Hollywood Buzz

by Margit Liesche

  Miss C had given me a contact at the field. Aware I’d be making the hop over to March Field in Riverside today, I’d called ahead to make the arrangements. A few blocks deeper into the neighborhood of modest homes, I spied the airport in the near distance.

  My next turn took me past another landmark I’d been watching for, the AAF Technical Training Command’s school for mechanics. I drove slowly, skirting past the unit’s barracks and classroom buildings. Men in uniform and in coveralls strolled among the structures.

  At last, a small sign indicated the lane to the hangar where I’d been told to park. I took the turn, nosing the Packard out onto a wide-open stretch of grass-patched dirt, coming to a halt in the shade of a small, corrugated-metal Quonset hut.

  Prewar, Clover Field had been home to the small planes of commercial enterprise and private individuals. Once we were in the war, civilian pilots were grounded and private flying was all but eliminated. And Clover Field began anew. The mechanics’ training school was established on the side of the airfield where I’d just pulled up; on the other side, a sprawling Douglas Aircraft manufacturing plant had been constructed.

  Exiting the Packard, I glimpsed the east-to-west runway that divided the airfield. The airstrip had also been altered in recent years. Formerly alive with the comings and goings of small planes, once the factory was built it had been extended to accommodate the testing of the medium and heavy bombers being built or refurbished at the site.

  I stood beside the Packard for a moment, awed by all that had been done to disguise the Douglas plant.

  A canopy of netting, strung on cables and supported by hundreds of sky-high wooden telephone poles, covered the entire facility. The netting, I’d heard, was four and a half million square feet in its entirety, and made of fiberglass. It spanned the huge factory building as well as the massive hangar next door. Part of it also stretched across an extensive section of outdoor subassembly and storage areas. Beneath the netting, mechanics swarmed over a line of A-20 attack bombers on the tarmac. The A-20s were all painted olive drab, but some had been mounted with glass noses for bombardier visibility, while others were fitted with solid gun-bearing noses. Though not apparent from where I stood, fake housing and phony landscaping on top of the netting disguised the manufacturing site from enemy planes that might breach the air space above.

  Other factories along the coast were using similar camouflage techniques as defense against enemy air attack, and I was familiar with the “passive defense” ploy. I’d just never viewed it from the ground. It was a remarkable sight and I couldn’t wait to see it from above.

  I left the Packard and walked across the grass and dirt to the hangar. A heavyset man in a khaki coverall and billed cap waited in the shade of the doorway. He tossed away the wrapper of his Hershey bar and welcomed me with a handshake. As I’d already guessed, he was the AAF mechanic-instructor “on loan” to Miss C. We’d spoken on the telephone.

  His name was Ralph Balke. “But call me Bulk,” he said.

  I smiled. The nickname suited his full frame, so constrained by the grease-stained coveralls that it threatened to burst the snapped front at any moment. Another Hershey bar, distinguished by its dark brown and foil wrapping, protruded from his breast pocket alongside a wrench.

  Bulk and I ducked into the dank darkness of the hangar’s interior to go over the course I’d be taking to March Field. The air base, located near Riverside, was about seventy miles east. Using a wall map, we reviewed the route. Then we wandered back outdoors, Bulk briefing me on wind and weather, though the conditions were not expected to present any problems.

  Miss C’s canary-yellow Staggerwing perched near the end of the runway, ready for takeoff. The path to get to it took us past another hangar where, outside its open doors, models of sections of an airplane had been set up for training purposes. Cadets from the mechanics’ school worked in small groups or in twos at the stations.

  The Staggerwing looked like a mosquito, albeit a lively strain of the insect, compared to the giant bombers across the runway. The bright yellow biplane’s highly polished spinner and prop glimmered in the sunlight as we approached, testament to detailed maintenance. The prop was also symbolic of Miss C’s power and influence. Current war restrictions required removing the prop from any private plane not donated for military use.

