“This is Lieutenant Spencer, Colonel,” von Kresse said.
The tall man shook Spencer’s hand, fidgeting as he did so and averting his eyes. Dropping his arm then, he glanced about nervously and then retreated to the other end of the cabin, where a small desk was positioned below a closed porthole. There were aircraft drawings and blueprints piled in disorganized fashion upon it.
“I guess we’ve met,” Lindbergh said. “Informally.” He gave out a high-pitched laugh, almost a giggle. “Sorry,” he said more seriously. “Just having some fun there. Haven’t had a lot of fun much, recent days, recent weeks. Not much fun at all.”
He had been through the worst imaginable hell for three years.
Spencer could think of nothing to say. To his amazement, he found himself in awe, dumbstruck, cowed by this extraordinary man’s presence for all his earlier foolishness. And Spencer was a man who had not only been in a lifeboat with the Prince of Wales but had interviewed Stalin, Mussolini, Mao Tse-tung, and the goddess who was Greta Garbo.
“Good evening, sir,” he managed finally.
“Good evening, yes. Good evening. Colonel von Kresse here says you were one of our better fliers in the war.”
“I only downed three aircraft, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. If you have to, call me colonel or something. We’re all military flyers, after all. But, hell, not sir.”
Spencer smiled weakly. What was this all about? What would this conversation mean? What was he going to do about this confrontation?
Von Kresse was staring at him with great intensity, though Lindbergh still could not bring his eyes to meet Spencer’s.
“But you were a good pilot, the longest surviving American pilot of the war, right?” Lindbergh said. “You flew with the French before America got into the fighting. You were a squadron leader with one of the lowest casualty rates of any American squadron, even though you were in a high combat sector.”
“We were lucky.”
“It wasn’t just that. I was chief pilot of the Chicago to St. Louis air mail service in 1926. Our boys … what I mean to say is that leaders, good leaders, well, that good leaders help save lives.”
He was blushing. He seemed very much to regret the favorable reference to himself, the comparison of his mail pilot operation to the aerial killing in France.
“Colonel von Kresse here says that, well, that you’ve got good judgment. He thought it would be a good idea if I were to talk to you about this plane here. He’s told me all he can think of. I’d like to hear from you, too.”
He shifted the drawings, pulling forth one of a twin-engined aircraft shown in profile and cutaway.
“This is a Messerschmitt long-range fighter,” Lindbergh said. “Bf 110-AO. Wingspan fifty-three feet four and three-quarters inches. Length thirty-nine feet eight and a half inches. Two six hundred ten horsepower Jumo 210 B engines. Armament, five seven point nine-millimeter machine-guns. The count here says they’re going into production with it next year. It’s all real secret.”
“I’ve heard some talk about it,” Spencer said, moving to stand next to the hero. This was as unreal as his conversation in a cave with Mao after a thousand-mile walk into the west of China. But he’d recently been talking on the very same subject, with the rich French publisher who was Whitney’s husband, in Whitney’s kitchen. De Mornay published many books on aviation. It was through him that Spencer had met Saint-Exupéry.
“What do you think they’ll do with it?”
“It would make a good night fighter,” Spencer said. “If they added cannon to the armament, they could blast the hell out of enemy bomber formations—our bomber formations, if we ever have bomber formations—flying outside machine-gun range.”
“Exactly. That’s what I think. If they added fuel injection, these ships could outrun anything we have now. Right?”
“I’m not sure what we have now. I’ve been writing about not much more than French politics for three years.”
Lindbergh nodded. “Well, they could. Believe me. This is a hell of an airplane. But look at this one. This is the ultimate fighting aircraft.”
He pulled forth a drawing of a plane Spencer had seen vaguely drawn and described in at least two French aviation magazines.
“The Me-109,” Spencer said.
