Not surprisingly, Nancy was very different in appearance and personality from Marie, being taller, blonder, and far more athletic. She surfed and snorkeled, and much of their time together was spent on Mexican beaches, far away from anyone who might recognize Tom. The long drives down Route 101, crossing the border at San Ysidro and then having a drink at the “Long Bar” in Tijuana, were a magic preparation for their long nights of intensive, inventive sex.
Both Harry and his father had reacted to the news of the annulment admirably. Both were stoic, expressed their sympathy, wished Marie well, and urged Tom to get on with his life.
For Tom, getting on with his life meant getting back into the service, where he could do some real flying. Nancy seemed to understand this. She had been pleased at the news of the annulment but careful not to presume that they were now going to wed—at least right away. Tom felt that they had an understanding. She was not sure but accepted the situation, willing to let him have some time to recover from his years with Marie.
Tom had made many friends during his tour flying foreign fighters at Eglin, and one who owed him a great deal was Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Mahoney, now commander of the 4th Fighter-Interceptor Wing at New Castle County Airport, Wilmington, Delaware. The 4th was assigned to the Eastern Air Defense Force, and its mission was to stop any incoming Soviet bombers.
The memories of their last flight at Eglin raced through Tom’s mind. Ralph was flying a clunky British carrier plane, the two-seat Fairey Firefly, with Tom on his wing in a P-51. The Firefly’s Rolls-Royce Griffon engine let go with a catastrophic malfunction that blew the cowling off its front attachments, heaving it up like a dive brake as the canopy was drenched with oil. Mahoney called a Mayday and began letting down. Tom told him to bail out, but Mahoney refused, saying he could make it back to the field even though he had no forward visibility.
Mahoney next lost all communications, and a trail of smoke began curling from underneath the cockpit area. The excess drag from the blown cowling kept pulling the Firefly down. About six miles out from Eglin’s main runway, and too low to bail out, it was apparent that Mahoney was going in. Tom pulled up on his wing. When Mahoney glanced to the side, Tom indicated he would fly him in to a forced landing.
The two planes descended rapidly, as Tom led Mahoney to the only cleared acreage for miles around, a fairly short strip, not wide enough for both airplanes, bounded on all sides by tall pine trees. They were a little too close and Tom S-turned, to kill off altitude, with Mahoney matching him inch for inch. Finally, at the last second, Tom pulled up to avoid the trees and Mahoney put the Firefly down, gear up, at the very edge of the strip. In the meantime, Tom was on the radio, guiding the fire trucks and ambulances out to the field where Mahoney now stood on the Firefly’s wing, waving his jacket in thanks.
So when Tom called Mahoney, explained his situation, and asked for a flying job in the Air Force, he got a response in two weeks—report to Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas for requalification training and then to New Castle to fly with the 4th. The only downside was Tom’s rank; they bumped him down to captain, despite the fact that he was a nine-victory ace with the rank of lieutenant colonel. An earnest young lieutenant had called from the Air Force personnel office in San Antonio and explained the situation to him, but it still didn’t make any sense. In the end, he didn’t care; he was just glad to be back doing some real flying.
The six weeks training at Nellis went well, and Mahoney was waiting for Tom the day he reported in at New Castle.
June 1, 1949, Wilmington, Delaware
“Tom, I’ve had them get your flying gear all set. You and I are going out to do a little rat racing, to show you how we do it in the Fourth.”
A moist spring had turned the countryside into a riot of color. Long used to California’s burnt hills, Tom found the rivers, lakes, and green farmlands of Delaware enchanting. The day was warm enough for heat waves to send mirages that sheathed the runway distance markers in a shimmering haze. Tom was already soaked with sweat by the time Mahoney turned on to the runway and was cleared for takeoff.
They rendezvoused after takeoff in the climb, with Tom getting in trail with Mahoney, who leveled off at 25,000 feet and called, “Tom, just follow me through; try to stay with me.”