  Known for its clean lines and sporty appearance, the Staggerwing was coveted the world over by aircraft enthusiasts. Its innovative negative staggered wings—lower wing placed forward of the upper—improved performance by decreasing the biplane drag effect. The nose and cowling on Miss C’s Staggerwing had been modified, giving it a racier look and suggesting it would show more powerful performance than others of its class. I’d never flown a Staggerwing before and I hadn’t been in the air for two days, so I was itching to go up. Before I could, however, Bulk and I walked around the plane, checking out the landing gear, struts, slide tubes and other inspection points. Out of habit, I pulled the speed prop several times to clear it.

  Bulk nodded at the numeral “13” painted on the side. “Don’t worry none about that. Cochran claims it’s her lucky number. It’s her official racing number, too.” He smiled and his full cheeks ballooned. “Yup. This little plane flew in the ’37 Bendix race. Came in third. Not bad.”

  I smiled to myself. As if I didn’t know! I was also aware that third hadn’t been good enough for Miss C. The next year she’d entered the race again, the lone woman in a field of ten entrants. This time she flew the AP-7, a civilian prototype version of the P-35 long-range fighter designed by Republic Aircraft. Republic’s owner, Sasha Seversky, a former Russian war ace, had personally extended the invitation. Seversky had been trying, without success, to secure a military contract for the P-35. He figured by winning the race—particularly with a woman in the cockpit—he’d gain the attention needed to convince the Army Air Corps of the P-35s superior capabilities. Miss C won the race, Seversky won the contract. They’d remained friends to this day.

  “Cochran and Seversky have tinkered a bit with the plane,” Bulk chortled, his eyes dancing. “They’ve installed a new Pratt & Whitney. Cochran says the increased horsepower makes it somewhat overpowered. I don’t think she minds.” He winked. “Actually, just about the entire plane’s been rebuilt and recovered, section by section. Cochran’s constantly testing new equipment: instruments, carburetors, spark plugs. You name it. Latest is a high performance fuel she got from a secret stash. Said she noticed an improvement in range and power on the way out here from her ranch.” Bulk shrugged. “What’s the hurry?”

  “Hmm,” was the only response I could manage. Resentment toward Miss C and the privilege she enjoyed was nibbling at my usual good will toward her. With severe rationing going on, WASP were having to fly on what was available. Usually the low-octane stuff, which meant that oftentimes engines wouldn’t start. Worse yet, poor fuel could cause an engine to quit midair. I’d heard about several incidents where it had happened.

  And why had she been so open with Bulk? It must feel good, I supposed, to wield the sort of power to get wherever you wanted, lickety-split. And nearly everyone knew she loved commanding a hot plane. Yet, when others were at the mercy of shortages, wouldn’t it be smarter to be more reserved in talking about your privileges? Word got around.

  Still, she was our leader. Bulk wouldn’t get a negative reaction about her from me.

  I led the way up the wing to the cockpit door. Climbing in, I stowed my gear, then settled into the cushiony leather seat. The interior was all black and there was the usual array of gauges on the panel.

  Bulk, huddling in the doorway, nodded toward the back. “Rear bench has been removed to make room for two auxiliary tanks. They’re on a separate system but share the same flow mechanism.” He pointed to a pair of toggle switches on the panel. “Those are the controls. Main tank’s in the fuselage, plus there’s fuel in each wing. Reserve tank’s under the seat.” He grinned. “Not that you’ll need
it—she’s full of the high octane still. Besides, you’ll be at March almost before you leave the ground.”

  I’d already anticipated my flight time would be short even without the superior fuel. I smiled back.

  We spent several more minutes going over buttons, levers, and switches before Bulk said, “So long,” shoving the door shut with a solid thunk.

  I waited until he was in sight on the tarmac. At his thumbs up signal, I opened the small side window, shouted, “Clear,” and pushed it shut again.

  The engine roared to life with the turn of the key. After running start-up procedures and radioing the tower for clearance, I taxied to the end of the strip and opened the throttle.

