Vance glanced at the standard government wall clock, found in almost every room in every government building and rarely displaying the correct time. In fifteen minutes he was going to meet with the newest arrival from Germany, Dr. von Ohain, the man who had invented the jet engine in Germany almost simultaneously as Frank Whittle had invented it in Great Britain. Vance wasn’t looking forward to the interview. The last two men he had interviewed, scientists from Peenemünde, had complained continuously about the poor food, inadequate pay, and drafty quarters. He wondered how much thought they had given to the quarters they had made drafty in England as a result of their work on the V-1 and V-2.
Yet he knew they had a point. They were not paid their salaries directly. Instead the money was paid into an account in Germany, so that their families could benefit. They did receive six dollars a day per diem, which more than covered the twenty-three hundred calories of mess-hall food allocated to them. Most saved enough from their per diem to send packages of food and clothing back to Germany. Their quarters were austere, just the standard two-story barracks that some 16 million American GIs had endured, cold in winter, hot in summer, with open bathrooms and no privacy. But even so, Vance did not take kindly to their complaints. They were living better by far than the families they had left behind in Germany, many of whom still camped in bombed-out ruins. He hoped von Ohain might be different.
Shannon knew his days at Dayton were numbered, and as he waited behind his battered oak desk, he experimented with names for the new company he was forming. His first choice was still “Aviation consultants, Incorporated,” but Madeline was insisting that he should take advantage of his reputation by naming the company after him. He jotted down a series of names, including “Vance Shannon and Sons, Aviation consultants,” “The Shannon Group,” and “Vance Shannon Aviation,” but all of them struck him as pushy. The right people would soon know who was behind “Aviation consultants, Incorporated,” and for the rest it didn’t matter.
What did matter was somehow getting his sons to accept Madeline. They were still resistant, and he hoped forming the new company might help, with himself as president, Tom and Harry as vice presidents, and Madeline as secretary-treasurer. She had been such a source of strength for the past two years, enduring his long absences and following him to the cramped apartment in Dayton with never a complaint. As helpful as ever, Madeline worked at home for him and was far more efficient than any secretary he had ever employed. She had an amazing ability to help him decide who to turn to for help on a contract. Never much on filing, and a terrible typist, Vance relished the way Madeline turned out his work, professionally, with never a mistake. And nothing was ever lost—if he needed a paper, a contract, she could pull it out for him in an instant. Once or twice she tried to instruct him in her methods, but it was too intricate. He preferred just to give things to her, confident that when he needed something she would have it. They could discuss any problem, and she was showing a greater grasp of technical matters than many of the engineers he worked with. Usually she would quickly understand the problem, going right to the heart of the matter with a point that he might have overlooked or felt was not sufficiently pertinent. How she put up with him he didn’t know, but she remained as loving as ever, more tolerant of his weakening desires than he might have expected, given the ardor of their early years.
Classified material was different, of course. He kept everything at work in the standard filing cabinets, with their bar locks, and only took things home to work on when something had to be ready the following day.
Tom and Harry had never seen this side of Madeline, her competence, her dedication. Their meetings had always been almost formal, at dinners or at company receptions. Once they got to know her, when they were actively working together in the company, Vance hoped they would understand—at least in part—her fascination for him. Then they would come to accept her. Or so he dreamed.
Precisely at three o’clock there was a knock and he hastened to open the door to his office. A slender man, impossibly young to have invented the jet engine, stood in the hallway, smiling diffidently, his hands nervously twirling his fedora.
“Come in, Dr. von Ohain. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Von Ohain extended his hand, then withdrew it as if afraid that Shannon would refuse to shake it. Shannon reached forward, seized his hand, and pumped it. Von Ohain’s first words were, “My English is not yet good.”
And Shannon smilingly replied, “And neither is mine. We will get along well.”
They spent the next hour talking about engineering matters, with von Ohain detailing, step-by-step, the progress that in just three years had led him from an idea to the first jet flight in the world. It took him longer to explain the ensuing years, when changes of programs, and unexpected technical problems, had delayed completion of his larger, more sophisticated engines.
The German scientist was excited to learn that Shannon had known Frank Whittle and had participated in the transfer of Whittle’s engine technology to the United States. When Shannon mentioned that Whittle had not received backing from the British government, von Ohain was quick to understand. He shook his head, saying, “What a shame. If his people had backed him as Dr. Heinkel had backed me, there might never have been a war! England could have had jet planes in 1938, and we might have been able to get rid of Hitler.”
Von Ohain paused for a minute. It was obvious that his comment about Hitler was spontaneous, but it was equally obvious that he did not wish to appear to be currying favor. After a moment he went on.
“Dr. Heinkel was not always the easiest man to work for—he wanted results in a hurry. He had to have them, or all the work would have gone to Messerschmitt. The engine that we made for the first jet flight was no more than a working model. Then he wanted me to develop a larger engine than the Junkers 004, so we had the usual development problems.” Then, proudly, he added, “But jet engines are still more easily developed than piston engines.”
It suddenly struck Shannon that neither of the men who had invented the jet engine independently but almost simultaneously, von Ohain and Whittle, had reaped any substantial rewards for having done so.