“Bf 109 B-1,” Lindbergh said. “Wingspan, thirty-two feet four and a half inches. Length, twenty-eight feet six and a half inches. A six hundred thirty-five Jumo 210D engine. A twenty-millimeter cannon firing through the propeller shaft and two seven point nine-millimeter machines guns. It’s got a service ceiling of twenty-six thousand feet and a top speed of two hundred ninety-two miles an hour. It’s in production as we stand on this ship.”
“It’s their masterpiece,” said von Kresse. “It’s a very basic aircraft. They can improve it to perfection.”
Spencer leaned close over the draftsman’s excellent rendering, moving the light slightly to see better. Oddly, he felt almost back in uniform again, though it had been nearly twenty years.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they even managed to double the speed. A better engine, more guns. They can probably adapt it in all kinds of configurations,” Spencer said.
“They sure as hell can,” Lindbergh said. “It’s a brilliant airplane. And what do we have? The Grumman F3F-1, a goddamn biplane. And we’re selling it off to a half-dozen countries. What do the British have? The Gloster Gladiator. Another goddamned biplane. There’s another Brit machine in the works, a monoplane. Can’t tell you about it though it’s damned good. But they’re dragging their feet on it. The Germans are ahead of all of us. Especially us Americans. If there was war now, they’d kill us in the air.”
Spencer didn’t know what to say. Lindbergh’s eyes flickered, then turned to Spencer’s. The shy, nervous, reclusive celebrity of the century suddenly became extremely direct. He was lecturing to Spencer.
“We can’t get dragged into another war,” he said. “We can’t.”
“Not now,” Spencer said at last.
“No. Not now. Not until we’re prepared. And we’re far from that. Years and years from that.”
“He’s quite right, Spencer,” said von Kresse, who had lowered himself to a seat on Lindbergh’s small bed. “Germany is preparing for war. You are not. The western democracies are not.”
“I got these drawings in Germany,” Lindbergh said. “I don’t understand why they gave them to me. Maybe to impress me. Maybe to scare us. I don’t know. But I’m turning them over to the War Department in Washington as soon as I can get there. I don’t think the Roosevelt administration is going to do much about it, but we can get something going in the military. I have some friends in the Army Air Corps. Colonel Eaker. Colonel Arnold. I’m going to get them copies. I’m going to keep doing this as long as I can get a hold of things like these.”
He put his hand on Spencer’s arm. “Do you agree with me?” he asked. “Do you agree these German crates are the best the world’s ever seen?”
“I-I couldn’t possibly disagree with you.”
Lindbergh turned Spencer toward him and gripped both his shoulders. “I don’t like reporters, Lieutenant. And you’ve got to agree that I’ve got a good reason.”
“You haven’t had an easy time, sir.”
“But I am a pilot. Flyers are the people I like best. You were a really good flyer. The count here says so. He likes you. And you fought each other.”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, I hope you understand.”
Nervous again, Lindbergh dropped his hands and turned away. He pretended to be staring at the drawings, but he was obviously waiting for Spencer and von Kresse to leave. The count, with difficulty, got to his feet.
“Good night, Colonel,” he said. He looked to Spencer. “Und jetzt, ein cognac, Herr Leutnant Spencer?”
Spencer did as bidden. As they went out the door, a new, extraordinary, and perhaps brilliant lead for his story occurred to him. When they subsequently ca
me out onto the boat deck, into the cool night air, the count stopped.
“Why have we come out here?” Spencer asked. “Why not use the inside stairs?”
“Because, very briefly, I want to say something that I don’t want to say in a place of corridors and alcoves. Listen to me well, Leutnant, and please understand. Colonel Lindbergh meant what he said about taking these things to your War Department in Washington. He is going back to Germany in December or January, for a long stay, at the government’s invitation. He can obtain more of these drawings and draftsman’s work. Plans, blueprints. That fool Goering has even asked his advice.”
“What has this to do with me?”
“I’m going to help him. I’ll get him what I can. There are others who will do the same. We want your country to be fully aware of what you’re up against. We want something done about it. Do you understand? Do you see what this is about?”
“You don’t want me to give you away.”
