by Theasa Tuohy
Now that she’d said her piece to Mark, Jenny decided she must try to be more civil. She had been flown to New York as his guest, but she should have known better—no such thing as a free ride. He was an old friend, she a houseguest of his family, and he’d even lent her some of his teenage son’s clothing for her stunt. But Mark had recently invested heavily in the corporation that merged Curtiss Field and its hangars and flying school with Roosevelt Field. Always on the lookout for ways to tout his products, he’d sent a company plane and pilot to pick her up from Oklahoma City. She should have known better.
“Mark, I like that Curtiss agreed to drop its name and keep Roosevelt,” Jenny said, trying to keep her tone level and light. If he could solve the Department of Commerce problem, it wasn’t smart to keep being snippy. She scanned the facilities along the north and west sides of the field that created a right-angled flight line, where planes parked and were serviced. “That was nice.”
“No one wants to dishonor the memory of a dead war hero. Especially a president’s son,” Mark replied. “You’re too young to remember, but Quentin was Peck’s bad boy in the White House. He was only three when his father’s term began, and the public loved the kid’s antics. He threw spitballs at Andrew Jackson’s portrait, took a pony into a White House elevator, and walked on stilts in its garden.”
“And was shot down by a German Fokker.” Jenny’s face clouded.
“Yes.”
“Ninety-fifth Aero Squadron,” she said cryptically.
“How do you know that?” Mark asked.
“Just do.”
Mark had flown her to New York in a closed-cabin Robin, a spiffy little blue-and-white monoplane, with two wicker passenger seats behind the pilot. It was that plane he’d first suggested for her bridge stunt, but she thwarted his hope of her showing off his new model by insisting on borrowing, instead, an old Curtiss JN-4, like her own at home.
“I don’t see any thrill in flying in a cabin,” she’d told him. “Might as well be on the train if you can’t feel the wind on your face.”
“But you said you loved the trip here in the Robin.”
“Oh sure,” she’d replied. “Sitting back and being chauffeured halfway across the country. Who wouldn’t love that? I leave the long-distance stunts to people like Frank Hawks. He’s a swell guy, you know that, but I don’t care about setting records. I’m only in it for the fun.”
Having fun was Jenny’s signature mode. Her dignified and very conventional parents, who were horrified by her unladylike interest in flying, called her headstrong. Others called her cocky. But perhaps what distinguished Jenny most from the convention-defying flappers of an earlier era was her own secure sense in the rightness of her thinking. She shared her parents’ core values of refined propriety, and was more than happy to impose those restrictions on others. Nonetheless, she had overlaid such constraints with the notion that she could do as she pleased as long as she defined it as having fun. “Oh, Mother,” she often said, “don’t be a spoilsport. It’s perfectly acceptable to wear pants in the car when I’m only on my way to the airport.”
Waiting now for Hawks to land, Mark again broached the subject of the new Robin as they stood in the field not far from the Curtiss hangar.
“Walter Beech has several Travel Airs in that upcoming women’s race,” he said. “So far, Curtiss has only one Robin entered, the pilot is barely out of flight school. You’re ten times better than she is, Jenny. You would be perfect.”
“Don’t start that again!”
“This cross-country race is huge. A first for women. Great for the industry and great for you gals.” With the noise of planes taking off and landing, Mark leaned in closer. “My company would be the ideal sponsor for you. You’re an instinctive pilot. Your looks, the Robin’s pizzazz—a winning combination. We’ll paint it whatever color you want. Look at how the press went crazy over your bridge thing. If you don’t want the race, then you could do selling, plane demonstrations, whatever you want.”
Jenny waved her hand in dismissal. “Get Amelia. She’s into promotion. Besides, I decided yesterday that’s the end of my stunts. No more. I’m not looking for notoriety or a job.”
“How about a hot dog or ice cream,” Mark offered. Roosevelt Field was laid out almost like a baseball diamond. With runways forming its outline, there were hangars, manufacturers, and flying-service offices where the bleachers and stands would be. Sitting in the middle of the infield was a hot dog shed advertising its wares, including ice cream. A huge sign painted in red on its white clapboard sides read, FLY $5.