“This may seem personal, Dr. von Ohain, but I’d like to ask you how you were compensated for work. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all; it is all history now, anyway. When I started working for Dr. Heinkel he paid me a relatively low stipend, about what you would expect to pay a graduate student; it was three hundred Reichsmarks per month.” Shannon did a quick calculation—at the official exchange rate that was about $720 annually. Von Ohain went on. “After about a year, he raised the salary to five hundred Reichmarks a month. It was enough for a young unmarried man—I was working seven days a week, and had little time to spend money, anyway. Then he promised me a royalty on my engines as they were produced.”
Unashamed and having no need to know, Shannon pressed on, simply curious. “Was this significant?”
Von Ohain seemed genuinely amused. “It was significant but meaningless! After the war, in July 1945, he sent me a check for four hundred thousand Reichsmarks, which were, of course, by that time worth exactly nothing.” He laughed so spontaneously that Vance joined in, thinking, The damn German bureaucrats treated him just like the English bureaucrats treated Whittle! Then he decided that perhaps he could make von Ohain feel more at ease and perhaps comfort him a bit. They were going to be working together; they needed to be on good terms.
“You might be interested to know that your counterpart, Air Commodore Whittle, did little better. He received his pay as a serving officer, of course, and was given an award of one hundred thousand pounds. And that was it.”
He watched von Ohain’s reaction closely and was pleased to see a combination of concern and genuine sympathy in his face.
“That is so unfair! His engine has been used by everyone, by Rolls-Royce, by de Havilland, even by your General Electric!” He made a sort of clucking sound and repeated, “That is
so unfair!”
It was obvious to Shannon that von Ohain was not dissembling. He obviously felt genuine indignation that Whittle should have been treated so shabbily. It was also obvious that von Ohain had been keeping up on developments after the war. And, Shannon thought, who would know better than von Ohain how much effort Whittle must have expended, how many difficulties had been put in his way? The two men would have to meet at some point in the future—and when they did, Vance wanted to be there.
Vance probed again. “And not only those companies. The British government saw fit to sell fifty-five engines, thirty Rolls-Royce Nenes and twenty-five Rolls-Royce Derwents, to the Soviet Union. You can be sure that they will copy them down to the last safety wire.”
Von Ohain turned pale. “But that is not possible. How could anyone be so foolish? Do they not know what the Russians plan? They have great engineers of their own, but to give them Whittle’s engines is just impossible.”
Vance knew that unless von Ohain was the greatest actor in the world, he was anti-Soviet. Most Germans were, and with reason. Von Ohain’s reaction had another element to it, however—he was concerned about the injustice to Whittle as much as the effect on Western security.
There was a brief pause, each man lost in his own chain of thought, but Shannon soon got back to business, saying, “You did work for the U.S. Navy. I understand that engines you created for it were excellent, much more powerful than anything we have now.”
“Yes, that was my He S 011. Four years of development went into it. But I’m glad that it never went into a Nazi warplane.”
This time he spoke more decisively. It was clear that he was sincere.
They chatted on and on and when Shannon glanced up at the clock he realized that they had talked for almost two hours and he had not written down a single note. Von Ohain was not just fascinating as an inventor, a brilliant physicist who had become an on-the-job trained engineer. He was also an innately charming human being to whom one immediately warmed. Shannon thought about inviting him to dinner, knowing Madeline would be delighted to meet him.
“I’m sorry, Dr. von Ohain, I know that you have other appointments in the building, and I’ve delayed you. Just one more thing, there is another gentleman arriving tomorrow, someone you undoubtedly know, Dr. Anselm Franz.”
Von Ohain’s face brightened. “Oh, good. He is a great man, a great engineer. Can you—”
Obviously unwilling to ask a favor on such short acquaintance, he caught himself.
“Go ahead, please; what is it?”
“If it is possible, can you place Dr. Franz in my barracks? I can help show him how things operate.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Smiling, bowing, von Ohain left for his next appointment.
Shannon sat back at his desk, his pencil tapping its surface, his mind racing. With people like von Ohain, Franz, and this rocket chap, von Braun, all coming to the United States, the prospects for aviation were looking up. The next few years would be decisive in terms of getting a new generation of jet aircraft built.
He looked at the paper in front of him and carefully lined out all but one name. “Aviation Consultants, Incorporated.” He’d just have to put his foot down with Made line on this one; the Lord knew she won almost every other argument they had.
July 18, 1947, San Diego, California
It had started three months before as an affectionate joke by Madeline, an attempt to ingratiate herself with Tom and Harry, to break somehow through their reserve.