Things started conventionally, with Mahoney making fairly tight turns to the left and right. He gradually tightened them up so that they were pulling four g’s, before beginning a series of sharp reversals. Tom stayed with him as he reversed, then counterreversed, and they wound up in a spiraling dive, canopy to canopy, noses pointed straight down until the approaching ground had them break off and fly back to land.
In the briefing room Mahoney had laughed, saying, “Tom, you looked like a blasted decal on my mirror; no matter what I did, you didn’t move out of position. I’ll get you some flights tomorrow with some of the other guys.”
Tom slept better that night than he had in months, more at home on the flat springs of a narrow Army cot than he had been for years back in his double bed in California.
July 27, 1949, Hatfield Aerodrome, Hertfordshire, England
It was late in the evening. They had enjoyed a few drinks and a barely acceptable meal at the White Horse and were contentedly reliving the day’s events.
“Stanley, I cannot thank you enough for inviting me to be here, of all days. What a treat Cunningham gave us!”
Hooker, still tall but bent over a bit from his years of scanning drafting tables and production lines, smiled jovially. “Well, you are most welcome, but no one was more surprised than I when John took off.”
A few hours earlier, thirty-year-old John Cunningham had celebrated his birthday by making the first flight ever in the new de Havilland D.H. 106 Comet, a passenger jet that surpassed all previous transports. Tall and blond, the affable “Cats Eyes” Cunningham was Great Britain’s premier night-fighter pilot in World War II, with more than twenty kills, sixteen in a Beaufigher and four in a de Havilland Mosquito. Dressed in shockingly dirty white coveralls, Cunningham had spent the afternoon in taxi tests and in short “hops” where he lifted off the runway and touched down immediately, braking. Then, unexpectedly, he had the aircraft refueled, called his four-man crew aboard, and made a takeoff that left the few hundred de Havilland employees on hand gasping.
Shannon and Hooker had stood with them as the truly beautiful aircraft taxied slowly down the taxiway and moved into position on the relatively short runway. There was a roar as the four engines were brought to full power and held there. Shannon knew what Cunningham and his crew were doing, checking every instrument, making sure that nothing was overlooked. Then the brakes were released and the Comet moved forward, slowly, majestically at first, its wheels running along a runway that had launched so many previous de Havilland designs, from the tiny Tiger Moth to the swift, deadly Vampire. The Comet gathered speed and broke ground so quickly that both Hooker and Shannon let out involuntary cheers. With its big wing area and huge flaps, the Comet took off more swiftly than many smaller piston engine aircraft.
Cunningham climbed to 10,000 feet, flew around at different airspeeds for thirty minutes, then made one low-altitude, high-speed pass over the runway to the roar of an elated crowd. They knew what they were watching—Great Britain had just seized the initiative in the airliner race—and they knew, too, that no one else was within years of competing with them. Cunningham was not just flying a gorgeous jet airliner; he was flying national prestige, thousands of jobs, and millions of pounds in sales. Only the British press would take exception, for the flight was made without prior notice. The de Havilland public relations people were disappointed, but Cunningham did not care, for more than five years of intense development had obviously paid off with a first-class aircraft.
Stanley Hooker asked, “One more whiskey?” and, against his better judgment, Shannon nodded yes. Hooker ordered two large whiskeys at the bar, brought them back, and said, “To John Cunningham.”
They sipped their drink
s, and Vance said, “We need at least two more toasts, so let’s stretch this drink out. First of all, we must toast Frank Whittle, because while the Comet’s engines may have Rolls-Royce’s name stamped on them, they wouldn’t exist without Frank’s work and sacrifice.”
“To Frank Whittle.”
Shannon lifted his glass again; there was a half finger of whiskey remaining and he said, “To Geoffrey de Havilland,” and Hooker responded, “And his sons.”