  I slipped on my sunglasses to mute the glare, then vaulted down the runway, rapidly picking up speed to begin my climb. After months of flying the most advanced aircraft, I’d wondered whether I’d experience a letdown flying a small plane again. Not this craft. Miss C had been downplaying it when she’d remarked that with the installation of the new Pratt & Whitney, her Staggerwing had become somewhat overpowered. This ship, though small, was strong and fast.

  After going full throttle to reach cruising altitude, I leveled off, listening as the fierce reverberation of the ascent settled into a soothing low drone. Scanning the instruments, I set my eastbound course, then looked out the side window.

  The staggered lower wing permitted a clear view of the scene below. Just as I’d thought, covered over by the camouflage netting, the Douglas manufacturing site had completely disappeared. In its place, the false neighborhood was an awesome work of deception. Painted streets and sidewalks blended right into those that criss-crossed the surrounding neighborhood for real. Dummy houses built on top of the netting and supported by the roofs of the buildings over which the netting was hung looked completely authentic as well.

  I dipped the wing to get a better look at the gently sloping hillside dotted with “war housing” units. Of course, what I was actually viewing was the curved top of the huge hangar covered over in camouflage netting. The “houses,” Bulk had told me, were made of burlap specially treated to be weather- and fire- resistant. The painted burlap siding supported by chicken wire or lightweight wood panel frames and the fake roofs were painted red, white, or slate to follow the pattern of the bona fide neighboring homes. I shook my head, amazed. Fake trees, fake shrubs, fake gardens with red, blue and white flowers…What? Fresh “washing” had even been hung on backyard clotheslines!

  The illusion was so good from on top, Bulk had cautioned, sometimes Douglas pilots had difficulty finding the runway. I looked for the white markers that had recently been painted on the hills as identifiers. Spotting them, I carefully noted their location for my return.

  ***

  Not long after passing over the Santa Monica residential area, I began viewing the concrete and stucco slabs that defined a more commercial area to the east. A few moments later, the terrain was less populated and more arid.

  I sat back. The engine’s even hum soothed me. It was always that way. A flight, short or long, always improved my outlook. Today, however, the transformation was slow in coming. Brody’s death and Frankie’s poor condition weighed heavy. Flying off to make arrangements for the production of a film on the WASP seemed trivial compared to the battle she was engaged in. I needed to find out who was responsible—they weren’t going to get away with it.

  I twisted my head from side to side to loosen the tightness in my neck. Miss C had referred me to the Operations Officer, Major Beacock, for help in orchestrating any filmmaking particulars with the base. We’d already done a good deal of the spade work on the telephone. And I’d reminded him that, in the small world department, we’d already met. Beacock had been part of the group in the small theater previewing the rushes of our WASP film yesterday.

  March Field was in sight. The base was laid out in a triangular shape. Hangars, two runways and the tower formed one leg of the triangle; its other two sides were tree-lined. Housing and other standard base facilities packed the triangle’s center.

  Camp Hahn was just across the highway from March. It was the artillery encampment where antiaircraft training took place and where Frankie’s target towing segment had been filmed. I swept the area, looking for the spot where I thought she’d gone down. The blackened patch. Evidence of the crash?

  Witnessing the site, merely being in the vicinity of Frankie’s crash, stirred my melancholy thoughts again and I felt more deeply connected to her than ever. I banked the Staggerwing and called the tower, eager to get on the ground and unravel the questions shrouding Frankie’s incident.

  Chapter Eight

  I asked the ground crewman who’d guided me in for directions to the headquarters building where I was scheduled to meet with Major Beacock. It was just down the flight line, near the tower, within walking distance. Moving at a fast clip, I passed men in uniform and observed mechanics in coveralls tinkering with a trio of A-24s parked on the concrete apron outside a vast maintenance hangar.

  I had the low-lying stucco headquarters building in sight when a throaty female voice behind me exclaimed, “Pucci Lewis!”

  I wheeled around. “Mad Max!”

  Max was a WAAC I’d gotten to know on my stopovers at Wright Field in Dayton, Ohio. Certified in airplane mechanics, she was a top specialist in engines.

  I reached out and clasped the grease-smudged hand she offered. “Hey, Max.”