Jenny laughed. “I can’t be bought, Mark, but I can be appeased.”
Mark trotted over to the spot in the middle where spectators, often with their cars, clustered for better views of whatever the daredevils might be trying next. It was jammed right now with those awaiting Hawks’s arrival.
“Look at that outlandish garb,” Jenny said, as Mark returned, pointing at a woman on the Curtiss apron preparing to climb into an open-cockpit biplane. She was wearing heavy clothing with a mask and plastic tubing hanging around her neck. “What’s she up to?”
“Don’t know,” Mark replied. “I’ve heard talk someone was planning to challenge your friend Louise Thaden’s altitude record. But Jenny, let’s not get off the main subject here. You need to be thinking about turning this into a career. Curtiss could really use you. We’re just beginning to let the American public know about the importance of flying, and we need people with your talent and good looks to promote what is—not to sound melodramatic—the future!”
A number of spectators had begun moving away from the area where Hawks was expected to land and were watching the woman. Word was circulating that she, indeed, was going for a record.
“These endurance flights are so boring,” Jenny said. “Whether it’s altitude or seeing how long you can stay in the air. First one circles overhead for fifteen hours, then someone else does it for twenty. Now twenty-six hours is the record to beat. Why do they waste their energy?”
She was eating a hot dog and trying to adjust her footing in the open field, even though she’d taken the precaution of wearing low-heeled shoes. “I wish I had my jodhpur boots,” she said. “But how silly would that look with a dress?”
Mark chuckled. “You women fliers are such a different breed. I hate to sound so evangelical, but we’ve got to keep aviation in the public eye to get facilities built, make advancements. And everyone finds it thrilling that even women are doing it.”
“Ah, Mark, you’re the salesman. Not me.” Jenny glanced around for a moment at the gawking crowd, assuming this was the “public” to which Mark referred. but quickly decided she saw nothing of interest. So she turned her attention back to the flight line. “Lordy,” she said, indicating the woman flier by waving her hot dog in Mark’s direction and pointing with her chin. “She’s wearing fur-lined clothes in this heat.”
“It’ll be pretty cold up there,” he said, “even if she makes it to only twenty thousand feet. Probably twenty below zero. But that thing dangling around her neck looks like an ether mask for a surgery patient.”
“Isn’t it about time for Frank to arrive?” Jenny asked impatiently. “What he’s doing makes sense, it’s worthwhile. He’s getting from one place to another. By pushing the limits, he’s proving what a flier can do. Gaining information for designing better planes.”
“The same thing can be said for those setting endurance records,” Mark countered.
Frank Hawks and Roscoe Turner had been jockeying back and forth for months setting new transcontinental speed records, first one then the other. Both were veterans of the Great War, and had since become well-known stunt and test pilots. Hawks had the distinction of having given Amelia Earhart her first airplane ride, charging her ten dollars in 1920 at a state fair in California. Earhart, billed as Lady Lindy and the first woman to fly the Atlantic, had been a passenger on the trip from Nova Scotia to South Wales in June 1928. She had immediately publ
ished a book titled 20 Hrs., 40 Min. and become the aviation editor of Cosmopolitan magazine. Turner, a giant of a man with a waxed mustache, was an accomplished pilot who could easily be taken for a buffoon. When his old uniform had worn out, he fashioned a military-type costume of blue tweed that he wore with a cross-the-shoulder Sam Browne belt and high leather boots. He often flew with his pet lion, Gilmore.
“Frank’s a friend,” Jenny said.“I hope he sets a record Roscoe can’t beat. From what I hear, Roscoe’s okay and he’s a brilliant flier, but lordy, he’s such a showoff, it’s embarrassing. I don’t like the idea of fliers being viewed as circus clowns.”
“I’d be happy to have either one flying for Curtiss,” Mark said.
