“We’re going to lose the plane if we don’t do something,” said Will.
“Just for once, Will, take my word for it,” said the Captain.
“Then that’s what we’ll do, like the Captain says,” Sammy ordered.
“The aircraft crashed in there. Just pull her out the same way she went in,” said Will.
“Can’t be too impatient, Will. We’ll get Bobby out,” said the Captain.
Melissa laughed. “You don’t get it, Captain Steele. He doesn’t care any more about Bobby than if it was me or you caught in there. He wants that plane, that’s all.”
Will shook his head and went back to stand by the tractor, staring at the mound. Beside him, two of Sammy’s firemen were preparing the winch.
Tawny had her assistant photograph the men working on the tail section. She also spoke into her tape recorder, preparing a report for her editor. “We have a discovery here at the rescue site where the Green child has been trapped since yesterday afternoon. Rescue workers have uncovered part of what appears to be a military aircraft. This may be part of what has been the support for the child underneath the tons of mud over him. Strangely, it’s the framework of an airplane lost here during World War Two.”
She reached down with her recorder to interview Captain Steele who was watching as the men uncovered more of the metal slab. “Captain, is there any more identification of the airplane itself?”
“Yes, here’s the trim tab,” he said, pointing out a small rectangle inserted into the rudder surface. “It’s definitely part of the tail of a P47 fighter.”
“The child is in the forward part of this aircraft?”
“Yes Ma’am, that’s what we think,” said the Captain. “Some feet ahead in the cockpit.”
“How will you get to the child?”
“We’re going to attach lines to the aircraft tail and secure it so it will not slide forward. Then we’re going to dig along the port side until we get to the boy’s location. After ascertaining that, we will enter the fuselage in the best way we can without causing it to collapse or slide further.”
“How did the child get there?”
“We can’t say for sure. We think he followed a cave and came in through a hole on the left of the plane, looking forward. We’ll dig along that side and hope we can go in the same way he did.”
“Will you ever be able to tell where this P47 came from?”
“When we get some more of this tailfin cleaned off we may see some identification numbers. Most of the P47 fighters had six numbers painted on their tail. When we have the number we can trace it through military records.”
She continued, “The child mentioned that he noticed bones near where he was trapped. Do you think these were the remains of Melusina Allingham, the pilot who fought a German submarine in the Atlantic near here?”
“We don’t know. Could be the pilot bailed out and those are animal bones. We just can’t tell. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to work.”
“Thank you. I’ve been speaking with Captain Steele. He is the director of the local River Sunday airport and his staff has always been most helpful to us when we fly to the Eastern Shore. We’ll get back to him a little later. This is Tawny Slight reporting from River Sunday at the site of the cave-in, where the rescue team races against the incoming tide of a great coastal storm to free a young boy. Only hours remain before the storm surge and flood tide reaches the Wilderness Swamp. Then if he is not rescued, he will be drowned.”
Captain Steele examined the larger piece of tail surface that had been unearthed.
“Captain Steele, this metal, it’s corroded,” said Sammy. “The tractor blade ain’t done it no good neither.”
Pete moved down into the trench and joined Hank and Sammy who were helping the Captain dig out the rudder.
“You said Bobby might have climbed in through where the wing met the fuselage?” asked Pete.
The Captain nodded in the rain. “Where it broke off. Animals coming and going probably enlarged the break.”
“Where is the wing?”
“Probably in the muck beside the plane,” said the Captain. “It may be lifted up and bent around.”
“You’re saying the tail numbers will tell us if it’s my great aunt’s airplane?” asked Will, coming down beside them.
“Shut up, Will,” said Melissa.
“I think so, Will,” answered the Captain.
“Her number was 222222,” Will said. “One of the earlier models, the razorbacks.”
“What is a razorback?” asked Tawny, pulling out her notebook.
“On the early models, the cockpit extended directly back to the tail fin. Later designs had a bubble canopy to allow the pilot better vision in all directions.”
Most of the tail section including the rudder and part of the left elevator had been uncovered and stuck out in the rain. The dug out shaft or tunnel below the tail structure had increased in size.
Will had found a ladder and was scraping at the metal of the rudder. “Captain, I can see a number here,” Will said.
“Get him some more light,” said the Captain, standing up to inspect the metal.
Among the streaks was the number 2 in white surrounded by a bluish paint.
“That’s part of the identification number anyway,” said the Captain. “The rest of it is obscured in the corrosion.”
“Metal experts can bring out those other numbers,” said Will. He kicked at the muck with his boot. “If only Bobby could’ve told us more about that skeleton.”
Hank could see Melissa staring at Will, showing her amazement at Will’s excitement about his plane while her child was in such peril.
Captain Steele motioned to Sammy. “We’ll have to dig more on that shaft under the plane. We’ve got to find a strong point where we can latch our lines.”
Sammy shook his head.
Steele tried to reassure him. “I think the airplane will stay together, Sammy. They were built real strong.”
Pete pointed to the power take off winch on the tractor. “Is Will right about there being enough power to hold back the weight of the plane?”
“Enough to bring it snug,” said Sammy.
“Might want to rig some teams on ropes pulling too,” suggested Pete.