“I hope you won’t, Leutnant Spencer. I will have faith in my brother pilot. I’ve dedicated what remains of my awful life to revenge. Don’t ruin it for me.” He then spoke almost cheerily. “Now, for that brandy.”
They paused at the same little bar adjoining the balcony that overlooked the first-class ballroom. The dancing this evening was well attended, the merrymakers impelled by the urge to arrive in New York and the urge to linger out here beyond the reach of such dull civilization. They felt celebratory; glad at the proximity to safety and normality, but not wanting to give up the licentiousness granted by all ocean voyages, particularly this one. Most every woman aboard would be making love this night, possibly even Lady Emerald Cunard. Nora, too.
Spencer and the count, as before, sipped their brandies as they looked down at the dance floor. The band leader, as his orchestra ended a long but vibrant remdition of “Dancing in the Dark,” announced that there would be just one last song, one last dance. It was nearly midnight.
Mrs. Parker was again present, again at van Hoorn’s table, still somber and very, very correct.
Spencer took von Kresse’s free hand, gripping it with firmness and friendship. He sought the man’s eyes. It unnerved him to have such piercing vision focused so closely upon him, but he returned the strong, steady gaze.
Spencer’s lips parted. He smiled.
“I like you,” he said. “Hun bastard. I respect what you’re doing.”
“Sehr gut. I ask no more.”
“Good-bye. Auf wiedersehen. I must leave you now.”
“Wiedersehen.”
Spencer wondered if they had fought each other sometime in the war. But it didn’t matter. He gave a salute of sorts, then departed, heading to the stairway that gave onto the ballroom floor. As the band began “I’ll See You in my Dreams,” he reached van Hoorn’s table. He bowed slightly before Mrs. Parker, who was looking extremely beautiful and gracious, but much older than her years.
“It’s the last dance aboard ship, Mrs. Parker,” he said. “I’d be very, very grateful if you’d dance it with me.”
She rose without speaking, glancing quickly at van Hoorn but ignoring the disapproving expression he gave in return.
Mrs. Parker slipped into Spencer’s arms when they reached the polished dance floor but moved woodenly. He pulled her closer.
“We’re going to part tomorrow,” he said. “All of us. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Do, Mr. Spencer?”
“I feel so sorry, Mrs. Parker. I want to help you. In any way I can.”
“You saved my life. What more could you possibly do?”
“Your husband …”
“My husband drowned, along with others. Can you bring him back? Could you have done anything about him?”
He thought of all the young men he would like to bring back. He thought of Raul Lufbery, leaping from a burning Spad.
“No. I can’t do that.”
She pressed her cheek against his. It was moist as if from sudden tears.
“Mr. Spencer, no one’s been good to me for a very long time. You’ve helped. A lot. But good night. Good night.”
She moved out of his arms and hurried away, heading for the opposite exit.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Something was wrong. At the least, something had changed dramatically. Spencer opened his eyes. Nora was lying diagonally across him, her chest flat against his, her fragrant copper hair soft against his cheek, her breathing quiet and gentle. She had nothing to do with what had disturbed him. He stroked the back of her neck a moment, receiving a purring murmur in return. Then, with great care, he reached with both hands to slip out from under her. She settled onto the sheet without stirring. He sat up.
What was wrong was simple and obvious. The ship had stopped once again. The turbines were quiet.
Again with care, he rose and went to the porthole. They had more than stopped. They had arrived. The mad captain and crew of this beleaguered vessel had sailed on at full press through the night, and now the Wilhelmina was at Sandy Hook, just off New York harbor. It was first light, and he could see the hazy forms of refinery tanks on the murky western horizon—a well-remembered sight from previous voyages.
He pulled on his white shirt and a pair of gray flannels, slipping his bare feet into the cold leather of his patent leather evening shoes.
Nora still slept. Out the porthole, he could see the pilot boat approaching—and something else. A small warship sitting perhaps half a mile off. Rolling up his sleeves, Spencer went out the door and down to the boat deck.
