by Carol Baxter
When she inspected the bracing wires, she could find no sign of fraying in either breakage. Both had separated as if they had been cut by pliers yet there were no cut marks on either end of the fractured wires. What else could have caused such a destructive breakage? When her test-pilot husband arrived, he agreed that a single fracture of that nature would be extraordinarily unlucky, but two was preposterous. After inspecting the damage, he could think of only one agent that would cut through two stranded metal wires in such a way: acid. He wondered if someone had deliberately tampered with the plane. He urged Claire to pull out of the race. She didn’t take much convincing to agree.
Chubbie’s light-plane division had just been reduced to five.
The Flying Fraulein was experiencing problems as well. Thea had been asked by the Moth Aircraft Corporation to fly a de Havilland Gipsy Moth, which also put her in Chubbie’s light-plane division. Her plane wasn’t ready in time for the race so she was given a substitute at the last minute, another grey and silver Gipsy Moth. She’d had little time to test-fly it before the race began. To add to her concerns, she had received a disturbing telegram, which was tucked away in her pocket.
Her engine had started cutting out soon after she left San Bernardino. As she neared Calexico, it began to cough. Then it cut out altogether, forcing her to make an emergency landing in an alfalfa field ten miles north of Calexico. She overshot the field and ran into the road, buckling the landing gear. Cut and bruised, she climbed from the Moth and assessed the damage.
Locals gathered, intrigued to discover that the trouser-clad pilot was a woman—and a German at that. One of the locals, a mechanic, watched her remove the fuel clarifier. When he saw that it contained scraps of rubber, fibre and other impurities, he and other witnesses signed a statement to that effect for the race authorities. Thea telegraphed the race committee to say that her plane was down and damaged. She hoped to continue in the race if the repairs were successful.
Although Yuma lay due east of Calexico, the direct route between the two towns ran through the northernmost tip of Mexico. When the derbyists balanced the risk of having their planes confiscated—or stolen—if they were forced down on the Mexican side of the border, most decided that the time gained and the potential money earned from a fast leg to Yuma made the risk worthwhile.
Evelyn Trout—nicknamed ‘Bobbi’ because of her bobbed haircut—was one of the women who took the shortcut. She had established an altitude record two months previously in the light plane she was now flying in Chubbie’s division; however, her newly installed engine was proving troublesome. Like Thea’s engine, it kept cutting out. Then it stopped altogether when she was about ten miles west of Yuma.
She was too far from Yuma to glide there. Spotting a smooth field near Los Algodones, Mexico, she steered towards it. Just before she came in to land, she saw that the field had been ploughed into deep furrows. She had no altitude or power to change direction. By the time her plane came to a halt, it was on its back and badly damaged. She too was out of the derby.
With Bobbi and Claire eliminated, only four pilots remained in Chubbie’s light plane division. Whether Thea could continue was also uncertain. With three cash prizes provided for each division, Chubbie knew that all she had to do was to keep her plane in the air until she reached Cleveland and her chances of winning a cash prize—and the consequent honours—were high.
Even at 9 am, Yuma was so hot that Chubbie felt as though she had stuck her face in the open door of a blazing furnace. Sand was everywhere, even on the 160-acre landing field. Amelia was the first over the finishing line. For the next half hour, the sight of her plane—nose down in a sand dune—was a warning to her fellow derbyists to be careful of soft sand lest their aircraft end up in the same humiliating position as that of the famous aviator.
Amelia called Los Angeles and ordered a new propeller. In an act of team-spirit—one that many would later regret—the other derbyists decided to wait with her at Yuma until the new propeller was delivered and attached.
The temperature rose until it was well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Chubbie and the others lay under the wings of their planes and snoozed while the local residents raced home to collect food and cold beverages for them. By the time Amelia’s plane was repaired, the sun was at its apex, a particularly bad time to be flying in desert regions.
In the sweltering heat, their planes were sluggish and needed every inch of the sandy Yuma runway to take off. As they headed towards Phoenix, the barren desert floor beneath them was soon replaced by rugged treeless mountains, and yet more barren desert—a drab monotony broken only by the terror of flying over it. Vicious downdraughts followed by equally vicious updraughts threw their planes around like yo-yos on a giant’s string. Wondering if their machines could withstand such gyrations, Chubbie and the other pilots kept a grim watch for suitable landing areas.
At last, in the clear desert air, the fertile green of Phoenix could be seen ahead. Louise crossed the finishing line first; however, Pancho nosed her from first place in the heavy division on elapsed time. Chubbie landed fifth, relieved to know that her flight time was only a few minutes slower than those of the leaders in her division. After the embarrassment of the first day’s flight, she was holding her own.
Another banquet had been organised for their evening entertainment, much to their annoyance—they were desperate for sleep. They also needed time to prepare their planes and map out their routes. Instead, they felt like circus exhibits.
As they sat around making small talk with their hosts, and listening to interminable speeches praising people they didn’t know and activities they didn’t care about, news began to spread. Marvel was missing.
