by Max Hennessy
He had taken off in the late afternoon with his tanks only half-full and had landed at St Louis with sufficient fuel still left to indicate that his machine’s range was well beyond the 3,600 miles which separated Paris from New York by the great circle route. He had left St Louis again that morning, and was expected in New York at any time.
As he finished the story, Ira sat back, his eyes sober and thoughtful, then he leaned forward once more and started again at the beginning. He had just spread the paper carefully in front of him a second time when the door slamming open thrust aside his thoughts, and the sheets slid with a soft rustle to the floor as he turned.
It was Sammy. ‘It’s that chap with the Ryan!’ he burst out. ‘He’s here!’
‘Already?’ Ira suddenly became aware of people running past the window and heard the urgent, anxious snap-ahah, snap-ahah of someone trying to start a car. As the engine caught and revved up and the car began to grind away past the door, he pushed back his chair with a scraping sound.
‘Hang on, Sammy,’ he said. ‘I’m coming!’
Sammy vanished again, disappearing as abruptly as he had come, then reappeared once more like a demon king.
‘What’s it look like?’ Ira demanded, reaching for his jacket.
Sammy grinned. ‘Not much different from the Bellanca or us,’ he said. ‘Looks a tidy little flivver. Single-engined. He’s coming in now.’
They ran from the hangar, following the crowds heading for the field. Threading among the running people were motor cars, their horns roaring, and beyond the hangars Ira saw Byrd’s big tri-motored Fokker, newly repaired and tested, droning away in the distance.
The little silver-painted plane was banking steeply when Ira first saw it, hanging in the air, it seemed, as it turned for its final approach, and they saw men with notebooks heading out on to the field. A lorry roared past with news cameras on tripods in the back. The excitement was twice as intense as when the Courtney had arrived.
‘Tell those guys to keep outa the way,’ someone yelled. ‘They’ll get hit! Give the guy a chance to get in!’
They stood at the edge of the apron, staring at the sky, watching with hundreds of other people. The silver plane was making its final approach now, like the Courtney a small inexpensive-looking machine with a single wing. Struts ran from the base of the fuselage where the undercarriage joined it, and it looked neat, with clean lines, and followed the conventional high-winged design that was being followed by all aircraft manufacturers, but they noticed that the absence of a windscreen enabled the nose to sweep back smoothly to give a tidy streamlined effect.
‘Looks smart,’ Sammy said admiringly.
Ira nodded. ‘Looks fast,’ he said. There was no getting over that dash across country.
The silver plane came in at an angle to the wind and settled neatly, passing in front of them as it came to a stop. Photographers, newspapermen, airfield mechanics and clerks all began to run and the machine was immediately surrounded by yelling people. As they watched, a tall fair-headed figure who looked no more than a boy appeared, shouting at the crowds to keep clear of the propeller. Above his head they could see the name of the plane painted on the nose beyond the heavy square-looking shock absorbers and behind the exhausts of the Wright engine… in plain lettering, as simple and unassuming as the man himself seemed to be, Spirit of St Louis, four short words neatly lined up on the dimpled surface of the metal where the shark nose flowed back from the aluminium to join the square fuselage… Spirit of St Louis.
Chapter 2
Suddenly the whole set-up was different. There was a dedication about the newcomer, a professionalism despite his youth, a quiet determination that persuaded older men to do his bidding, a knowledge of what he wanted, that provided a far more serious competition than any of them had ever dreamed existed from the stories they’d heard of him. And to the general public, sickened by the tabloids’ diet of smut, sport and sudden death, tired of Byrd’s caution, the Courtney’s failure and the battling in the Bellanca camp, there was nothing about him to stop them taking him to their hearts; even, in fact, a gleeful feeling that, despite his lonely one-man set-up he was challenging not only the elements but the powerful financial organisations that backed Byrd and the Bellanca. His backers sensibly made no demands on him and left him to do his job, and his was the only project not hampered by outside interference, and had no crew members to enter into disputes.