They drained their glasses and were silent, each man thinking of his own family in the light of the de Havilland tragedies. Geoffrey de Havilland had lost one son, John, in 1943, in a mid-air collision of Mosquito fighters. Then in 1946, a second son, Geoffrey, was killed testing their experimental D.H. 108, a tailless, swept wing jet designed to gain information for the Comet and for supersonic flight. He had been preparing to break the world’s speed record when the airplane broke up on a high-speed run over the Thames Estuary. Vance was glad that his own two sons had survived their flying so far, but he knew that all aviation was built on sacrifice and that his sons accepted the dangers. He had put them at risk in their youth with his own flying. There were dozens of times when he might have been killed, sometimes on the first flight of an advanced aircraft, sometimes in a routine test hop when things suddenly went wrong, sometimes when testing some individual’s ill-advised private design.
Shannon and Hooker looked up and smiled, coming out of their mutual reveries. Hooker brought them back to the real world when he leaned forward and said, “Forgive my asking, but what do you think today’s flight means to Boeing?” It was a not so gentle reminder that Hooker had invited him to Hatfield Aerodrome as a matter of their mutual business concerns.
“Well, for one thing, it means they’ll have to get someone high up in the chain of command over here to see the airplane. They’ll be glad to have my report, but you can bet that Ed Wells or Bill Allen will be over in England before the year is out, looking for themselves. But from my point of view, it means that Boeing has got to get cracking on a jet transport right now, without losing a moment, or it will be left at the starting gate. This is the start of the second revolution in jet aviation. The only chance Boeing would have to catch up is if something happens to the Comet during testing, or when it finally starts carrying passengers.”
“I don’t think that likely. They’ve been testing the airplane pretty extensively, and de Havilland has a world of experience.”
“That’s true, Stanley, but look at the record for new transports. The Germans lost their Focke-Wulf FW 200 prototype before the war, ran it out of gasoline in Manila Bay in November 1938 as I recall. Then the next year, Boeing lost a prototype 307—the first pressurized airliner—on one of its early flights. Lockheed had a devil of a time with its Constellations when they started out—electrical fires and crashes. They were grounded for months in 1946. The same thing happened to the Douglas DC-6—in-flight fires caused some crashes and they were grounded. I think a jet transport faces bigger hazards—they fly faster, higher, over longer routes. They’ll be making more cycles, more takeoffs and landings, and they’ll have to be heavily used, because they are so expensive.”
“What’s your advice to Boeing going to be?” Hooker was interested because a Boeing jet opened up another market for jet engines and that was his reason for living, designing, building, and selling them.
“I guess ‘make haste slowly.’ They’ll have to rush to catch up to de Havilland, but they’ve got to spend a lot of money to do enough testing so they get it right the first time. When the first jet passenger plane crashes, it is going to make worldwide headlines, and sales will suffer. And a jet passenger plane will crash; it is inevitable.”
“You are right, of course; when lots of jet transports are flying, jet transports will crash. But I don’t see a special risk for de Havilland with the Comet. They have worked it over very thoroughly.”
Vance nodded yes, to be agreeable, but there was something wrong with the Comet; he felt it in his fingertips. Placing the engines inside the wing roots was undoubtedly beneficial aerodynamically, but what happened if there was a fire? He knew all too well that jet engine fires were far from uncommon—that’s why they had so many fire-warning light sensors on them. And those square windows. They just didn’t make sense to him, not in a pressurized aircraft. Still both the Connie and the DC-6 had square windows, so perhaps it was OK. De Havilland had led the world with the Mosquito; perhaps it would lead the world with the Comet.
August 6, 1949, Palos Verdes, California
The cab dropped Vance Shannon off in front of his low-slung ranch house, and he had to carry his luggage up the curving concrete steps. At the top he was breathing heavily, as much from his anger and concern as from exertion. The trip back from England had been exhausting, for he had to first fly to Seattle to brief Ed Wells and George Schairer on the Comet, then spend the night at the dreary Windsor Hotel, where some hookers down the hall were partying until three o’clock in the morning. He’d been up at five to catch an early plane south to Los Angeles. The night before, he had called Madeline and she sounded delighted to hear his voice and promised to pick him up at the airport. When he got in, she was not there, and she had not answered his calls at home. Jill Abernathy was out of town, and he didn’t feel he knew Nancy Strother well enough to ask her to come to the airport to get him on a Saturday afternoon.
