The Courtney Entry

by Max Hennessy

  Ira nodded, saying nothing, his mind busy. The airfield manager was waiting for them as they reappeared from the hangar.

  ‘I think you’re crazy,’ he said. ‘If you wait they’ll fix the lights.’

  ‘We can’t wait. We’re going.’

  The airfield manager shrugged. ‘OK, if you know what you’re up to, it’s no business of mine. I’m a fine-weather flier myself.’

  As they followed the machine, someone raised a thin cheer and torches began to snap on one after another. The newspapermen pounced at once, coming forward in a rush.

  ‘You taking off in the dark, Captain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ain’t that dangerous?’

  ‘It adds a nice angle to your story.’

  As they pushed through the crowd, Ira could see cars along the fence, their headlights shining across the field, and an old jalopy covered with names and slogans – ‘The Bucket of Trash’, ‘Waal, Fan Ma Brow’ – careered past, packed with youngsters in horizontally striped sweaters determined to get in on the act. Further along, in the distance, he could see more cars moving into position and a group gathering at the far end of the field.

  An ambulance roared round the hangar. ‘What’s the goddam rush?’ the driver was demanding. ‘Nobody’s going to take off in the dark.’

  ‘Sure they are,’ a disembodied voice replied from the shadows. ‘Over here.’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ The ambulance driver’s voice sounded awed. ‘With that forecast?’

  * * *

  Half an hour later, with the sun out of sight behind the rising ground to the west and the field descending swiftly from the purple twilight into the darkness of night, Ira switched on, his head cocked as the engine started with a roar.

  ‘Sounds OK, Sammy.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with the engine,’ Sammy observed shortly, settling into the narrow seat behind Alix. ‘All I ask is that the pump holds up.’

  Ira glanced at Alix. ‘OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Give it to ’em, Captain,’ someone yelled from the concrete. ‘Tell them Yankees we got guys down here can still make ’em jump.’

  There was another cheer from the crowd, and a series of Rebel yells. Alix was waving through the cabin window to the crowd and Ira saw the flashes of magnesium guns above the press cameras beyond the glass. Ahead of them, the land was already thickening with night and it was only just possible to pick out the silhouettes of the buildings that fringed the airfield. Ahead of them, they could see the hills, their sides boulder-strewn and bare of foliage beyond the few stunted bushes that clung to their sides. Among them lay purple valleys and spurs of rock, and stony black riverbeds.

  He worked the throttle to swing the machine into wind, facing towards the darkening sky. Then he glanced again at Sammy and Alix, and as he thrust the throttle forward to its limit, they began to roll forward into the growing night.

  Chapter 6

  The sky was already blotched with eerie light, ugly as the underside of a frying pan, when, through a gap in the endless cloud prairie below them, they caught a glimpse of Chesapeake Bay.

  ‘Bang on the nose,’ Alix shouted, her voice tense with pleasure. ‘Right on course!’

  They had hit the first cloud around Knoxville and Middlesboro. As they had headed north, the land had disappeared occasionally beneath scrappy puff-balls of haze which eventually became a layer of stratus, and by the time they had reached the Alleghenies and the West Virginian heights the ground was hidden by thick lowering vapour, its rocks and forests vanishing into pale damp mists, the saw-edged summits of the mountains sliding away through the grey opacity to the plains. The Shenandoah Valley, where Stonewall Jackson had rampaged only sixty-five years before, was heavily shrouded with fog, and to avoid the cloud they had swung due east to the winding wooded course of the Potomac and were now passing over the broken inlets of Chesapeake Bay to turn north again with Washington and Baltimore on their left. Swinging east once more, they soon began to pick up the square blocks of Philadelphia and crossed the Delaware into New Jersey.

  By this time, the bad weather was rolling thickly in from the west and into Long Island Sound, but their navigation had been exact and through another break in the cloud they identified New Brunswick and almost immediately they were edging over the sliding wisps of grey towards the built-up lands of New York State.

  ‘Wind’s increasing,’ Ira observed, noting the angle at which they were crabbing along their course. ‘We’ll just make it.’

