Barnstorm

by Page, Wayne;

  The foreclosure sale of Gertrude Murphy’s farm would happen in fifty minutes. On the courthouse steps. Many of the players closely connected with the affair hoped that the air show cash would arrive within the next twenty minutes, no later than 2:30 p.m. Mel Smith would accept the payment. Robinson would swear and spit fire. He would drive back to Cleveland in his shiny, black Mercedes, empty-handed. Only Robinson knew that another scenario was more likely. Yes, he would drive back to Cleveland. But because of Rufus and Gomer, whose existence and exploits could never be traced back to him, Robinson would drive back to Cleveland with the deed to Gertrude Murphy’s farm in his briefcase. He would not be empty-handed.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  2:15 p.m.

  “Let’s get ‘em!” Trip exclaimed as he jumped from his chair.

  Everyone in the cafe knew that would have been futile. Heads bowed, feet shuffling awkwardly, all, even Trip knew that it was over. Even if they had the cash, the drive to the courthouse would be a close call. And they didn’t have the cash.

  “Ya could drive all day on these country roads, never find them,” Deb said. Everyone knew it to be true. Needle in a haystack.

  Barely lucid, Buzz proclaimed, “I can find them from the air.” That option was bunked as quickly as it had been offered when a wobbly, still dazed Buzz fell back into his chair.

  “You’re not flyin’ anywhere,” Deb stated the obvious. “They’re gone. It’s over. Call the Sheriff.”

  Gus, the newcomer to the group, slowly rose and calmly said, “I’ll need a co-pilot.”

  The bowed heads were all raised as if the preacher had just said, Amen. Deb looked at the wall clock. It registered 2:20 p.m.

  Rubbing his hands together in excited anticipation, Gus said, “Birmingham, 1947.”

  The three Liar Flyers kicked it into gear, they knew the battle plan. Bomber and Hooker–wing men. Crash–second wave. Operation Birmingham was launched at 2:21 p.m.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  Unaware that Operation Birmingham had just been activated, the action in Hillsboro had left the bank and crossed the street to the courthouse. The Sheriff, Gerty, Mel, and Robinson sat Quaker-like in the Sheriff’s office. Robinson was confident that the last piece to his multi-million-dollar development project would fall in place in the next thirty minutes. Gerty was ready for Trip and Buzz to walk through the door at any minute and save her farm. It was Deb’s voice coming over the Sheriff’s office radio that broke the silence.

  “Clinton Airstrip callin’ Sheriff Brown,” the radio screeched through the static.

  Radio mic to his cheek, the Sheriff answered, “Sheriff Brown here. Go ahead, Deb.”

  “Had a robbery out here, Sheriff.”

  All eyes tightened and stared at the Sheriff as if that would help clarify what they just heard. “Excuse me?” Sheriff Brown quizzed.

  The radio static abated long enough for Deb’s voice to echo loud for all to hear, “Those carnies you been after? Took off with all the air show money. Red Caddy convertible.”

  “Copy that. I’ll call Sheriff Carter in Clinton County. We’ll both radio dispatch some deputies.”

  Short and sweet. Maybe not so sweet. Gerty and Mel knew it was over. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Like a dagger through the heart. The silence was broken by the feigned sincerity of Robinson, “Such a shame.”

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  2:25 p.m.

  It took close to zero time for two Stearmans to be loaded and ready for action. Operation Birmingham didn’t require a formal, pre-mission briefing. Gus was in the lead plane, Trip in the trainer seat directly in front of him. Parachutes harnessed and secured, pilots and co-pilots were ready for their reconnaissance mission. The front cockpits were crammed with sacks of flour.

  Gus brought his engine to life and the plane lumbered toward the runway. Close at his side was Bomber, with Hooker as his front seat co-pilot. Wing men. The two planes sped to the runway, ready to do battle. Needle in a haystack. Which direction? Gus and Bomber thundered down the runway and headed south. No reason. As good as any direction. Needle in a haystack.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  Deputy John was in hot pursuit. He had just picked up Sheriff Brown’s radio dispatch and was closing in on the two carnies. Had to be them. How many dilapidated red Caddy convertibles with two bums streak by your country road position? Lights flashing, siren blaring, John was getting closer. He would nab them in another minute.