He put down his bags, looked for his keys in all his pockets, then remembered he had them in his briefcase. When he finally got the front door opened he bellowed, “Madeline,” but the house was silent.
Vance carried his luggage through the house to their bedroom, a prescient fear mounting in his heart. He dumped his two bags the minute he saw the envelope on the bed. It was addressed simply to “Vance.” He knew what it was even before he tore it open. It read:
Darling Vance,
Thank you for giving me a wonderful life. I loved you and I love you, but I must go now. Don’t worry about me; I will be fine. Tell the boys I am sorry I never measured up to their expectations.
Don’t hate me. Just love me and forget me.
Madeline
There it was. A twelve-year love affair done up in five lines.
He slumped at the edge of the bed, then went to her closet. It was apparently filled with her clothes; she had not taken much with her. He went to her jewelry box. He had never bought her lavish presents, a few nice pieces, an Omega watch, an engagement ring she wouldn’t accept or wear but that he induced her to keep. They were all in the box.
He sped from room to room, checking for her presence as much as for her absence. It was the same. She had left taking little more than the clothes on her back.
Then he wondered about their finances, hated himself for doubting her, but ran down to his office, where he opened the safe. Another envelope, attached to one of the brown expandable accordion files.
This time the note said:
Vance,
All your financial papers are in this packet. Everything is in good shape; you’ve become quite wealthy, and I am happy for you. I know you wouldn’t think that I would take anything, and you’ll see that I did not.
Madeline
Ashamed of himself for his suspicions, he just glanced at the tally sheet. Somehow he was worth almost a half-million dollars, and he would have given twenty times that amount to have Madeline back for just one hour.
Vance went back in their bedroom, lay down on the bed, and willed himself not to cry. Exhausted, he drifted off to sleep, dreamed that the doorbell rang, that Madeline had come back, and woke up to find the house still eerily empty.
He stumbled into the kitchen, eyes bleary from fatigue and holding back tears, and put some ice cubes in a glass, taking a couple to rub on his eyes. Filling the glass with Old Grandad bourbon, he went to their library, a cherry-paneled, book-laden sanctuary that had been their favorite room. As he walked through the house he admired the way it was decorated. Madeline was really not interested in
such things, but she had had the house decorated expertly and fairly expensively, then let it be. He couldn’t recall a single adjustment she had made from the time the decorators left.
He could not call anyone yet, not even his sons. But he did have to locate Jill. She must have known something was up; she might know where Madeline had gone. It didn’t matter where. He wouldn’t follow her; she was too strong willed for that. But he had to know. He called Nancy Strother, to see if she knew where Jill was staying on her trip.
To his surprise, Tom answered.
“What are you doing at Nancy’s, Son?”
There was no way for Tom to dissemble. “I’m seeing Nancy now, Dad. I hope you don’t object. How was your trip?”
The words didn’t mean anything to Vance. “Tom, ask Nancy if she knows where Jill is staying, if she has a number for her.”
There was a pause, and Tom came back on. “Dad, she says that she doesn’t know but that Madeline must. Can you ask her?”
“No, Son, I can’t.” He hung up, leaving Tom embarrassed and puzzled.
Vance went back into the library and sat in the big leather chair. The pain was deep. He truly loved Madeline, wanted her to be with him always, but he always knew that she had intended to leave someday. That’s why she refused to marry him and refused to own any property with him. He wondered if she knew about Tom and Nancy, and how long that had been going on. As if he gave a damn. Tom was entitled to any happiness he could get out of life, and Vance hoped that Nancy would give him as good a twelve years as Madeline had given him.
Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age Page 24