Winds of Change

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Arkansas, the Ozarks.” He studied the short, chunky man carefully and said, “I’d better tell somebody. I don’t know anything. I’ve never even been up in a plane like this.”

  Moon Wilson grinned. “Good, you’ve come to the right place! You see the name of this plane?”

  “The Last Chance.”

  “That’s right! I think they throw everybody here that can’t cut it into this plane. It’s the last chance to make it. Come on. I hope you don’t shoot our tail off!”

  Clint followed the stocky bombardier, for that was his position on the crew, back to one of the hangars. “There, we’ll get you geared up,” Moon said, pulling out another Moon Pie and crunching it. He helped Clint get into the flying suit, which was heated, Clint was interested to see, complete with a wire and plug. When this was on, he wrapped a thick towel around his neck, directed so by Moon, and afterward slipped into a fleece-lined flight suit.

  “You better put on some of these silk gloves,” Wilson said. After Clint had pulled the white gloves on, he pulled over them a pair of leather ones, then Moon said, “Come on; you can carry some of this ammunition on.”

  Soon, draped with live ammunition, Clint helped load the airplane.

  “This is the tail gunner, Asa Peabody,” Moon said, nodding toward a tow-headed sergeant with blue eyes.

  “Howdy!” Asa Peabody said. “You might as well hear where I’m from now, ’cause everybody thinks it’s funny.” He looked aggressively at Clint and said, “I’m from Bucksnort, Tennessee.”

  Clint grinned at him, “Well, we’re both hillbillies then. I’m from so far back in the Ozarks you wouldn’t believe it!”

  Peabody found this amusing and grinned. Then his face turned rather fearful. “It will be a no good flight. I heard a dog howl this morning!”

  Moon Wilson slapped his thigh with impatience. “You heard a dog howl, so we’re not going to have a good flight! You’re the most superstitious human being I ever heard of!”

  But the tail gunner shook his head stubbornly. “You’ll find out. I ain’t never heard a dog howl that something bad didn’t happen!”

  “Come on, don’t listen to him. Every time somebody spills salt, he wants to go back to the States. Thinks we’re going to get shot down!” Moon said. He introduced Clint to the waist gunner, a tall, thin Italian named Manny Columbo, from New York, then moved down to a smaller man, very trim, who was standing over the entrance to the ball turret. “This is Beans Cunningham,” he said. “He’s a ladies’ man. If you got a girlfriend, don’t let him get close to her.”

  “Can’t help it,” Beans said. “They just naturally find me attractive!” He had brown hair and brown eyes. He stood looking down at the turret. “Guess you’re too big to fit in here. Wish I was!”

  Cisco Marischal, a former bullfighter, was the navigator and nose gunner. He looked like a dandy in his flight uniform.

  The last member of the crew was another waist gunner and the radio operator, Red Frazier. He came from Seattle and had flaming red hair and a pale face. His nose had been badly broken at some point, and Moon Wilson said, “Watch out for Red; he’s a fighter!”

  “A boxer?” Clint asked with interest.

  “Yep, I was a contender for the middleweight championship before I got this job.” Frazier shrugged. “When I get out of here, I’ll be back at it.”

  Moon Wilson led Clint forward to his position in the aircraft, the upper turret. He said, “Did you ever shoot one of these things?”

  “Just once.”

  Wilson laughed and slapped his hands together. “Well, don’t shoot down any plane you see that has a star painted on the side. Look for a swastika.”

  “You think we’ll get shot at today?”

  “I hope not!”

  The planes took off and made themselves into a formation. Clint had never felt so helpless. He tried his best to appear nonchalant, but the pilot quickly found out that the young gunner had never even been in a B-17, much less had active training.

  “Just stay out of the way, Stuart!” Powell Stratton said. He looked over at the copilot and snarled, “Why do they send us these babies? We need good men!”

  Albert Simmons shrugged. “We all had to learn sometime, Powell. He’ll be all right.”