  Although Max’s thick khaki coveralls were grease covered, she was blessed with the kind of figure that could make even the grimiest of coveralls look good. Somewhat snug in fit, they caused the neckline to gape. A dirty oil rag hung out of one pocket, while a wrench stuck out from another. A small tattoo of a spark plug was visible below the rolled up sleeve on the forearm of the right hand which I now released.

  Max was a blend of the bizarre and beautiful. With delicate features, Titian hair, and pale complexion, she was often mistaken for Irish. But she was Polish through and through, hailing from Hamtramck, an east-side Detroit suburb. Her real name was Maxine Koslowski, but the fellas she worked with at Wright had started calling her Mad Max because of the growling sound she made when stumped by a tough mechanical problem. Today, as always, a billed cap topped her buzzed-off hair.

  We compared our short hairdos then talked fast, exchanging stories of what we were doing at March. Max, it turned out, had been transferred in only recently.

  “How are they treating you?”

  “They’re getting used to me.” Her green eyes twinkled merrily. “There’s a war going on. They have to.”

  Only twenty-one, Max had earned a reputation as one of the finest mechanics at Wright. Her extraordinary skill was due, in part, to coming from a long line of mechanics in her family. She’d also had formal training through one of the government programs in high school.

  At Wright, the need for mechanics was desperate, and Max had been thrust into the thick of things. But because she had entered a male-dominated field, she faced plenty of resistance, and the men flat out assumed she’d quit. Months later, when she hadn’t—and after they’d witnessed her talent—she’d gotten more and more assignments, and more and more respect. Including mine.

  When I’d begun ferrying, the space limitations of fighter planes had presented a problem. Many night clubs and restaurants do not allow women in slacks, which meant trying to pack a dress or dancing shoes into a too-small flight bag already crammed with shirts, pants, and flight gear. On a stopover at Wright, I’d mentioned my dilemma to Max. Laughing, she’d grabbed a Phillips screwdriver and shown me how to access the ideal nooks and crannies for storing wardrobe “extras.” Amazing what you can fit into the ammunition box or under an inspection plate on a P-38’s wing.

  Max was working on a new plane being tested at the base. My eyes lit up when I realized she was talking about a prototype long-range bomber escort fighter.

  I quickly brought Max up to speed on my Hollywood assignment, b
riefing her on my involvement in the making of the WASP Victory Short and explaining that I was on my way to see Major Beacock to discuss the logistics for the film shoot of the ferrying segment.

  “Max, I need a really hot plane for the shoot,” I finished up.

  She shoved the brim of her cap. “Hmm. Get your drift. You want folks sitting up in their seats thinking: Wow, a gal’s flying that?”

  “Precisely. It’d be the sort of coup that would distinguish the director—and his film—from the pack. Novara doesn’t deserve the boost, but if I offer him this he’ll more likely hear me out about the ideas I have for revamping his picture to meet Miss C’s standards.”

  Max thought a moment. “Go ahead, run the idea by Beacock. But it’s iffy the brass will approve it. The P-51 Mustang’s their latest, greatest, and most expensive toy.” A smile played on her lips. “No matter what, come by after your meeting. She’s definitely worth a look-see.”

  Max asked about Frankie. Her fine features skewed into a worried expression as I described my hospital visit. Max hardly knew Frankie, but as a mechanic assigned to the crash investigation team, she’d inspected the wreckage.

  “Pucci, when you see tangled metal close-up like that…never fails, it always hits hard. Like a blow to the gut. I can feel the pilot’s terror trapped in a powerless free fall. Sometimes when I crawl inside, I can even hear the sounds of the metal grinding, ripping, twisting—like it was nothing more than pretzel dough.” Max shook her head to erase the awful thought.

  “When I first saw that A-24, I couldn’t believe Frankie survived. Thought about her a lot while I combed the mess. Wondered about her mental state…what she’d be like when—if—she recovers physically…”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then I said, “Novara plans on including a clip of the crash in our film. For ‘dramatic impact.’ Can you imagine?” My voice reflected my disdain.