‘We oughta go. We’re losing light. But what do I care? It’s your picture, buddy.’
Willard scowled again. The cameraman was right. This was his movie. He was actor, writer, director, producer, financier – and right now there was a decision to be made. He thought of the stunt he was about to pull and felt another bout of nausea rise towards his throat.
‘OK, OK,’ he commented, ‘only Jesus Christ!’
‘Jesus Christ is about right, darling,’ said Daphne O’Hara, taking a cigarette from the cameraman’s mouth and smoking it down to the butt. O’Hara (or Brunhilde Schulz, to give her the name she was born with) was dressed in a silver evening gown, with enough paste diamonds to bury a duchess. The wind was wrapping her dress hard against her legs and her carefully set hair was beginning to unravel.
‘The light,’ said the cameraman.
‘Forget the light. It’s my hair, sweetheart.’
‘Oh for God’s sake! Let’s do it.’
Willard felt angry and out of control. The cast and crew were on their thirteenth week of filming their feature, Heaven’s Beloved. They already had enough film in the can to make a six-hour movie. But Willard was a realist. He’d seen the rushes. And they were bad. Badly done, badly shot, and dull. Deadly dull. The script had been hastily revised. Stunts had been shoved in in a desperate effort to lift the story. Willard had grown to loathe any mention of the budget.
And now this. The Gallaudet stood in one corner of the roof, with the wind on its nose. They’d selected the plane for its low take-off speed, but even so, Willard guessed, they wouldn’t be fully airborne by the time they reached the edge. Would he have enough lift and forward speed to keep his tail clear as he left the roof? He didn’t know. If the tail caught, would it hook him downwards, or just give him a fright? He didn’t know, but felt sick thinking about it. In the past, he’d preferred to hand the tough stunts over to professional stuntmen, but his last two stuntmen had quit on him after rows over money. In any case, it was only flying wasn’t it?
‘OK. Ready?’
The camera crew positioned themselves. The production guys fussed over the Gallaudet. Then Willard and O’Hara burst from the steel doorway onto the roof. Willard pointed dramatically at the Gallaudet, then the two actors raced across to it.
O’Hara struck a pose by the rear cockpit, which meant, ‘No! Surely not!’ Willard stuck out his chin and looked darkly resolute. ‘But we have to!’ Willard stepped behind O’Hara to help her in. ‘Keep your hand away from my fucking ass,’ she said.
The two actors clambered inside. It was the sort of move which Willard found difficult. He hated the idea of looking bad on camera but could never quite get the hang of making an ungainly move, such as swinging his leg over the cockpit rim, in a way that made him look good. He tutted with annoyance and said, ‘Again!’
They got out and in again. Willard’s second attempt was worse than his first, and what’s more he grazed his hand in the process. Willard wanted to do it over, but was aware of O’Hara behind him, smoking like a steam train and swearing darkly in her native German.
‘That’ll do,’ he said, annoyed.
The camera crew took a few shots of them in the cockpit. The wind rose. Willard knew he ought to cancel the shot and wait until conditions were better. But O’Hara was being wooed by United Artists – Douglas Fairbanks himself had lunched with her – and Willard knew it was only a matter of time before she quit. There was another, stronger flutter of wind. Ten knots gusting to twelve or thirteen. Wind was good because what mattered in take-off was wind speed, not ground speed. But too much wind was bad, because of the risk of the airplane being blown straight back into the side of the building. Willard’s sickness came back, stronger.
The lead production guy said mildly, ‘Thornton, I think…’
‘Yes. Get her started. Jesus Christ!’
The production crew swung the propeller. The engine roared into life. The propeller flashed into a blur. The cameramen positioned themselves. O’Hara stopped smoking and swearing, and flashed a dazzling smile at the cameras. Beneath the wheels, Willard could feel the wooden chocks being pulled away. The graze on his hand was red and angry. He hoped it wouldn’t show on film.