  The mission was strangely frightening and strangely exhilarating to Clint. They saw no enemy fighters that day, and only once did black flowers seem to explode close to the airplane from the antiaircraft guns below. They flew for three hours, and when the bombs were dropped the airplane suddenly surged upward, frightening Clint for a moment. He thought they had been hit. When he realized what had happened, he turned and made his way back down through the airplane, studying the men. I’ve got to become a part of them, he thought. And I’m so stupid, I don’t know the first thing about anything!

  Moon Wilson had come back from his position in the nose and saw that Clint was looking forlorn. “Here, have a Moon Pie,” he offered, pulling one in rather poor condition from his flight-jacket pocket.

  “Thanks, I don’t think eating cookies is going to make me a good engineer or a gunner, either.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Wilson grinned. He seemed happy enough as they turned and headed back toward the home base. “Everybody is so incompetent here, you’ll fit right in!”

  It seemed a strange thing to Clint that Wilson could accept being in such a poor crew. He was to discover later that everybody on the aircraft felt pretty much the same way. As the new man, he had high hopes and aspirations, but from the two pilots through the rest of the crew, there was a lackadaisical spirit about them.

  Beans Cunningham talked to him about it after they had landed and he was showing Clint to the barracks. “Don’t worry about it; we’re at the bottom of the list. Everybody knows that the Last Chance is just what the name means. Unless they kick us out of the air force, we’ll keep on flying.”

  Asa Peabody, however, was close enough to hear. “No, we won’t,” he said. “We’re going to get shot down on the next mission.”

  “What makes you think that, Asa?” Beans asked calmly. He was accustomed to the tow-headed tail gunner’s gloomy predictions.

  “Well, Lieutenant Stratton walked under a ladder after we landed. Now, everybody knows—even uneducated fellas like you—that walkin’ under a ladder is bad luck.”

  Cunningham seemed depressed by the superstition of Asa Peabody. “Will you shut up!” he said. “I don’t want to hear any more about your blasted predictions!”

  After Beans left, Asa turned to Clint and said, “He’s just ignorant. He ain’t got no idea how dangerous it is to walk under a ladder.”

  Clint was rather amused. He had known many superstitious people back in the hills of the Ozarks and said with a grin, “Well, I know about ladders. I heard about a neighbor who walked under one, and a year later he got hit by a car and killed.”

  “Why, sure!” Asa Peabody said. “You see, that’s how it works.” A gloom settled over him and he shook his head. “Sure do wish that pilot hadn’t walked under that ladder.”

  As Clint accompanied Cunningham into the barracks, he was thinking, It looks like it’s going to take a little getting used to being with a crew like this!

  “TELL ME ABOUT MY FATHER”

  As the tall, slender man holding a dagger in his right hand advanced, Adam backed away slowly. His eyes narrowed as he gripped the knife in his own right hand, moving lightly on his feet. The slender man had a dark olive complexion, and a thin mustache spread over a mouth that twisted in a sneer. He, too, was light on his feet and very fast, and suddenly the blade shot forward, driving toward Adam’s chest. With a lightning-like reaction, Adam parried the glittering blade of his opponent’s knife, reached over, and grabbed the lapel of his coat. With a quick, twisting motion, he threw the man into the air over his shoulder. Instantly, as the man hit with a grunt and sprawled on the floor, Adam was at him. Straddling him, he grabbed the man’s right wrist and put his knife to
the man’s throat saying, “Do I have to kill you, Juan—or will you behave?”

  “Go on! Cut my throat; I don’t care if I die!”

  Adam held the knife in place for one moment. His lips were drawn thin, and his arm tensed before delivering the fatal blow. Suddenly a voice said, “Cut! That’s it!”

  Adam grinned down into the face of the man beneath his blade and said cheerfully, “Maybe I ought to cut your throat anyway! You’ve beaten me out of too much money at poker lately, Tony.” Then he rose and put out a hand.

  Tony Marello allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. He fingered his throat nervously and scowled. “That was a little bit too real, Adam! For a minute there I think you forgot we were just playing a scene.”