  Deputy Fred was stopped on a narrow, cornfield-canyoned gravel road debating which way to turn. He crept his cruiser forward to peer around the head-high rows of corn just as the red convertible zoomed by–leaving a trail of blue exhaust. Easy decision. Flashers flicked on. Siren began its ear-piercing wail. Fred floored his cruiser into action. Gravel shot behind him as he fishtailed onto the asphalt county road. Just in time to broadside Deputy John, who at seventy miles per hour hit the ditch, taking out a hundred feet of wire fence. Both deputy cruisers now disabled, Fred and John got in a shoving match that probably would not settle Sheriff Brown’s inquiry–are you guys totally stupid or what?

  The shoving match was interrupted by Gus’s low pass over the wrecked cruisers. He had seen the deputies in pursuit of something and had now drawn a bead on the red Caddy ahead. Hand signals between Gus and Bomber deployed phase II of Operation Birmingham. Trip was so focused on the chase, he barely noticed that he was a tag-along stunt pilot swooping and diving at the treetops.

  Rufus and Gomer had a moment of temporary dread when they saw, and heard, the deputies closing in on them. Rufus saw the collision in his rearview mirror and had stopped the Caddy to take it all in. They were home free. Slapping each other on the back, they continued a more leisurely pursuit of freedom. They couldn’t wait to count their money. Gomer had unzipped the canvas duffel bag and had pulled out a fistful of cash that he flung in the air.

  “Idiot!” screamed Rufus, as he jerked the duffel bag away from Gomer. It was at this moment that a sack of flour exploded on the asphalt beside the red Caddy.

  The carnies might have been smarter than the two deputies, but they were now getting bombarded from the sky. Bomber might not have won first place in the air show flour bombing contest, but his first missile was closer than a hand grenade. Bomber and Hooker circled to make another pass.

  The sacks of flour came in waves. First Bomber. He peeled off the target and Gus took his place. Splat! Trip wasn’t as good as Bomber and Hooker, but the effect of two biplanes dropping flour bombs on a moving car created panic in Rufus. He weaved in and out of first one ditch, then the other. Gomer was being tossed to-and-fro and had retreated into the backseat. He held the backpack full of wallets and other goodies picked at the air show over his head. As if that would help. Trip had a lucky shot that landed on the trunk, immediately behind Gomer. Gomer was now covered from head-to-toe in white powder.

  Bomber eased his Stearman wingtip down so Hooker was lying on his side, pressed against the PT-17’s cockpit side. His best view of the target yet, his last sack of flour exploded directly in front of the Caddy. Temporarily blinded by the white powder cloud, Rufus veered off the road and clipped a road sign. Bomber and Hooker were out of ammunition. It was now up to Gus and Trip.

  Trip had only one sack of flour left. Gus pulled the old biplane into a tight turn and came around to follow the escaping carnies for one final pass. The roar of the engine, rush of the wind quickened Trip’s pulse. Communication between the two cockpits was next to nothing. Intercom communication might have been possible if Trip had a leather helmet with imbedded radio gear. In the haste of getting airborne, that was an overlooked detail. Hand signals and sensing the moment would have to do.

  The last sack of flour ready to tumble over the side of the fuselage, Trip saw the red Caddy directly in front of him. Gus rocked the wings left/right as if waving to adoring spectators on the ground below. Trip felt it. That was his signal. He eased the sack of flour over the
cockpit edge and released it.

  Gus banked and peeled off the target. Over his shoulder, Trip saw a puff of white. The flour exploded on the hood of the Caddy. Bull’s eye! Windshield covered, totally obstructing Rufus’s view of the road, Rufus answered the question–how stupid do you think I am? He turned on the windshield wipers. If that weren’t bad enough, he hit the windshield washer sprayer. Paste. Nothing but white, gooey paste.

  The red Caddy hit the ditch, went airborne, and ripped out a section of barbed wire fence that surrounded a pasture. A few startled cows trotted away as the red Caddy plowed to a stop.

  Gus banked the plane toward the country road. Trip was out of his safety harness by the time the plane braked to a stop on the narrow road. He quickly ditched his parachute and ran toward the disabled red Caddy.