He jammed the throttle forward. The pitch of the engine rose into a full roar. The little plane began to roll forwards. The edge of the building rushed towards them. The Gallaudet’s wheels reached the edge. Her tail was lifted, but the main gear was nowhere close to being airborne. She plunged sickeningly over the edge and was lost from sight.
3
The wall at the end of the barn wasn’t solid, but built of vertical wooden slats to allow the entrance of light and air. The golden evening sunshine poured in and lay in bars across the floor. In the middle, amidst a debris of straw and spilled grain, the airplane sat. It looked oddly at home, like an obsolete piece of agricultural equipment or perhaps an exotic animal lying down to rest. It was a peaceful scene, but somehow sad. The plane looked like it had been shut away to die.
For the first time since his unconventional arrival, Captain Abraham ‘Abe’ Rockwell had a moment alone with his plane. He walked slowly round the battered craft. The hull was badly scraped and there were patches where the plywood had been smashed away completely. Aside from that, there was damage to one of the propeller blades, damage to the lower left wingtip, and the utter destruction of the plane’s undercarriage.
But Abe’s manner wasn’t simply the manner of an equipment-owner attempting to quantify the damage. He didn’t just feel the plane, he stroked it. He ran his hand down the leather edging of the cockpit and brushed away some cobwebs that were already being built. When he got to the nose of the aircraft, he pulled his sleeve over his hand and cleaned up the lettering that read, ‘Sweet Kentucky Poll’. Dissatisfied, he went to the engine, fiddled with a fuel-pipe, pulled it free and dribbled a little fuel onto a rag. Then he set the pipe back in place and scrubbed at the name with the gasoline-soaked cloth. This time, he got the name as bright as he wanted and he straightened.
Straightened and stopped. He turned and spoke directly into the heap of straw that filled the opposite end of the barn.
‘It’s rude to stare.’
Seeing that the straw made no answer, Abe picked up an axe handle from the floor and tossed it onto the top of the heap.
‘Ow!’
The straw wriggled and a red head emerged.
‘I said it’s rude.’
‘Sorry, sir. I…’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
Abe waited a short moment, then shrugged. ‘If it’s nothing, then you won’t mind leaving.’
‘No, sir.’
The red head attached itself to a skinny kid, who slid down the straw pile and landed with a soft thwack. ‘Sorry, sir.’ The kid, whom Abe recognised as the autograph-hunter from earlier, glanced across into a corner of the barn, then brushed himself off, ready to leave. Abe followed his glance. There was a bucket of warm water there, soapy and still steaming, a bath sponge floating on the surface.
‘Wait.’
The kid stopped.
‘You came to clean her?’
The kid nodded. ‘Doesn’t matter, sir. I can do it later. Sorry.’
Abe shook his head. The gesture meant: Don’t leave yet.
‘D’you have a name?’
‘Lundmark, sir.’
‘Your ma and pa think of giving you a first name to go along with that?’
‘Yes, sir. Bradley. Brad.’
‘Mind if I use it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘OK, Brad, now I’m not over-fond of this “sir” business. I’m not in the army now and I don’t want to be. If you want to call me something, I’m happy with just plain Abe. If that’s too much for you, you can call me Captain. Understand?’
‘Yes. Yes, Captain.’
‘Good.’
There was a pause. The slatted evening light was moving round, bringing new parts of the airplane in
to view and hiding others. Abe found a cobweb he’d missed before and brushed it away absent-mindedly.
‘We’ll start at the nose.’
Abe brought the bucket over to the plane and the two of them began to wash her, nose to tail, removing the dust and the flaking paint and the burned-on oil and the scatter of straw-dust and insects. For about fifty minutes they worked mostly in silence, changing the cleaning water from a pump in the yard outside. Then, as the light began to fade, Abe threw down his sponge.
‘Hell,’ he said. ‘That’s not too bad. For a moment back there, I thought the landing was gonna turn out rough.’
Still clutching his sponge, the kid turned to Abe. ‘You’ve smashed up worse ‘n that?’
‘Yeah, plenty worse.’