  The city of New York seemed to come up remarkably quickly, a great sprawl of brick, concrete and steel surrounded by broken inlets. They were all growing a little stiff now and were stupefied by the roar of the engine, but the strange excitement that went with New York managed to reach up to them even in their tiny eyrie of steel tubing and fabric beyond the highest roofs. It was strange to think that below them millions of people were waiting to read of their arrival, itching to see them off across the steep Atlantic stream. Millions of enthusiasts were enjoying the new novelty of broadcasting, listening to the news flashes that came between the bursts of jazz, Rudy Vallee, Beethoven and advertisements for toothpaste, and checking with their newspapers, waiting for the moment when the new contender in the race across the sea would touch down. There was no doubt now that they all knew they were on their way and they were probably even at that moment looking up from the chasm-like streets and listening for the roar of the engine above the sound of the traffic.

  There had been no trouble from the pump on this leg of the trip and Sammy had dozed through most of the night. Glancing at Alix, Ira saw that she was looking pale and strained but surprisingly cheerful.

  ‘How’s the time?’ he asked.

  She lifted her head and their eyes met. ‘One-thirty. We’ve averaged over a hundred. We must have put up a record from Texas to New York.’

  Ira nodded. ‘She’ll do,’ he agreed.

  She gestured ahead of them where the land broke away in a flat-iron-shaped island with, beyond it, a long spear blade pointing east-north-east towards the ocean. Through the broken cloud they could see steely sea, and mist coming m from the west in rolling banks below the puffy grey wisps that slid beneath them on the rising wind.

  ‘Staten Island,’ she said quietly. ‘Right in front of you. Beyond’s Long Island. Curtiss Field’s way past the suburbs.’

  The Statue of Liberty came up under the wing and they swept along the docks towards Brooklyn Bridge, watching the white bursts of steam as tugs and shipping welcomed them with their sirens. Then a group of wooden hangars appeared out of the mist, with scattered white houses nearby. To one side lay another open space.

  ‘Mitchel Field,’ Alix shouted above the engine. She indicated the khaki-coloured aeroplanes in front of the hangars. ‘It’s Army. That’s Curtiss alongside. The one beyond up the slope is Roosevelt. That’s where all the activity is. Byrd’s outfit’s there. He’s got a whole set of offices and workshops – probably even a fancy suite as well.’

  ‘Won’t help him much when he’s out over the Atlantic,’ Sammy said.

  Through the mist they could see the bright colours of the Jennies and Orioles in front of the peak-roofed wooden hangars, then they realised that a small crowd had gathered, and they could see white faces staring up at them. Rain spattered on the windscreen and began to trickle back, shuddering in the propeller blast. They glanced at each other and began to laugh.

  ‘The nick of time,’ Sammy chirruped. ‘Couldn’t have been nickier.’

  The group round the hangars curdled and moved, fragments breaking off as people ran to what they considered would be a better position to see the touch-down. Ira was banking steeply now but, as he levelled off, pulling the throttle back and putting the nose down for the final approach, he jerked upright in his seat and peered forward. Two men had broken from among the spectators and were running across the field into the path the aeroplane would take as it landed.

  ‘For God’s sake
!’ he roared. ‘What are those fools up to?’

  ‘Photographers,’ Alix shouted. ‘I guess Pa told the press as he said he would. They’ll be wanting pictures of us landing.’

  As Ira worked the throttle and pulled back on the stick to slip over the running figures by a mere few feet, one of them dropped to the wet ground, but as Ira put the wheels down just beyond them, he scrambled up again immediately and raced after the aeroplane, lifting his camera as the machine swung round to head towards the hangars.

  Alix was sitting with her face against the windscreen now, waving the newspapermen aside, but they took no notice, and, as the aeroplane came to a stop, one of them lifted his camera again, dodging within inches of the spinning propeller so that Ira had to allow the aircraft to roll to a halt.

  ‘Come on, Captain,’ he yelled above the engine. ‘Smile, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘I guess we have to go along with them,’ Alix said angrily. ‘If Pa’s arranged it, we can’t turn ’em down.’