  Gomer was buried in the backseat of the convertible, scrunched on the floor. Dazed. Rufus had grabbed the cash-laden duffel bag and had joined the startled cows in running across the pasture. To his chagrin, the startled cows had disturbed the mid-afternoon nap of a large, black bull. Rufus reversed field like a cornerback who had intercepted a pass in the closing seconds of the Super Bowl. He returned to the safety of the red Caddy.

  Trip was now stranded, halfway between the red Caddy and the black bull. Which way? Red? Black? Caddy? Bull? The circumstances made the decision for him. He was closer to the bull than the safety of the Caddy. He’d never make it. Where’s Flossie? No rubber barrel to jump into?

  He only had one choice. It was as though time stood still.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  2:45 p.m.

  Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Time was not standing still in the Sheriff’s office.

  “Sheriff, ‘bout time,” Robinson announced as he picked up his briefcase.

  Sheriff Brown offered his hand to help Gerty to her feet. Accepting his assistance, Gerty looked at the wall clock and sighed, “Thanks, Frank.”

  Walking through the marbled courthouse hallways, heels clicked on the floor, echoed off the arched ceilings. The condemned on their way to the gallows don’t walk any slower. Click, click. Tick, tock. The Sheriff opened the oversized oak door. It creaked. The sounds were amplified to the condemned. As Gerty exited the subdued shadows of the sterile courthouse, she entered the bright sunshine of a day that belied her mood. It was like leaving a funeral home on a weekday. The bereaved are dressed in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and everyone on the streets and sidewalks are in blue jeans and tank tops. Heck, it is Wednesday afternoon. Things are upside-down. Beautiful sunshine. Third worst day in Gerty’s life.

  A hush fell over the assembled bidders and hangers-on. Truth be known, most were looky-loos. No one would have the muscle to bid against Robinson. This foreclosure would proceed like all the others. A realtor would bid low. Another realtor would jump into the fray. Then, for the value of the mortgage, the bank would step in to protect its interests. Robinson’s Cleveland bank holding company would own Gerty’s farm in fifteen minutes.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  “Okay, Ferdinand,” Trip scolded the snot-snorting bull. “I don’t have all day.” He started his bull whisperer routine. The bull’s harem of cows slowly wandered near their lover boy. If cows could talk, say anything other than moo, they would probably be saying–hey everybody, y’all better not miss this.

  Trip was efficient. This Ferdinand wasn’t trained like his rodeo cousins to buck cowboys and put on a show. This bull ate grass, pooped, and made little cows. That’s all he did. All day. Pretty good life. Nobody jumped on his back and tried to survive for eight seconds. In no time at all, this lazy, baby-calf daddy lost interest and strutted back to his shade tree to resume his mid-afternoon nap.

  Rufus saw his opening. As Trip was weaving his way back through Ferdinand’s Angus harem, Rufus, duffel bag in tow, broke for it. Trip gave chase. The footrace was short. He tackled Rufus around the ankles. Rufus did a face-first splat, into a green, gooey, slimy meadow muffin. A cow pie.

  The duffel bag retrieved, Trip ran across the pasture and back to the temporary county-road runway. As Trip approached the biplane, Gus threw Trip his parachute. There would be no time to land anywhere near the courthouse. Only an airmail delivery would make it in time. Parachute on, Trip strapped in.

  As Gus powered the Stearman down the road, Trip saw that Rufus had crawled back to his red Caddy. Now surrounded by a herd of cows and a newly-interested Ferdinand, it was highly unlikely that the carnies would leave the safety of their wrecked convertible.

  2:55 p.m. Gus and Trip were airborne.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  All eyes were frozen on the courthouse clock tower. Tick, tock. Maggie and Dorothy joined Gerty, providing support and comfort. Impassionate, cold, Robinson checked his Rolex.

  Bong. Bong. Bong. The bell tower sounded its death knell. It echoed around the town square. It was over. Gerty had lost.

  “Three o’clock,” Robinson beamed. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Sheriff Brown avoided eye contact with Gerty as he surveyed the curious gathering. In a voice more bland than a filibustered reading of recipes from a British cookbook, Sheriff Brown read from a prepared legal document, “The appointed hour of three p.m. having arrived, the property described as Parcel 3578, Plat map page 347-“

  “--Really?” Robinson interrupted. “Just do it.”