Even the fact that he was proposing to brave the darkness of the Atlantic alone gave him an extra appeal. There would be no one to help him, no one to support him with encouragement, and his quiet determination caught the public’s fancy in a feeling that he was martyring himself, a feeling that he was doubling the risks by facing alone what Nungesser and Coli had faced together and failed to conquer. There was an aura of heroism about him that was missing in the other camps simply because he was alone and had never been involved in argument.
Hal Woolff summed it up neatly, making an unexpected switch of sympathy towards the newcomer as his transparent honesty reached out to him. ‘The country needs somebody like this kid,’ he said. ‘There’s been too much big business, too much prohibition that doesn’t prohibit and too many goddam hoodlums taking up the news killing each other.’
Clad in army breeches and thick stockings, the newcomer worked quietly over his engine with the Wright representatives who had been assigned to him, checked his instruments with the Pioneer officials, read the weather reports and double-checked his charts, and because he was so quiet, because he was so indifferent to the publicity he had attracted, he was unable to throw off the crowds. Always there were people outside his hangar, many of them girls who came simply to stare, and the press immediately deserted the other camps to follow him about, constantly calling him ‘Lucky’ and ‘The Flyin’ Fool’ – though there was something about this young barnstormer-turned-airmail pilot that seemed to indicate that neither description fitted. He had worked out the risks and balanced them with his chances, and suddenly, to Ira, it seemed that of all his opponents this was the one he needed to watch most.
The Bellanca’s litigious disputes and the Courtney’s financial problems aside, since everyone was ready and the weather forecasts were poor again, the chances now were that every plane on Curtiss Field would be taking off together, and everyone became secretive overnight about his plans. Suddenly there were four aeroplanes poised for the start, and the prospects of a race appealed to the public. With the publicity that had been given to the attempt by the newspapers, they were looking forward to the kind of competition the sports pages loved to stir up.
But with the rain falling steadily once more and the great square blocks of steel, brick and concrete that made up New York shrouded in mist, things had come to a standstill and there was no longer any reason to refuse Cluff’s insistent demands over the telephone for them to go and see his machine. Remembering his defection in Africa without a great deal of gratitude, Ira had half-hoped to avoid the duty, but Cluff’s persistence wore him down.
‘We’re ready, Ira,’ he said excitedly. ‘And there’s a local high in northern New York State, so we might even manage to show you her paces.’
He sounded boyish in his eagerness and, as always, unconcerned with whether it suited anyone but himself.
‘She looks tremendous,’ he went on. ‘You’ll like her. If we haven’t got as good a chance as the rest of you, I’ll eat my hat. When are you coming?’
Sammy made an irritable gesture with his hands. ‘For God’s sake, Ira,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and get it over and done with or he’ll never leave us alone. With this weather there’ll be no take-off for twenty-four hours. It’ll be a waste of time, anyway. Everything that Cluff ever did was.’
Arranging with Woolff to telephone Cluff’s number if there were any sign of a change in the weather, they drove north towards Haverstraw that night, to reach Newburgh before daylight the next morning. Roaring along the line of the Hudson through small clusters of w
hite houses where lights were just beginning to come on among the trees, they could see the Catskills on their left, beyond the high maples, blue-purple against the growing light. An old farmer in braces wearing a felt hat with a brim like a frilly pie crust, his trousers seat hanging loose round his skinny rump, stopped the mud-caked Ford he was driving to give them directions.
‘The Pelletan place?’ he said. ‘Ain’t that the place where they got that aeroplane?’ He jerked a stringy arm. ‘Sure, I know it. Up the road a piece. White gates. Name’s on the shingle outside. And, say, you tell them aviators to keep that machine of theirs quiet. This used to be a peaceful neighbourhood and folks don’t get no quiet around these parts any more.’
* * *
The Pelletan farm was set in the middle of a huge stretch of woodland a long way from the main road, and, as they drove through the trees in the growing daylight, it wasn’t hard to see how Cluff had managed to avoid publicity.