  For sheer safety, Ira switched off the engine and the propeller jerked to a stop. As they climbed down from the plane, they saw more newspapermen had arrived, and they were surrounded at once by yelling men and women, flourishing notebooks and changing photographic plates.

  ‘How about kissing the little lady, Captain?’ someone yelled. ‘Makes a better picture.’

  Alix looked up at Ira, then she reached up and kissed him as the flashlights popped. ‘That’s for the flight, Ira,’ she said, frowning and embarrassed.

  An excited face thrust between them. ‘What about Chamberlin, Captain?’

  ‘What about him?’ Ira said.

  ‘Ain’t you heard? Hey, quit shoving!’

  The questioner was swept away by the crowd before he could answer and they were almost bowled off their feet, then through the struggling figures they saw a fair-haired, moustached man approaching them.’

  ‘My name’s Jones,’ he said. ‘I’m the airfield manager. We’ve got a hangar ready for you. Follow my car.’

  The thickening clouds above the field were sprinkling the grass now and the hangar roofs were beginning to gleam wetly. A few umbrellas went up.

  They climbed back into the Dixie, then, with a few bored policemen keeping the crowd back to a safe distance, they started the engine again and taxied behind the airfield manager’s car through the increasing rain across to the hangar and swung it round.

  As he jumped down to the ground again, Ira saw that the crowd had already increased, as though word had got around and people had come running from all over the airfield, ignoring the rain.

  Someone touched his shoulder and the fair-haired man appeared again. ‘You can forget your machine now,’ he said. ‘I’ll move her in.’

  He glanced at the Dixie. ‘She looks good,’ he observed. ‘And you did well from Texas.’

  It was clear that the excitement in New York was much higher than it was anywhere else and, despite the rain, no one seemed to wish to take shelter. The newspapermen surged around them, their clothes wet, fighting to get a good position and shoving to protect their claims. New York was pulling out all the stops, caught up already by the excitement and the glamour. Here was where all the contenders for the Orteig prize were gathering, and tucked away in South Carolina, with only the newspapers to guide them, they had never realised just how much interest had been stirred up.

  ‘The Wright Company said they were sending down a couple of men,’ Ira was informed by a breathless official, ‘but they didn’t know when you were arriving and we got some strange reports from San Antonio.’

  A thin-faced spectacled man pushed through the crowd towards their side, pulling irritably at the crowd with both hands.

  ‘I’m Loerner,’ he said. ‘Fred Loerner. Loerner Publicity. Mr Courtney hired me.’

  Alix rounded on him, her eyes angry. ‘Why?’

  Loerner looked startled. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Hell, because I guess he thought you’d need me. So we don’t get things out of proportion. So we don’t get the wrong things printed about you. Publicity’s a new conception of business, ma’am. How would anyone know what you were setting out to do unless you told ’em first?’

  ‘Did you whip the crowd up?’ Alix said.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  She snorted. ‘Then I reckon you aren’t earning your money. It’s too small.’

  Loerner gave her a soured look and then he turned up his collar.

  ‘I do my best, ma’am,’ he said coldly. ‘And while we’re on the subject, how about letting the press get some pictures? These boys have got deadlines, you know.’

  They were standing in front of the plane now, surrounded by a growing crowd of men with notebooks and cameras. Sammy had his head down and was wearing the disgusted expression he always wore for what he considered unnecessary demonstrations of emotion.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Loerner was shouting. ‘Let the captain through!’

  Ira was shoved and jostled to the front and Loerner fought to push the crowds back. The cameramen were down on their knees now on the wet grass, aiming their lenses.

  ‘Come on, Captain! Not so doggone grim. And, say, Mr Shapiro – you look like you ain’t expecting much out of this trip.’

  Sammy stretched his mouth into a death’s-head grimace.

  ‘How about getting Chamberlin over, Mr Loerner?’ someone yelled. ‘He’s right here on the field somewhere. It’d make a picture.’

  ‘Say, how about that, Captain? Any comments about Chamberlin?’