“Look over there,” Jenny said, excitement tinged with disgust in her voice. “The flight crew is putting a tank in that woman’s cockpit. Must be oxygen. The poor thing is going to need pliers to turn that valve on and off. That’s just what Louise did back in December when she set the record.”
A collective murmur of excitement was coming from the crowd as they surged en masse across the field, away from the hangar where Frank Hawks was expected and toward the woman pilot and her plane. Mark took Jenny’s arm, steadying her as they were pushed forward in the wave. Ground attendants were attempting to hold people back from rushing the flight line. To add to the melee, a small Waco biplane touched down and was taxiing between the woman and the swirling mob. It nearly clipped a young man in a plaid cap who was trying to hurry across the runway. Gawkers could be bigger hazards to pilots than bad weather or faltering engines. They often rushed into the path of planes taking off or landing. Parked planes had their ribs cracked, their linen torn, and occasionally were even knocked over by swarms of people.
The woman pilot waved, climbed up on the wing flapping her fur-lined leather jacket trying to create a little breeze to cool herself off in the sticky heat, her plastic mask dangling from a cord around her neck. As she hoisted herself into the cockpit, her left leg momentarily hung over the side, revealing fur sticking out of the top of her high leather boots.
“Louise told me her instruments indicated she made it to twenty-nine thousand feet, but the official barograph in her plane only registered a little over twenty,” Jenny told Mark. “I wish this woman luck whoever she is, but these endurance records are silly. And you have people butting into your life, reporters asking about your clothes. Ridiculous. It’s unseemly.”
“Jenny, you’re flying for the thrill. Why can’t you see that people flock to these exploits because it enhances their lives?” She rolled her eyes. Here comes another pitch, she thought. Mark’s voice swelled in her mind as though there were a drumroll behind it. “Where else are they going to find thrills? Not sitting at home clustered around a radio listening to a dance band, or a sermon by some evangelist like Billy Sunday.”
Jenny had heard all this before from the aviation missionaries. Her instructor, Roy, was one of the worst. But she just wanted to do what she wanted to do. Yet she was tempted by some of Mark’s proposals. Make a little money to just fly around from time to time in that cute little Robin. Although its closed cabin wasn’t very appealing. Maybe she could cut a deal to earn a little spare money flying her own Jenny. After all, it was a Curtiss product, even if an antique. She didn’t know what was involved with all this. But it was a bit tempting to be able to at least pay for her fuel and flying lessons. She couldn’t care less about promoting flying, setting records, or proving that she could fly a plane as well as any man. Things were advancing fast and fine of their own accord. Barnstormers and daredevils were continually breaking and setting records. Lindbergh and some businessmen had established Transcontinental Air Travel, a network of airports purposely situated near train stations, so passengers could cross the country by flight during the day, then take a train overnight. They charged $350 for the coast-to-coast trip, which took forty-eight hours. The line flew Ford Trimotor planes with TAT emblazoned on their sides and carried eight or nine passengers, plus a crew of three, including a steward. TAT planes were made of metal, which was very unusual, as most were still made of linen and balsa wood.
Jenny gave Mark her brightest smile. “You’re a good friend, Mark. I appreciate the confidence you have in me. But yesterday’s mad house was enough.” She pointed in the direction of the Curtiss hangar. “I’ll leave it to these other ladies to set the records and grab the headlines and get pawed over by the public.”
“I don’t care what you say,” Mark replied. “I’m going to fill out an application for you and the Robin to enter the derby.”
Jenny shook her head. “You’re a super salesman, but this one won’t take.”
The pilot revved her engine and began taxiing down the field. There was a collective oomph from the crowd as thousands moved in unison, trying to help the vibrating little plane lift off.
“There she goes!” Jenny yelled, as her own small frame unconsciously straightened and lifted, choreographing the plane’s rise.
The pilot made a nearly vertical climb into the cloudless sky and soon was no more than a speck of lint to those watching from the arid field. Two other planes were then spotted, both coming in from the west. Could one of them be Frank Hawks? Members of the milling crowd moved one way, then another, murmuring suggestions to each other about how to best position themselves for a good view.