The pilot boat was coming at high speed, planing somewhat and throwing up a spume of wake. Just beyond it, traveling more slowly, was another small craft, a naval launch, apparently from the warship. As it drew nearer, Spencer saw the British Union Jack flying from the stern. The boat was white with varnished wood trim and the crewman aboard it were standing at attention, very formal and dignified.
What with the stiff morning breeze and the noise of the boat engines, Spencer hadn’t heard the woman approach. Resting her elbows on the rail beside him, she startled him.
“Good morning, Your Ladyship,” he said, “You’re up early.”
“Good morning,” said Diana Cooper. “Wouldn’t miss it. That’s a destroyer there. The Fury. They’re taking him away.”
“The prince.”
“Yes, the prince. And a few of his loyal retainers, though not, thank God, me and Duff. We’ve a bit of a bash planned for New York. My producer from The Miracle sent a wire. We’re going to have a jolly good reunion. Would you like a squiff of vodka, Lieutenant Spencer?”
She handed him a silver flask.
“Gets the day going, what?” she said, giving him the sort of smile that made it clear how she was once known as the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the flask, putting aside his memory of her conduct in Duff’s attempted seduction of Nora. “In celebration of our safe arrival.”
“Precisely,” she said, with a bit of a wink. “And the prince’s safe departure. God speed, God bless, and thank God.”
She watched the launch with some fascination, allowing him to study her face in profile. Hers was a unique yet perfect profile. It was a pity what age was about to do to her.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“We should all be very, very nice to Mrs. Simpson,” said Lady Diana. “I think she’s going to do the world—certainly the empire—a very great favor.”
“With the prince? I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do, Lieutenant Spencer. Don’t be obtuse.” She took a deep breath of the morning air. “What a wonderful day. I think we’ll ride up Fifth Avenue on one of those open-top, double-deck buses. I don’t know why ours are enclosed, really. One’s always bumping one’s head.”
The pilot boat was alongside now. A door had been opened at the side of the ship below decks, and the pilot, a gray-haired man in a tweed suit, stepped nimbly from the bobbing boat into the
Wilhelmina. An instant later the bow of the boat swung away and it roared and rumbled off toward the shore, the helmsman throttling the engine up to full power.
The British naval launch, which had been standing off, came up, much more sedately. Two lines were tossed to crewmen of the Wilhelmina, who tied them fast, pulling the launch snug against the ship.
The prince and Mrs. Simpson appeared almost immediately. He, dressed in a vested suit, leapt aboard the launch ahead of her, then turned to help her over the gunwale. A crewman helped, as well, but still she stumbled. Spencer, six stories above, could hear her swear.
Edward took her to the rear of the launch and held her close. She put her head on his shoulder, as if apologizing for her outburst. It was a poignant scene.
“Pathetic, aren’t they?” Diana said. “A prime case of sadomasochism, if you believe the psychologists, and, these days, one certainly must.”
More people came aboard the launch. The Scotland Yard inspector Runcie, Major Metcalfe and Lord Brownlow, Lady Emerald and Chips Channon, of course Lord Mountbatten, though not Edwina. As soon as the prince and Mrs. Simpson were seated and a huge amount of luggage taken aboard, the seamen cast off the lines.
“Good-bye, darlings!” Diana shouted. When they looked up, she waved. Spencer found himself waving, as well, wondering if he would ever encounter Chips Channon again, or would want to. As the boat pulled away, the prince waved back.
“Lieutenant Spencer,” said Diana. “There’s something I should like to say. I want to apologize, and Duff wants to apologize, for that grubby little scene in His Highness’s suite yesterday. It was quite beastly, and you should pay no attention to it. If you want to rush hotfoot into writing your little story, you go right ahead. If they don’t know the risks of traveling abroad so infamously like this, well, they’d bloody well better learn.”
“The American press is going to be onto them, sooner or later. They’ll have no compunctions.”
Dance on a Sinking Ship Page 46