In her years at Convair, Madeline had made many friends, and one of the best of them was Luigi “Lou” Capestro, an engineer who served as Issac “Mac” Laddon’s right arm in designing a long line of Consolidated aircraft. Capestro, a big, jovial man with a contagious laugh, was responsible for the signature retractable floats on the Catalina and had been a major advocate for including the Davis wing in the B-24 design. Lou, for all his good humor, was rigidly proper and vainly tried to mask the warm spot in his heart he felt for Madeline, a disguise she and everyone else saw through at once. His feelings were in part simple physical attraction—Madeline was lovely; there was no denying it. He admired her also for her ability at work, having used her time and again to explain contract details to the surly Russians who regarded everyone at the plant with suspicion—everyone but Madeline, who simply charmed them. But she had done more. When his wife, Catherine, became ill in 1945, Madeline had spent hours with her, helping her through an illness that was largely due to her anxiety over her four sons, all in the service. Even though Madeline worked long hours at the plant, she managed to come by to cheer Catherine, sometimes going to Mass with her and the identical twin girls, Marie and Anna. Born on March 15, 1926, the two girls were stunning brunettes, petite but with a wild, ribald sense of humor that they tried to conceal from their parents and their brothers. Extremely close, the girls never went on single dates, always insisting that they had to be together. No suitor for one ever had a problem finding a friend for the other.
Madeline learned that Tom and Harry were going to meet in La Jolla in April to make arrangements for the sale of the Paseo del Ocaso Street house their father had deeded over to them. It was easy to persuade Lou Capestro to throw a party for two sons of Vance Shannon, who had many friends throughout the firm. For a kicker, she arranged with Lou for Marie and Anna to be their blind dates, thinking that the contrast of the tall, blond Shannon boys and the tiny, brunette girls would be a pleasant joke for all, even though nothing could possibly come of it. The Shannons were totally preoccupied with aviation, and despite being Lou Capestro’s daughters, the girls were more than indifferent to flying and flyers; they were actively hostile, having been pursued relentlessly from the age of sixteen by naval aviators. There was a religious problem, too. Vance Shannon had been Catholic, but Margaret was an Episcopalian and the boys had been brought up in her faith. The Capestros were devout leading members of the Our Lady of the Rosary Church, which the Barnabite Fathers ran with an iron fist in a steel glove.
Lou never did things by halves, and he invited more than a hundred people from Convair for the evening at his big house on Guy Street in the Mission Hills. It overlooked the ever-growing Convair plant and had a nice view of the Point Loma peninsula.
Madeline wandered out on the porch, and to her left the sun was setting into San Diego. She found Vance sitting in a chair, watching the evening activity on the water. She joined him quietly, slipping her arm in his, and pointed to the hundreds of little boats, skiffs, barges, and motorboats that crisscrossed the bay like pedestrians on Fifth Avenue at noon.
“What do you think?”
Vance smiled and squeezed her arm with his. “What do I think? I think how in the hell do you always do everything right? I would never have thought that you could pull a party for the boys out of the hat like this, even from Lou. This is fantastic.”
“We’d better go inside. You can’t chance looking standoffish at an Italian party.”
Vance went in and was soon engaged with Lou in a heated discussion over baseball, both men being ardent fans. Madeline circulated, as always, leaving smiles behind her as she went. Lou had not spared any expense. There were two bands, an enormous buffet catered personally by Mama Ghio of Anthony’s Seafood Grotto, and three strategically placed bars. One of these was dedicated to serving the currently popular “Atomic Depth Charge,” a potent combination of rum, gin, orange juice, and ginger ale. One was pleasant, two were dangerous to driving, and three were fatal to sexual inhibitions.
Madeline’s harmless joke had backfired at the introduction, where it was obvious that the Shannon boys were bowled over by the spectacular beauty of the twins, dressed alike in low-cut peach dresses. Marie and Anna were only a little harder to convince. By the end of their first dance, Tom was enchanted while Marie felt only that things were going better than she had believed they would. Anna was smitten by Harry, who, typically, was more reserved. None of it mattered. By the end of the second dance and t
he first Atomic Depth Charge, all the reservations were gone, along with many of the inhibitions. Before the evening was over, both couples believed themselves to be in love, and from that point on they were inseparable.
This posed a problem, as the Capestro sisters were well chaperoned by the Capestro brothers, all back from service in the Marines. The four brothers—Jasper, Augie, Sal, and Ross—were both openly menacing and ever-present until Tom and Harry proved their good intentions by buying engagement rings a month to the day after they met the twins.
The news rocked both families, especially the insistence of the young couples on marrying immediately, threatening to go to Mexico if an early date was not approved. To Vance Shannon’s astonishment and Madeline’s delight, both boys agreed to convert to Catholicism. They immediately began taking instructions and going to Mass. Lou Capestro assigned the conversion job as if it were a wartime rush order for armament to his old friend and drinking buddy Father William Trombley. Harry and Tom treated the instruction as if it were an aircraft manual and were ready for baptism by July 17.
The wedding had gone well. Tom’s and Harry’s reservations about Madeline evaporated in the light of the genuine affection in which she was held by the Capestro twins and by the inescapable fact that she had somehow engineered the whole happy transaction.
As the wedding reception drew to a close, Madeline was called on for a toast, and she responded with one she had been preparing since the two sets of twins had fallen mutually in love. A little unsteady from too much champagne, she rose and said:
“Here is to Anna, who has found her Marie in Harry;
Here is to Marie, who has found her Anna in Tom;
Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age) Page 16