As the road swept round in a huge curve in front of a large red-painted wooden farmhouse and they came to a stop, a girl appeared in the doorway. She was obviously several months pregnant.
‘Ira Penaluna! I bet you don’t remember me!’
At first Ira didn’t. Dulcie Cluff had lost the hard-bitten look he recalled, and marriage seemed to suit her. Her harsh blonde hair had changed co brown and her lean features had filled out. Her expression was softer too, and her eyes were gentle. She looked as though their assessment of her had been wrong and she enjoyed being married to Cluff.
Ira grinned. ‘The last time I saw you, Dulcie, you were trying to decide to go to England with Cluffy. It seems you did.’
She nodded and held out her hand to Sammy. ‘Hello, Sammy.’ she said. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘I’m a bit older,’ Sammy said.
She vanished into the house, and as she returned, wearing a red and black Canadian lumberman’s coat, there was a crackling metallic roar from among the trees behind the building. As they turned their heads, it grew to a howl then subsided to a drone and finally died again. Ira glanced at the girl and before she caught his look on her he thought he detected uncertainty and apprehension behind her eyes as she cocked her head to listen.
Then she saw him watching her and the expression changed again abruptly. She turned away. ‘That’s her,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you where to go. They’ve got her in a big barn at the top of the meadow.’
‘What’s she like?’ Ira asked. ‘Good?’
She paused, then she turned, her eyes shining, though he was still certain that deep down behind them he saw fear and anxiety.
‘She seems enormous,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘We haven’t registered her yet because we weren’t sure how she’d turn out, but she’ll do it all right.’ She pulled the jacket round her and climbed awkwardly into the car.
‘I’d never go back to South Africa,’ she said, trying to overcome the hesitation in the conversation. ‘I didn’t know there what life could be like.’ She looked at Ira shyly. ‘Perhaps that’s being married. It makes you grow up. I’ve grown up. And you don’t have to be blind to see we’re starting a family. George says I look like a Salvation Army big drummer.’
‘Do you mind him flying?’ Ira asked.
For a fraction of a second she hesitated, then she shook her head firmly, so that he realised she had pushed all selfish thoughts of security to the back of her mind as she had immersed herself in Cluff’s ambitions. ‘No,’ she said. ‘If he has to fly, I mustn’t stop him. He has high hopes, too. They bought the machine in Canada and prepared her themselves. Pierre Pelletan’s splendid. He thinks he’s got a future as a designer.’
Ira glanced at her quickly, sensing a mood of over-confidence in Cluff and his partner. A lot of people imagined themselves designers, he thought wryly. Even he or Sammy could have designed a sound aeroplane, but it wouldn’t be the aeroplane for the Atlantic crossing, and no converted machine like Cluff’s was likely to be, either.
Somehow, behind Dulcie Cluff’s chatter, he sensed that she felt the same, and he drove silently for a while, his mind busy as the car bounced in the ruts, then the voice alongside him broke into his thoughts as she gave him directions. Following the road until it became a mere muddy track through the trees, they stopped eventually at the top of a long slope towards the river. In the growing daylight, they could see a few lights in the valley and the pale streamer of smoke where a train sped northwards towards Montreal.
They turned among the trees and saw the vast barn with the black and yellow shape of a big biplane outside. It looked strangely clumsy and, with years of experience behind him, Ira knew at once that it lacked the necessary quality for a long-distance high-speed flight.
Almost before the thought had taken root in his mind, however, Cluff came forward to meet them, followed by a small smiling man with black curling hair.
‘Thanks for coming, Ira,’ he said. ‘Hello, Sammy. Sorry to hear about Courtneys going bust.’
Sammy’s eyes flashed. ‘We’re not as bust as all that,’ he said stoutly.
Cluff glanced at Ira. ‘I read that you were out of the race,’ he went on. ‘The newspapers said so.’
‘The newspapers say some funny things,’ Ira pointed out. ‘We’re still in.’
Cluff stared at him for a moment then he turned to Sammy, smiling, puzzled.