The Captain nodded. “That’s a good idea. Sammy, let’s have your strongest men on some ropes.”
“It’s going to be dangerous for Bobby,” said Hank.
“You’ve got to save my son,” demanded Melissa.
Hank glanced at Melissa. “This is all we can do.”
She stared back at him. “Then we have to do it.”
Hank nodded.
Hank joined the others digging under the rudder and the stern fuselage to find a grip point for the lines.
“Can you see anything more?” asked Will.
The Captain pointed to several small holes in the metal. “She ran into flak here. Zinnie’s plane circled the submarine for a long time and she took some fire.” He proceeded to dig at the metal with his penknife, talking to Will as he did so.
“You surprise me, Will. Always have. You went and built that model of your aunt’s plane for the parade. From what I hear you’re an authority on P47s. You’re an expert about war but you never faced an enemy bullet.”
“I was in the Guard,” Will said, his eyes searching the old metal.
“Zemke’s Wolfpack.” That’s what the B17 bomber crews called us when we escorted them over Germany,” said the Captain. “Me, Gabreski, Robert Johnson, Schilling, Christensen, Mahurin. All the aces.”
The Captain traced his fingers over the rudder. “You have any idea why I won’t get inside that airplane float you build every year for the Heritage Day? It’s because I know that you don’t do it to honor any of us or even Zinnie, Will. You do that to get people to look for her plane so you can get some land.”
Will seemed not to hear the Captain. He looked impatient that the work was not going faster. Hank thought Will
no longer had any pride left - that the man had become willing to grovel to all of them, not for the child, but to get the P47 out of the mound.
The Captain extracted a slug that he had been digging from the rudder material. “Here, Will.” He held it up for Will to see. “That’s a 37 millimeter round. The Germans used that caliber on their submarines. I know because I got hit with these rounds flying too low over an enemy sub in the Channel.”
As Hank knew he would, Will immediately asked as soon as the Captain stopped talking, “Are you going to help me salvage this plane, Captain?”
With that, the Captain threw the spent bullet on the ground in disgust. Then he said, brushing off his hands, “Will, I’m here to help Hank’s boy. I’m not saying I don’t love these old fighter planes. I flew one like her. Helping you, though, is, for me, like being a traitor to Zinnie’s memory. If salvaging her means making you rich, I’d rather let the plane stay where it is.”
“What happens if the airplane slips down, way down, too deep to retrieve?”
“If we get the boy out, and the plane is lost forever, that’s all right with me,” said the Captain.
“If there’s danger the boy will be lost, you ought to give him a chance to make his confession,” said a voice behind Hank.
“Father Tom.” It was the priest from the church Hank attended.
“Yes, Father. I want you to talk to him,” said Melissa.
The priest put his hand on Melissa’s arm. “It will be all right.”
Bobby began to scream again. The sound came out of the big speakers and wailed all over the island. “The muskrats are all over me. Please get me out of here.”
Hank called him on the microphone. “I’m here.”
“I’m so scared, Daddy. You’re coming down here to get me out?”
“I sure am.”
“What about your claustrophobia?”
“Fathers can handle things like that.”
“Please come get me.”
“I will.”
“Father Tom wants to talk to you, Bobby.”
“All right.”
Hank remembered Father Tom’s words at the garden store one afternoon. Just back from mission work down in Peru, the priest had come into Hank’s store and said, “Hank, I’d like to put a flower or two in a little space, a little devotional garden, behind the church. I want annuals,” the priest had insisted.
“Why?”
“I want something new each year.” He went on and said, “I remember a garden like this when I was in a little country south of here. It was next to a new graveyard. I used to sit in that garden and study the graveyard. You see,” he had said to Hank, “I witness death all the time. I hear the last confessions and I give the last rites. I need more birth, much more.”
Hank had said, “You need more hope.”
Father Tom replied, “Yes, hope.”
In the rain, as if reading Hank’s mind, the priest said, “We’ll talk, Bobby and I, of hope.”
The priest crowded into the radio tent with Melissa and Hank. He took the mike, “Hi Bobby.”
“You’ll talk about Easter tomorrow,” began Bobby.
“Jesus on the cross.”
“Did Jesus have a grandfather?”
“In a way he did.”
“Tell me about hate, Father.”
“Hate means you want to kill someone.”
“Is there any other kind of hate?”
“Not really, Bobby,” said Father Tom.
“I guess I don’t hate anyone.”
“We should be like Jesus,” offered Father Tom.
“What would Jesus do if someone lied to him?” asked Bobby.
“He’d forgive him. That’s what love is all about,” answered the priest.
“That’s hard to do.”
“Yes,” answered Father Tom. “Very hard to be like Jesus. Can you confess with me?”
“I’m not going to die. I got no reason,” answered Bobby. Then he asked, “Father, is this place I’m in like hell?”
“It might be, Bobby. It might be.”
“I’ve got something to do, Father.”
“Can I help you?”
“No, I’ve got to do it myself and pretty soon.”
“Then ask Jesus to help you.”
“I will, Father Tom.”
The priest took out his crucifix of silver and prayed silently.