  A clutter of voices went up around the two men, and then Henry Vane came up, his fat body pulsing with life, and the eternal cigar trailing a cloud of blue smoke. Jamming the cigar in his mouth he slapped both men on the shoulders, having to reach up to do so, and exclaimed loudly, “That was the real article! You guys did great!”

  Tony shook his head. “I’m glad that’s the last fight scene. Adam, here, puts a little bit too much into these things.” He turned when a young woman came to whisper to him and left as she held on to his waist.

  Vane grinned at them. “Real romance going on there, but there always is with Tony.” He puffed at the cigar rapidly, then squeezed his eyes together as he thought for a moment. “We ought to wrap this thing up day after tomorrow. It’s been a good one, Adam. I told your folks so the other day. Not the quality kind of movie they make, but for a young fellow you made a good beginning.”

  Adam pulled a handkerchief out and wiped his brow. The brilliant lights overhead illuminating the set were still flooding the area with light. He found the words of the producer pleasant, indeed. The making of the movie had been fun for him. Although his part had not been large, it had called for considerable acrobatics, and when the director, Charles Smith, and Vane had discovered his ability in this line, they had added several more scenes.

  “I’ve got to thank you again, Mr. Vane,” Adam said, pushing the handkerchief back in his pocket. “I really needed work, and this has been fun. I’m still not much of an actor, though.”

  “Don’t you believe it, Kid. You’ve got it in your blood. Lylah’s kid couldn’t be anything but a great actor. Come on; I’ll buy you a drink.”

  The two men moved out of the set and made their way to Vane’s office. Vane poured them each a drink and then held his glass up for a toast. “Here’s to the next matinee idol of Tinsel Town,” he grinned.

  Adam tossed the drink back and nodded at the producer. “Well—maybe it won’t amount to that, but I’d like to try it again.”

  “Would you? That’s why I asked you to come up. I’ve got another picture coming up that won’t be starting for a month, but I’ve got a part in it for you—a bigger one than you had in this one, and I’d like to talk to you about it.”

  Instantly Adam nodded. “Sure, Mr. Vane.”

  “You got an agent?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, maybe you ought to get one if you think you can’t trust me. Even if you can trust me, I guess you need an agent.”

  “No, I don’t think so, not right now. Tell me about the picture,” Adam said eagerly.

  The two men sat for some time, Vane smoking constantly and waving his hands through the air, cutting enthusiastic signs. He was this way, Henry Vane—whatever project he had was the greatest in the world, and he had a way of convincing his hearers that they should be in on it. Finally he said, “You think it over; talk to your folks. Wouldn’t be surprised but what they’ll try to sign you up for their own pictures.”

  “I don’t know. They’re pretty fussy about their actors. Maybe they’ll let me move the scenery around or something.”

  “You’re better than that, Adam. I think you got a real future in this business.” Vane punctuated his words by jabbing the cigar toward Adam, then stuck it in his mouth and puffed on it. It glowed like a tiny, cherry-colored furnace at the tip, and when he removed it, he blew a perfect smoke ring. Finally he said more seriously, “Nobody knows what makes a star out here. You take some fellow who will be as handsome as a guy can get, with a perfect voice, and can remember his lines—but nobody will pay a nickel to see him act. Then somebody else comes wandering in, can’t even talk plain or walk right, but people go crazy over him. That cowboy, John Wayne, can’t act a lick—but he’s gonna be big. When he’s on the screen, you can’t watch anybody else. Maybe you got it, Adam; maybe not. Guess we’ll find out.”

  Adam left Vane’s office feeling as if he were walking on the clouds. His part had been minor, and he had been caught up in his affair with Tamara, but nagging in his mind had been the question, What’ll I do after this is over?

  He was moving down the street when one of the assistant writers on the picture saw him. His name was Ned Bonar, and he planted himself in front of Adam saying, “Hey, why don’t you come on down to the back set with me. It’s our favorites, Laurel and Hardy. They’re shooting today.”

  “You think we can go in?”

  “An important movie star like you and a big-shot writer like me?” Bonar grinned broadly. He was a thin, short man, almost a gnome, but with enormous vanity. “Come on,” he said. “If they give us any trouble, we’ll get Vane to back us up.”