The kid’s eyes, which had been large before, grew moon-shaped and moon-sized. Abe, irritated with himself, added sharply: ‘Anyone who flies enough will have a few bad smashes. Most machines fold up pretty easy. The accidents mostly look worse than they are.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Captain.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘You ever been up in a plane?’
Brad Lundmark shook his head, the way he might have shaken it if the Archangel Gabriel had asked if he was acquainted with Paradise.
‘If you got some time to help me out here over the next week or two, I’ll give you a ride. What d’you say?’
‘Oh, yes! Sure thing, Captain! Gee! I promise I’ll –’
‘Hey, hey, it’s OK. It’s only a plane ride. If I’ve got any cash left after we’ve fixed her up, I’ll give you a couple of bucks a day as well, but no promises.’
Abe rummaged in the rear cockpit and brought out a fur-lined sleeping roll which he threw out under the wing. Lundmark looked shocked.
‘Captain, there’s a boarding house just down the block. You can’t –’
Abe pulled his shirt off, took the sponge and the bucket of water, and scrubbed himself hard all over. He sluiced water through his close-cropped grey-blond hair, until it stuck up in spikes, and rubbed hard at the back of his neck, where there had been a line of sweat and grime.
‘That’s better.’
Abe fiddled in his luggage for a spare shirt, which he pulled on. Lundmark noticed that the cuffs and collar were old and worn.
‘Brad?’
‘Yes, Captain?’
‘I gotta have food. Poll here’s gotta have fuel. She’s got some pretty bad hospital bills coming up. One thing I can’t afford to spend money on is a bed.’
Lundmark shook his head. ‘That ain’t right. If you explained who y’are to Mr Houghton at the hotel, why I’m sure he’d –’
‘He’d tell me to pay for my bed just like anyone else. Brad, I’m gonna lie under the wing of my airplane. Can you think of a better place for a guy to sleep?’
Lundmark shook his head.
‘No, Captain. Say –’
But what he was about to say, Abe would never know. There was a minor commotion in the yard outside. Somewhere a small dog barked angrily. Then four men appeared in the barn door against the violet air. They were dressed in dark suits and ties, which they wore with Sunday stiffness. One of the men – six feet plus, mid-fifties, lean, intelligence in his face, moustache – spoke.
‘Good evening to you, Captain Rockwell. My name’s Gibson Hennessey, owner of the General Store down there. On behalf of the town, I’d like to apologise for being so neglectful earlier. I want to assure you that we didn’t mean no disrespect. It wasn’t ’til the kid here informed us who you were, that we realised we had a hero of the United States in our midst.’
Abe’s blue eyes gave nothing away, but his mouth possibly hardened a little before he answered. ‘I didn’t feel no disrespect, Mr Hennessey. I didn’t exactly let you know I was coming.’
‘No, indeed.’
‘And I’m plenty happy with the barn here.’
The second of the men laid his hand across his chest. He was a plump man, fat and buttery. “Low me to introduce myself. Ted Houghton’s my name, proprietor of the Independence Hotel and Bar, only these days I ain’t got a bar. I’d be only too honoured, if you’d accept my hospitality for the duration of your stay.’
‘Right, and any assistance we can give in getting your airplane all fixed up, you just ask.’
The two sides fought gently for a minute or two. Abe wanted no fuss. He just wanted to fix up his plane and move on. But there was no escape. Surrounded by the four dignitaries, Abe was escorted back to the centre of town, feeling like a prisoner on his way to the jailhouse.
‘The folks here wanted to show their appreciation…’ murmured Hennessey, as a crowd of two hundred people stood and cheered Abe’s arrival. A collection of schoolkids performed a rendition of the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’. A man, whose name Abe didn’t catch, made a truly dismal speech of welcome. Abe was expected to reply at length, but he just stood on the hotel steps and said, ‘I’m mighty grateful to you all. Thank you.’
There was another round of applause. Half the schoolkids thought an encore of the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ was in order, but luckily the effort sputtered quickly out. Abe was bundled into the hotel where he was the guest of honour at a five-course dinner, ending with a vast sponge cake in the very approximate shape of an airplane.