  Ira turned to the voice yelling near his ear. ‘What happened to Chamberlin?’

  ‘The Bellanca had a crack-up! Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘How about putting your arm round Miss Courtney, Captain?’

  Ira obliged. Alix fitted neatly under his shoulder.

  No one seemed to bother to wait for the answer to any of their questions and after a while Loerner pushed forward and began to drive a way through the crowd. The photographers ran alongside, threading in and out of the excited people, still trying to take pictures.

  ‘Any romance, Mr Loerner?’

  Loerner tried to look knowledgeable. ‘Not for me to say,’ he pointed out.

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ Alix said under her breath.

  ‘What’s all this about the Bellanca crack-up?’ Sammy demanded.

  Loerner gestured. ‘They had a christening ceremony over there. Two kids with a bottle of soda pop. Then Chamberlin took them up with Levine for a treat and a wheel came off. They say he put her down light as a feather. I’m told he did some nice flying.’

  ‘How about the plane?’

  ‘Some damage. Not much. Won’t take long to fix. They say he’s had the instruments ripped out and replaced, though. I guess he found better ones.’

  While they were still struggling towards the hangars they saw Courtney, swathed in a heavy rubber mackintosh, pushing his way towards them, elbowing through the crowd with Lavery Boyle.

  ‘Ira! Alix! Sam! How did the flight go?’

  As they shook hands over the heads of the crowd, Courtney was pushed forward and jostled against them, fighting to keep his feet, and Ira got his mouth close to his ear as they ended up almost chest to chest.

  ‘We’ve got trouble, Felton,’ he said.

  Courtney’s head turned, his eyes alarmed. ‘The ship? What was it? The rain?’

  ‘The Hughesden pump.’

  Courtney gave him an anxious look, and his face was long, water trickling down his thin cheeks, as he tagged along behind them through the crowd.

  In the distance they could see a hangar with the words, The America Transoceanic Co. Inc.

  ‘Byrd’s camp,’ Loerner said. ‘He’s said you can use Roosevelt Field. He’s got exclusive use of it but he’s a fair guy and he says he doesn’t want to put anyone to any unnecessary risk. It’s the best field and he says anyone trying to get across the Atlantic has the right to the best facilities. He’s got a kitchen, mess hall and sleeping quarters over there. And an off
ice. He’s even got a private line to the New York papers.’

  The hangar to which Loerner was leading them was rather different. A wooden sign – Dixie. Courtney Transatlantic Flight – hung on the half-open doors, and it was shared by a De Havilland, a Swallow and a Waco.

  The rain was coming down heavily as they were jostled into the shrouded darkness. Shaking the water off his hat, Loerner turned round to face the crowd of newspapermen. ‘Give us ten minutes, boys,’ he yelled. ‘That’s all. Ten minutes, then we’ll give you all you want. Just give ’em chance to get their breath then they’ll answer any questions you want to ask.’

  The big doors of the hangar were opening now and, turning, they saw the red wings of the Dixie over the umbrellas of the crowd, moving towards the hangar.

  ‘It’s all taken care of,’ Loerner was shouting to the newspapermen. ‘We’re leaving the doors open so you can see what she looks like.’

  The Dixie was pushed inside and the tail swung round so that the nose faced outwards, and one of the mechanics stretched a white-painted rope between the half-open doors.

  ‘OK, boys,’ Loerner said. ‘You can take all the photographs you want from there. Tomorrow you can look her over, but we’ve got things to discuss tonight.’

  Despite the downpour, the crowd hadn’t diminished in the slightest, and Ira, Sammy and Alix were standing in a group with Courtney, still warily watching the struggling. The dripping newspapermen immediately started pushing forward again.

  ‘Hey, Mr Courtney, how about a picture in front of the plane?’

  They all stood together in front of the plane again, awkward and embarrassed with all the gaping faces and levelled cameras, trying to talk normally without seeming to be too aware of what was going on. After that the ordeal was repeated in the office with a barrage of questions, and the flashing of camera guns held by soaked, dishevelled men.

  ‘When’s the take-off, Captain?’