Chapter Nineteen
At first Marvel’s friends weren’t worried when she failed to reach Phoenix. Half a dozen of the derbyists had already been forced down without any major mishaps. Indeed, forced landings were so common that some of the women carried ‘protection’ in case they came down in territory where dangerous animals roamed—or dangerous men. Feisty Marvel carried a revolver. She had told the race authorities she would fire off a bullet if she needed to make contact with searchers.
A search party was out looking for her. Earlier that afternoon, a cowboy had ridden into Wellton, a small town thirty miles east of Yuma, to tell the authorities that he’d seen a plane plunging to the ground in the distance. Soon, a well-driller, some ranch-hands and a child reported that they too had seen a plane similar to Marvel’s falling in a spin from about 1000 feet. They saw it slam into a thick growth of cottonwood trees in inaccessible country near the Gila River north of Wellton.
As the searchers combed the countryside, they didn’t hear any cries for help or the distinctive crack of a bullet. They didn’t hear or see anything at all, which was worrying. The terrain was rough: rocky desert country partly covered in ten-foot brush. If Marvel had managed to parachute successfully, there were few clear stretches for her to land safely.
Scout planes failed to spot anything. Further search parties headed out into the darkness. They lit beacon fires in the hope she might see them and answer with a signal of her own. Another group would head out just before dawn to beat through the brush. They would find her, surely, sooner or later.
When the news broke that Marvel’s plane had been seen spinning into the earth, Claire Fahy was the first to mention the ugly word ‘sabotage’. She was adamant that someone had tampered with her plane. She would later tell the authorities that when she took the broken wires back home and showed them to the factory employees, all agreed that they had never known natural circumstances to cause such a break. So, if her own plane had been sabotaged, could someone have tampered with Marvel’s plane as well?
Thea Rasche reported that her plane had been forced down because impurities had entered the fuel system in ‘some strange manner’. She declined to say openly that she suspected tampering. Instead, she pulled a telegram from her pocket and handed it to the race authorities. Its messa
ge was short and simple: ‘Beware of sabotage.’
Ruth Elder told the race authorities that she had found fuel in her oil tank that morning. While she thought the cause was more likely a mechanic’s idiocy than a deliberate act, she felt it best to report her own experience.
The organisers asked themselves why anyone would try to sabotage the women’s planes. If such a thing had happened, was it intended to lessen the chances of some of the competitors so as to improve the chances of others? A small fortune was at stake for the winners and crimes had been committed for much less. Of course, if sabotage had indeed taken place, it didn’t mean that a derbyist was necessarily to blame. Other planes were accompanying the derbyists, carrying timers and race officials, family and friends. And locals were involved at each of the landing places. If one of them had made a large bet on the outcome, the person might have wanted to control the results.
Who else could it be? A disgruntled man determined to keep women out of the air? A religious reactionary appalled at the behaviour of these cigarette-smoking, alcohol-drinking, trouser-wearing she-devils?
Santa Monica publisher-cum-derby-sponsor Robert Holliday wondered if the race authorities themselves were partly responsible. He sent a telegram to the race committee saying that the women’s planes had not been properly guarded overnight at San Bernardino, allowing curiosity seekers to swarm over them. An official who had inspected the planes there had told him that a quarter of the planes had suffered various degrees of damage. He strongly advised the committee to launch an investigation and recommended that the race be delayed until the committee could ensure that the planes were properly guarded and inspected at all future landing sites.
As the list of mishaps grew, the San Bernardino district attorney’s office ordered a formal investigation. All of the race officials there, including the field guards and service mechanics, were called in and questioned about what they had seen and heard and otherwise experienced during the hours the planes had been in town.
The chairman of the San Bernardino race committee, Dr Ayers, supported the investigation although he told journalists that he couldn’t believe that tampering had taken place. He added ruefully, ‘I do believe, however, that there was a woeful lack of preparation for the cross-country race.’
Dr Ayers also revealed that Marvel had told him that her engine had been overheating and had shown signs of reduced oil pressure on the leg to San Bernardino. However, officials of the company that was maintaining Marvel’s plane said she hadn’t mentioned any such problem to their mechanic.
When Walter Beech was questioned about Marvel’s new Travel Air, he reported that she had experienced engine trouble on her trip to Santa Monica. A new engine had arrived in time to be installed; however, the changeover had not been made for reasons unknown to him.
The press asked the engine’s manufacturers why the new engine hadn’t been installed. Wright Aeronautical advised that they had instead taken parts from the new engine to replace worn parts in the old engine. The company assured the press that the rebuilt motor had passed all the necessary tests before the derby began.
During his own interview with the press, Beech had also made a disturbing admission. He said that, before Marvel took her plane from the factory, he had warned her to guard against sabotage. When the press demanded to know what had prompted such a warning, he declined to say.
A sombre group of women awoke on the third morning of the derby. There was still no news of Marvel. The race officials had delayed the start from 6 am to 8 am to allow them time to catch up on sleep. When they arrived at the airport, they were pleased to find that the morning’s forecast was good: a clear sky with light variable winds. They should reach their next stop by midday, before the worst of the desert heat.
