty along to help with the navigation and the radio work, and to make the heavyweight takeoffs."

  "What kind of airplane are they supposed to fly?"

  "They'll use her Lockheed Electra, specially modified."

  "I don't like it, Henry. It's too much responsibility for Patty—and Amelia will walk away with the credit, no matter how nice she is about it. She is the pearl of the press's oyster."

  "Publicity has nothing to do with it. This is a serious mission, just as yours is. You'll be getting back from Spain well before she's ready to go; you can help out."

  "You're really getting your money's worth out of a captain's pay, aren't you, Henry?"

  Caldwell laughed. "We've always got to think of the taxpayer—you know the government always wants a bargain for its money."

  *

  Downey, California/November 25, 1936

  It was only six in the evening and he had spent two hours watching the disaster develop with a clinical clarity, ringside at his own anointment as a prize jackass. He tried to concentrate, to listen to announcer Boake Carter's velvet voice coming over their Philco radio, saying something about a pact between Japan, Germany, and Italy against the communists, but it was too petty compared to the hole he was digging for himself. Once again he had backed himself into a foolishly bull-headed position in a domestic argument, saying too many extravagantly mean things that obviously had no basis in truth, casting totally spurious aspersions on Patty's flying ability, denying all his own faults, and then, in truly fatal error, saying some things that were absolutely true. As Hadley had always said, only the truth hurts, and when he told Patty that she was undertaking the Earhart flight not to honor her mother but to upstage her, he knew he had lost game, set, and match, as well as the battle and the war.

  But even so, some internal nugget of incredibly stupid hubris made him realize that he had not yet reached the stage of humiliation when he could admit his mistakes. He raised his voice to raise the stakes, bluffing once again that he was fed up and tired of her nonsense, that he was leaving, that a divorce was the only option, that she could get on by herself. He prophesied how happy he'd be and how miserable she'd be, when in fact all he wanted was to throw himself at her feet and then at her sweet round ass.

  She looked at him with that hard little fighter's look, the sweet smile of victory lurking on her lips, fully realizing that he had said something for which he was now sorry, that she could m
ove in for the kill and ram home a few hard truths before he caved in.

  "Yes, and my little smarmy Wobbly, my smart-ass Nazi-hater, guess who's going to go to Spain to show his daddikins that he's a big communist and a fighter for freedom, and is going to save the world? What thirty-six-year-old has-been pilot is going to gird up his rapidly tiring loins and save Spain for its noble peasants?"

  She had him, he was spinning on the spit of her insight, each side roasting evenly in the truth of her words.

  "Not so. I'm going because I'm ordered."

  "Weak comeback. If they ordered you to fly for the Nazis, to be in Franco's air force, you'd stand on your stubborn ideals and refuse to go. No, you're just being Daddy's boy, one more time. You're going to hunt for Hafner, to revenge Millie. Bandfield, you're nuts!"

  It hurt so bad, it was so true, that he laughed and grabbed her, planting his open mouth around hers, forcing her lips open, probing her somewhat in fear, for she had been known to bite, but confident that he could get another set of hormones going simply because he was admitting that she had won.

  She responded as she had that night in Denver long ago, sucking him in, tearing at his clothes. They kicked the coffee table over as they fell to the floor, Boake Carter's fluid baritone still singing over them, fumbling and feeling and tussling to get merged, to push into each other with every ounce of energy, to jam tongues and fingers and noses and organs into any handy orifice, plunging and bucking and finally coming in a wild relief that signaled not only sexual release but the end of their argument.

  They walked amiably naked into the bedroom, arms linked, hands stroking. He ran back out to the kitchen to get some ice and some whiskey. She brought warm moist towels to the bed, and they comforted each other.

  "Bandy, I know you're right. I won't go."

  "No, I was wrong, you have to go, you said you would."

  "No, let's not either of us go. We've each given so much to flying—our lives, our lovers; I even gave my mother. We don't have to do any more. There are other people who can take our places. Henry Caldwell would understand."