By eleven o’clock, Abe had finally escaped to his room.
He rooted around in his bags for a tattered pack of Pall Mall cigarettes, then stretched out on his bed and lit up. With the oil lamp set low, he lay on his back and breathed smoke at the ceiling. His face was tired and he looked ready to sleep.
For ten minutes, he lay and smoked. Then a couple of circular marks on the wall high up behind the wardrobe caught his eye. Swinging his feet lightly to the floor, he took a chair over to the wardrobe and examined them.
The marks were gouged right through the plaster through to the room next door. The top of the wardrobe still had a little white dust beneath the marks, indicating either that the hotel didn’t dust very often or that the marks were relatively recent.
Captain Abe Rockwell had earned his rank as a pursuit pilot in the United States Army. Before the war, he’d been an auto mechanic, then a racing driver. When war had broken out, he’d decided to switch trades. He’d thrown in his job racing cars. He’d wangled his way out to France as a mechanic attached to one of America’s newly formed flying squadrons. He’d fixed planes by day, and by evening more or less taught himself to fly. Despite being over-age and lacking either a commission or a college education, he nevertheless persuaded the authorities to give him a chance in the cockpit. He’d repaid their faith. His first victory over a German machine had come within two weeks. Another three months had seen his fifth victory – and his official recognition as one of America’s few fighter-aces. By the end of the war, he’d been promoted to captain, had command of a squadron, and had had nineteen victories officially confirmed. Of the American pilots to have survived the war, only Ed Rickenbacker had shot down more enemy planes.
Abe was a military man who’d seen plenty of combat, plenty of action. He knew what bullet holes looked like, and these were bullet holes.
4
Willard didn’t get headaches. He didn’t get them from heat. He didn’t get them from noise. He didn’t even get them after a jugful of martinis, when everybody else was looking as white and fragile as a porcelain teacup. But he had one now.
He stepped inside. The shades were down and the interior was cool and dim. Reflections from the pool outside trembled on the ceiling. Willard closed the door, and the voices grew small and distant. He had been holding a letter in his hand, which he let drop on the carpeted floor. The letter was from his accountant. A stunt plane they’d used but hadn’t insured had just smashed up. Another eighteen thousand bucks had slid uselessly down the pan.
He sank into a deep chair and sat slumped, hardly moving.
Willard felt lousy, when all the time he knew he should be happy. After all, he was a luck
y man, born into a lucky family.
His great-grandfather had begun it all, manufacturing handguns and rifles for sale to the country’s wild frontier. The business had prospered. The Civil War had turned Thornton Ordnance into one of the country’s biggest profit-makers, one with international reach. The nineteenth century had been a good one for wars and the firm had benefited from every one. When the Great War had broken out in Europe in 1914, Thornton Ordnance entered its most profitable phase. Junius Thornton – Willard’s father – made money hand over fist. On America’s entry into the war, profits had doubled, then doubled again.
But it wasn’t just Willard’s family which had been touched with magic. He had been too. Willard had been a student at Princeton when Germany, in a fit of lunacy, began unrestricted submarine warfare against American shipping, thus propelling America into the war. Willard’s studies hadn’t exactly been going badly, but they certainly hadn’t been going well. Willard happened to meet a British pilot and saw the way the man had used his war stories to pull any girl he wanted.
And so, one sunny autumn’s day and with almost no prior consideration, Willard had taken the plunge. He’d joined up. He sought a pilot’s commission and got it. Within three months of that sunny October day, he was in France, a lieutenant in the US Army Flying Corps.
He hadn’t been there a week before he regretted it.
On his first flight over enemy lines, he was almost killed. On his second flight, he returned with bullet holes plugging his upper starboard wing and the tail mounting. Within three weeks, Willard could count four lucky escapes – and not one time when he’d even got a shot away at the enemy.
That had to change and it did.
By a fluke, Willard was transferred to the Ninety-First Squadron, under the command of Captain Abraham ‘Abe’ Rockwell.
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