Jenny and Mark, like everyone else, were doing their best to plane spot. “That closer one has double wings,” Jenny finally said. “That can’t be Frank.”
The first plane landed, and as it taxied toward the Fairchild hangar, it was swarmed by much of the crowd. Those who had hung back for the landing of the second, an open-cockpit monoplane with Texaco emblazoned on its tail fin, watched in horror and fascination as it touched down and almost immediately went into a slow skid, eventually hitting a low-lying wooden fence at the field’s edge. Jenny, running toward the plane with the rest of the crowd, saw with relief that it was upright and appeared to have suffered little damage. Frank Hawks stood up from the cockpit and, to a chorus of cheers, began to climb out. When the crowd reached him, he had fallen asleep on his feet, his head resting on the fuselage against the white lettering that read, The Texas Company. Other than exhaustion, he was unharmed. With his Los Angeles–to–New York round-trip, he had been on the road, so to speak, for forty-two hours and forty-eight minutes, with a six-hour layover in LA.
Frank Hawks had set a cross-country record of seventeen hours and forty-eight minutes in his souped-up Lockheed. It had an aluminum-alloy cowling that covered the engine for reduced drag, and a full array of gauges, panel instruments, and a radio. The latter wasn’t a lot of help since there was no control tower at Roosevelt. But progress was being made to bring some system of order to air traffic. In St. Louis, the airport hired a stunt pilot named Archie League to stand on the field and direct pilots with a red flag to “hold” and a checkered flag to “go.”
Jenny had just reached Frank and was trying to lend him support when she looked up and exclaimed, “Oh, good heavens.”
“I’m okay,” Frank mumbled.
“No,” Jenny said, stiffening. “It’s the oxygen lady, spinning out of control.”
By this time, crowds were swarming Frank’s plane. A ground crew had arrived and was trying to hold the spectators off, and lift his plane from the fence to shove or carry it toward the hangar.
“Oxygen?” Frank asked, suddenly coming fully alert.
“Altitude endurance. She’s got on some kind of makeshift mask. She’s spiraling straight in. Probably passed out.”
Jenny watched, her right hand shading her eyes, her throat constricted, while the tiny object in the sky became bigger and bigger as it hurtled toward earth. For an instant, she could distinctly see the frightened face of her brother Charles at the controls. The good die young. He was twenty-one. Jenny was six. And poppies grow in Flanders fields.
A thundering explosion competed with the sounds of planes on other runways taking o
ff and landing, as a huge fireball erupted in the sky.
“These damned inexperienced kids,” Frank growled, an anguished expression on his dirt-caked, sunburned face. He ripped off his leather helmet and flung it to the ground.
“Oh my God!” Jenny gasped. “I’m going back home.”
“Jenny!” Mark yelled over the screams of the crowd and the clang of fire engines. “You can’t do that!”
“Who says I can’t!”
CHAPTER SIX
THE CITY ROOM
“Damnation!” Laura yelped two weeks later. “My story got bumped off Page One for Dietrich and her darned pants!” She slammed that day’s New York Enterprise-Post down on one of the mounds of clutter fighting for space on her desk. “I thought Paris was supposed to be liberated! Don’t they know this is the modern age?”
“Who you talking to, kid, the wind?” asked Joe Collins from the next desk over, a playful scowl on his weathered face. “People’ll think you’re batso, grumbling to yourself.” Joe sat with his feet up on his desk, his snap-brimmed hat pushed back on his head, press card stuck in its band. He was chewing on a toothpick.
“Knock it off, Joe. You know I’ve had at least a blurb about this series on Page One for the last week. It’s an important story—children in detention and how they’re mistreated. I worked hard on it.”
“Sure, kid, we all do. But everybody can’t hit a home run every day.”
“But for some stupid incident in France! If Marlene Dietrich wants to look silly wearing pants in Paris, fashion designers might care but the cops shouldn’t be quizzing her about it. Whose business is it but hers? This is 1929, not the Dark Ages.”