One by one the derbyists took off in reverse order of their arrival and followed their compass settings towards Douglas, Arizona. Chubbie had passed the bluffs and rock-strewn valleys and was flying over flat empty terrain when she heard her engine splutter. She immediately wondered if she was a victim of the jinx—if not the saboteur—afflicting the air derby. According to a signed note from her mechanic, her fuels tanks were full. So what was causing the engine to falter? She was near Elfrida, twenty-five miles north of Douglas, when she was forced down. She landed on the bumpy ground without damaging her plane and turned her attention to the engine to work out what had incapacitated it.
As she and the other derbyists knew, pilots without mechanical skills didn’t last long as soloists, particularly if they made cross-country flights. Female pilots who had to land in the wilds couldn’t flutter their lashes and beg a big strong man to help them. They had to solve the problem themselves. Mechanical trouble-shooting was a systematic exercise. The most likely explanation for her spluttering engine was that the fuel wasn’t getting through. The problem could be a blockage in the fuel line—like Thea had suffered—or an empty fuel tank. The second was the easiest to test. She cleaned the dipstick then dipped it into her fuel tank and pulled it out again. It was dry. The tank was empty. Yet the mechanic had assured her—in a signed letter, no less—that he had filled it. Uncertain whether her plight was the result of a mechanic’s stupidity or a saboteur’s machinations, she set off to walk towards a ranch house she had spotted from the air.
The derby report written by esteemed aviation journalist Cy Caldwell had disparaged the derbyists for their ‘unfeminine’ attire, in particular the coveralls and sturdy shoes most of the female pilots wore. The fact that they never knew when they might need to walk cross-country—or stumble, if the terrain was particularly rough—was one of the many reasons why female pilots wore practical male-style clothes rather than the silk dresses and delicate pumps he suggested. In this instance, the countryside she was passing through was home to rattlesnakes, scorpions and black widow spiders.
The ranchers were astonished to see a female pilot appear as if from nowhere. They collected enough fuel to get her to Douglas and headed back to the plane with her.
She took to the air again, hoping she hadn’t lost too much time. When she spotted the Douglas airfield in the distance, she headed directly towards it. Then her engine went quiet.
It was an eerie silence. Worse, it was an infuriating silence. She didn’t have enough altitude to glide to the airfield. She would have to land on the sage and cacti-covered desert floor within sight of it.
This time she wasn’t so lucky. Vicious cactus spikes ripped into her fuselage. Even before she slipped down from her cockpit she could tell that it would take hours to fix, hours that would be added to her elapsed-time clock and push her even further to the back of the light-plane division.
The race authorities had spotted her plane and sent mechanics to undertake the repairs. She refused to leave, remaining to help the men fix the extensive damage. As the hours passed and the elapsed-time clock ticked on, the stresses of the previous week overwhelmed her. Questions whirled around in her mind, demanding answers that no one seemed able to provide. How had her plane run out of petrol when the tank was supposed to be full? What had happened to Marvel? What was going on?
The mechanics working on her plane were aware of her escalating distress. And given that they now knew Marvel’s fate, they couldn’t blame her.
The race officials had refrained from informing the derbyists of Marvel’s death until they reached Douglas for fear that the news would distract them. While most of the derbyists had expected the worst by that time, the reality was both heartbreaking and confronting.
The search party looking for Marvel had spent Monday night exploring the dense vegetation on the Gila River’s banks. Dawn was breaking on Tuesday morning when they found her body on boulder-strewn ground near the river bed in an isolated ravine. She was nestled in the silken folds of her partly opened parachute. They could see why she hadn’t been able to alert them via a gunshot or bonfire or cry for help. It looked like every bone in her body was broken.
Her wrecked plane lay 300 feet away. Both her
smashed cockpit clock and watch had stopped at 12.16. They wondered what had happened in that quarter-hour after her departure from Yuma. Her body was some distance from the plane, suggesting that she had attempted to bail out as it had spun to the ground. Had her plane’s altitude been too low for her parachute to fully open?
Another investigation began, this time a coronial inquest into Marvel’s death. The Los Angeles Department of Commerce also opened a crash investigation, recognising the importance of determining if the sabotage charges had any substance. Once the news of Marvel’s death had been released, more of the derbyists mentioned their own problems. Bobbi Trout, who’d had engine difficulties, Opal Kunz, who’d been blown off course on the Douglas leg, and Chubbie, when she at last arrived at the Douglas airfield, all expressed concerns about the possibility of tampering.
Race officials had stopped Chubbie’s elapsed-time clock when it fell dark, knowing that she couldn’t continue her flight until the light of day. She and the mechanics worked through the night until the damage was repaired. At daybreak on Wednesday morning, she flew on to Douglas, landing at the airfield well before the scheduled departure time. She ordered a thorough cleaning and inspection of her fuel tank to try to work out what might have happened.