  The two men marched down to the set, which was just around the corner, and were halted momentarily by a hulking guard whose ears looked like battered pancakes. He scowled at them, but Bonar said, “Come on now, this is Adam Stuart, Mr. Vane’s favorite nephew. You don’t want to make Mr. Vane mad, do you?”

  The guard hesitated momentarily, then shrugged. “OK, I guess you can go in.”

  “Come on, Adam,” Bonar said quickly. The two men slipped inside and made their way to the set where the lights flooded the stage that was set up as a room.

  “Looks like they’re up to their usual stuff,” Bonar whispered. “Look at that mess!”

  Under the blazing lights, a very fat man, with a tiny mustache that looked like a black caterpillar under his nose, was attempting to paper the room. His helper was a smaller man, thin, with a sad-looking rubbery face, who was doing little in the way of positive paper hanging.

  This, of course, was the famous team of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, the ultimate comedy team of the early movies. Adam had always enjoyed them and had seen many times over every movie they had made. He had never met them, and he watched as the two demolished the room and each other with falling ladders, wallpaper paste splashed in the face, falls on slippery floors, and all the time the big man utterly disgusted and the smaller one seeming not to understand the problem. Adam found himself breaking up, and Bonar whispered, “Shut up; they’ll make us leave!”

  “I can’t help it,” Adam said. “Why is it they’re so funny? They do the same thing over and over again.”

  “I guess if anybody knew the answer to that, there’d be another Laurel and Hardy team, but there’s not—probably never will be.”

  “You think we can meet them after the scene?”

  “Don’t see why not!”

  The two men waited until the scene was over, then Bonar led the way confidently. Going up to the big man he said, “Mr. Hardy, I hate to interrupt, but one of your greatest fans is here. This is Adam Stuart, the son of Lylah Stuart Hart over at Monarch Studio, so he may do you some good there.”

  Oliver Hardy was an enormous man. He had smallish eyes that twinkled pleasantly, and his mouth turned upward in a grin. He had wallpaper paste in his hair and all over his face, and he dabbed at his eyes and put out a hand awkwardly. “Pardon the paste,” he said. “Glad to know you, young man.”

  “I’ve admired all your pictures,” Adam said quickly. “Where do you get all your ideas?”

  Hardy shook his head, and shrugged his beefy shoulders. “You’ll have to talk to Stan about that. He’s really the thinking member of the team.
All I do is play golf.”

  Adam found that hard to believe, and when he turned to look at Stan Laurel, it was even more difficult. He was so accustomed to the goofy look on the actor’s face that he could not believe that the younger and smaller of the two was the brains of the team. “I’m glad to know you, Mr. Laurel,” he said. “I’ve seen every one of your pictures.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve seen the old ones,” Stanley Laurel said. There was a discontented look on his face and he said, “This one’s pretty much of a lemon.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it won’t be. Why, I broke up just watching you do this one scene,” Adam said. “You’ve given me so much pleasure, and so many others. I know you must be very happy about that.”

  Stan Laurel shrugged. “I wish we had never stopped making one-reelers,” he said. “We’re really vaudeville folks. These feature films, they don’t fit us—but it’s nice of you to say so.”

  The two left, and Bonar said, “You know, they’re just regular fellows, aren’t they? On the way down now, though; their glory days are over.”

  “I guess so, but they’ve certainly left something for the world,” Adam remarked. “Most people die and don’t leave anything except a marker in a cemetery. But a hundred years from now, when those fellows are in their graves, people will still be laughing at them trying to paper a room and making a mess out of it.”

  “Why do you think people like them so much?” Bonar inquired, scratching his head thoughtfully. “They can’t act, and they play fools in all their movies.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because we see ourselves in them,” Adam said thoughtfully. “Everything they set out to do, they’ve got a logical plan. Like papering that room—that was a simple thing, but when they got into it things began to go wrong, and by the time it was over, it was nothing but a mess. I guess,” he said slowly, “that’s the way most of us are.”