The Captain called Hank. “We’re just about ready back here. I want to talk to Bobby before we start.” Lightning sparked close to the island. Hank mentally counted, one thousand, two thousand. Then the thunder tore into the swamp, echoing against the loblollies and rumbling its terror, its wild noise. He thought about Bobby under the ground. He can’t hear that noise. No, maybe he can and he doesn’t recognize it. Then he thought, of course he knows what it is.
The rain, suddenly harder, was slapping Hank’s face. “Come on, Hank,” Pete was calling. “We need you on the ropes.”
“I’ll be right there,” Hank said and went faster along the slippery path beside the sandbags. He noticed the water was higher, almost to his knees.
“Water,” he said to one of the sandbag team members as he went by.
“So far so good,” the woman replied, her face small in her poncho. The lightning smashed the sky again and lit the island brighter than the biggest searchlights the firemen had installed. The raindrops were large and spattered against Hank, slowing him as he moved toward the winch.
Chapter Sixteen
Hank listened as the Captain laid out the plan. The tractor idled in the background, rhythmic against the storm roar. They were squatting in a circle in front of the tractor. Captain Steele was explaining the construction of the plane and how best to attach the winch to the fuselage. Hank helped Sammy hold a piece of canvas to shield the rain from the well-creased paper drawings of the aircraft spread out on the plywood tractor runway. Pete held the large flashlight.
The Captain began. “Assuming that now we know for sure where the plane is and how it lies in the mud, we have a chance that we didn’t have before. We’re not going in blind any more.” He opened a large manual. “The rudder extended up over the fuselage about six feet, as tall as a man. I can picture my wartime mechanic standing on a ladder near the elevators and adjusting a clevis bolt on the rudder link.” He paused and looked at the diagram before proceeding.
“We want to attach as far into the fuselage as we can. I’d be happier if we could get beyond the tail assembly and into the forward fuselage maybe to this lifting tube.” He pointed to the cross brace built into the frames, a little bit ahead of the tail. “That’s a strong point to get near if we can.”
Hank looked at Sammy. “Let’s get started finding that point. We’ll dig further under her,” he said, moving to join the men working under the fuselage.
After a few minutes, Hank clambered out and said, “We got a break in the metal about two feet further in. We can get a hook attached.”
“Let me see,” said the Captain. “I need some light back in there.”
Pete handed him the flashlight. Captain Steele crawled down beside Hank and reached back into the muck, feeling with his hand, then pulling back.
“Your spot is good, Hank. It’s in the hull near where the lifting area should be and that’s a plus.” He stood up.
“OK,” said Hank, ready to go back under the airplane. “Get me a line in here.” The men passed him the wire from the winch. A large hook was at the end of the cable.
The Captain kneeled by Hank, holding in front of him a page from his manual showing that part of the fuselage, explaining that the hook and wire had to go around the nearest fuselage frame member. Hank nodded as he crawled under again. He pulled the wire after him into the hole. The cable made a scraping sound as the wire rubbed against the metal of the airplane.
“Gimme more.”
“Run out the winch,” ordered Sammy. There was a squeal as the pulley spun.
In a few minutes Hank crawle
d out. “OK, that’s got it,” said Hank, pulling the wire taut behind him. He stood up and said to the Captain, “I got it inside the fuselage and looped around the brace in the tail. I can feel where the tail wheel assembly fell out.”
“The casting that Cathy found,” nodded the Captain.
Hank stood next to Pete. “One thing I noticed, though. The rudder assembly may be bent backward. That fuselage below it is set at an angle to the rudder. In other words, the rudder is aimed down but the fuselage is angled up. I think she broke her rudder when she hit, then tipped down by her nose.”
That worried the Captain. “If we get her at the wrong angle, we might tilt her more downward,” he said. “Worse, we might crack the fuselage in another place with the wrong pressure on the hull frames.”
“We’ll build up a leverage point to pull the rope over,” said Sammy. “That should keep her held back at the right angle when we dig.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” said Hank. “Then after we start the tunnel to Bobby we can reconnect, move the wire loop further down the fuselage, and make it even more secure.”
Sammy had the tree men clean up three logs from the cut loblollies. “We’ll need them about the width of the trench.”
The rain made it hard to see. When the trees were brought over to the tractor area, Pete and Sammy had the men lay them below the rudder section. The men roped them together and slung down from the center a block and tackle.
The angle was crucial, the Captain insisted. He had Hank and the others measure as carefully as possible the perspective of the fuselage direction. Then a line from the aircraft was put down through the block and back and up to the winch which was about four feet above it. As he explained it, the cable would come out from the aircraft and be directed towards the ground of the trench. The pressure on the aircraft would be in the same direction in which she lay.
The Captain was satisfied but Sammy wanted safety lines. “We can get men to pull along with the tractor. The lines may be needed to guide the fuselage if she starts to move from side to side.”
Sammy had several of his firemen line up with ropes attached to the airplane. One of the chainsaw men, a large man with a beard, took the lead on one of the ropes. Hank headed up the other, on the right side. Will, who had been standing to the side with Melissa, watching all this planning going on without saying anything, came forward.
Easter Sunday (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 7) Page 12