  “It’s gotta be legal,” Sheriff Brown retorted. “Butt out. Plat Map 34750.”

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  The patchwork quilt of Clinton County farmland and creeks and hillsides had changed to the tree-lined streets, corner churches, and small downtown of Hillsboro. Will he actually be able to voluntarily jump out of Gus’s Stearman? He had only parachuted once in his life, and it had not exactly been voluntary. He had been tumbled over backwards from a burning jump plane. And he got hung up in a tree at that. Losing his nerve, and questioning the strategy, he thought, this is a long shot. I’m too late. This won’t work.

  Gus flipped on the white smoke and dive-bombed the courthouse square. Having announced their arrival, Trip could only think of the Wicked Witch of the West flying over the Emerald City and skywriting, Surrender Dorothy.

  Gus screamed, shaking Trip out of his mental lapse of ruby slippers, “Gotta go, boy!”

  “Can’t do it,” Trip yelled. He had made so much progress. No Band-Aids. Am I still afraid of heights? He hesitated. Closed his eyes.

  Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall. He’s a child once more. Stranded atop the jungle gym; his classmates taunting him. He’s made no progress in twenty years. Still a chicken. Still afraid of heights. Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall.

  “Believe it, boy,” Gus shouted. Gus had settled his gleaming blue-yellow Stearman into a flight path as slow as he could, without stalling. Trip had secured the duffel bag, wedged it under his parachute harness.

  Trip gathered his wits. A quick release of his shoulder harness clasp confirmed he at least had the guts to exit the cockpit. Had Gus been back in the good-ole days of barnstorming, he could have easily made Trip’s decision for him. The least complicated way to exit an open-cockpit biplane is to elicit the laws of gravity. Roll the plane upside-down; and out pops ‘whoever.’ Just hope that ‘whoever’ is wearing a parachute. Having met only a few hours previously, Gus opted to let Trip make his own decision regarding his tumble toward the earth.

  Trip rose from his front cockpit position to be blasted with a ninety mile per hour headwind. A quick flashback to his jump plane adventure gave him a moment of pause. But only a moment. He left the safety of the cockpit. Crawling out on the wing, squeezing every last once of blood from his fingers as he gripped the wing struts, he again heard Gus yell, “Believe it, boy.”

  Wing struts and wires provided fewer hand-holds than he would have liked. He did that Army recruit crawl where he hugged the wing surface as though barbed wire were strung above his head. While Gus was an experienced p
ilot, the added weight on only one wing caused the Stearman’s right wing to dip. Trip slid toward the end of the wing. The courthouse square spun beneath him.

  Gus strained to level the plane. Twisting and turning, Trip latched hold of a vertical strut and rose to his feet. A foot slipped off its tentative perch atop its rib and tore through the hi-tech wing fabric. Stuck up to his knee in the damaged wing, Trip thought it was over. He grunted and jerked his leg free. He was out of time. He didn’t count. He didn’t pray. He didn’t even think of the jungle gym. He thought of Gerty. He jumped.

  The free fall seemed like an eternity. Peaceful. Calm. The sound of rushing wind. But would he be in time? As he closed distance on the courthouse clock tower, Trip pulled the rip cord.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  Of the hundred spectators who directly witnessed Trip’s parachute drop onto the courthouse steps, there were probably two hundred versions told around Highland County. The front page of the local paper settled on three versions, and published all three. Needless to say, things happened fast. And everything that happened, happened at the same time.

  Trip landed directly on top of Robinson. The silk fabric of the parachute obscured how Trip managed to extricate himself from his parachute harness. He marched directly to Mel Smith and handed him the canvas duffel bag full of air show proceeds. Panting, huff-puff, out of breath, Trip asked, “Will this cover the mortgage?”

  Mel sorted through the bag, giving it a quick eyeball. He lifted out a fistful of bills and said, “Sorry, not quite.” Before the crowd could finish its groan of disappointment, he continued, “But, it does get us off these courthouse steps today.”

  Ever the Florence Nightingale, Maggie strutted to the steps beside a dizzied Robinson. She buried his head in her ample breast and comforted him with, “Maggie will take care of you.” She then pulled the billowing silk parachute over the two of them.

  Gus dive-bombed the courthouse square with a white-smoke victory lap.