‘If Ira says we’re in,’ Sammy said, ‘then we’re in.’
Cluff gave a short laugh. ‘Well, I reckon we might be right on your tail. I’m glad you came.’
Sammy nodded again, not hostile but giving away nothing in the shape of friendship.
‘This is Pierre Pelletan.’ Cluff indicated the dark young man behind him then jerked a hand towards an older man coming out of the barn. ‘And this is his uncle. He’s been a great help. You must stay for a meal. Dulcie’s a great cook. If I’d known, I’d have grabbed her earlier.’ He gestured proudly at the black and yellow machine. ‘You’ll be wanting to look over her,’ he said. ‘She’s magnificent, isn’t she?’
They walked slowly round the plane, Ira touching the elevators and rudder thoughtfully, noticing that the strange awkwardness came not from the Bréguet design but from the different tail surface they’d added. An open cabin where it had clearly been originally enclosed gave it a stripped-down look, but though the machine outwardly had an immense look of power, it looked clumsy, too, and there was something about it that seemed to indicate it would be slow on the controls.
Cluff was waiting eagerly for their opinion, running his hand lovingly over the enlarged ailerons they’d fitted.
‘We bought her in Quebec,’ he said. ‘She’ll do around a hundred.’
Sammy’s eyes were narrow and Ira could tell from his manner that his thoughts were the same as his own. At the tail, he stopped, staring at the wheeled platform that supported it.
‘That’s to give us a faster start,’ Cluff pointed out. ‘I heard Byrd was going to use a ramp. I thought this might be a better idea with the runway we’ve got.’
Sammy stared silently down the slope. The machine was poised at the top, the chocks beneath the wheels, and Cluff, aware of the disapproval in his manner, went on eagerly. ‘Fonck used the idea,’ he said.
‘And it came adrift,’ Sammy pointed out with brutal frankness.
Cluff shrugged and Ira noticed that his eyes seemed old and lonely.
‘You ought to make it stronger,’ Sammy went on remorselessly and Cluff frowned. ‘And you ought to have heavier tyres.’
‘We decided they were heavy enough,’ Cluff said.
‘What’s her weight?’
‘Just over two ton.’
‘And fully loaded?’
‘About six.’
‘What’s the engine give?’
‘Around six-fifty.’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Yes.’ Cluff seemed to hesitate and somehow they had a feeling that the estimate was largely guesswork. ‘Six-fifty.’
‘It’s as
well to be certain.’
‘I’m certain,’ Cluff said more firmly. ‘I know.’
‘You ought to,’ Sammy said bluntly. ‘It pays.’
Cluff shrugged. ‘It makes no difference,’ he pointed out. ‘We’ve got everything ready and we can’t afford to start chopping and changing now.’ He gestured at the machine. ‘I suppose we couldn’t persuade you, Ira’ – he paused – ‘I mean, tell us what you think of the feel of it.’
Ira shook his head. ‘I’m under contract, Cluffy. It just isn’t ethical.’
He climbed into the machine, however, and past the vast petrol tank into the open cockpit.
‘It had a housed cockpit originally,’ Cluff called up to him. ‘But when Davis and Wooster were killed, we took the top off and fixed a cowling to keep the wind out. It’ll be cold, I suppose, but it’ll help to keep us awake.’
The big machine reminded Ira curiously of Noel Davis’s machine and, remembering what had happened to that, he sought for words to dissuade Cluff without appearing to resent his competition.
‘We’ve got a nice runway,’ Dulcie Cluff pointed out enthusiastically.
‘It doesn’t look very long,’ Ira said.
‘It’s three-quarters of a mile.’
‘You might be glad of that missing quarter.’
Cluff shrugged. ‘There isn’t another one available and the slope’s equivalent to another five hundred feet.’
Ira stared down into the valley with narrowed eyes. ‘It’s not very smooth either, Cluffy,’ he said. He jerked a hand at a dirt road that ran across its centre from one meadow to another. ‘What’s that?’
