Out of sight of them Canidy would do much the same thing to his student, and they would each complete the fifty-mile flight to Mobile alone. Over coffee in the snack bar at Mobile, the students would be told the reasons for this exercise; then they would make the final, fifty-mile leg home to Pensacola.
Ed Bitter’s student was usually the most disoriented. Not only were mock dogfights proscribed, but buzzing houses was NAS Pensacola’s version of a mortal sin. Buzzing a three-story antebellum mansion sitting alone in the middle of twenty-five thousand uninhabited acres (with apparent disregard not only for life and limb, but for what would happen to him when the occupants—obviously rich and important—complained to the Navy) usually upset the student pilot to the point where he could be sarcastically reminded that when one is lost, and all else fails, one might consider having a look at the compass.
Everything went according to plan until it was time to buzz The Lodge.
Ed almost had the Stearman on its back when the engine quit.
In the time it took the sweep second hand on his aviator’s chronometer to move two clicks, two seconds, his emotions shifted from near rapture to abject terror. It was one thing to have an engine quit in the middle of a roll when you had a couple of thousand feet under you to recover. You just fell through—and recovered.
He had no more than one hundred feet of air beneath him.
A body in motion tends to remain in motion. So there was sufficient momentum to just barely complete the roll. Now nearly disoriented himself, he looked hastily for someplace to put the Stearman on the deck. There was nothing in sight. He was, he realized, surprisingly calm, about to crash his airplane. There was nothing he could do but put it into the trees, and hope that the nose would not go into a tree trunk.
And then the engine spluttered and caught.
Sonofabitch was fuel-starved.
But there was full power again. He inched back on the stick and picked up a little altitude. He looked frantically around for The Plantation’s airstrip, and saw it behind him. Fighting down the urge to make a steep banking turn toward it, he made a safer, slower, nearly level turn to line up with the runway. He had no idea of the wind. He was going in right now, no matter what it was.
When he got the wheels on the ground, he heard himself expel the air in his lungs.
Did I really hold my breath from the moment the goddamned engine quit until now?
He braked the Stearman, turned off the dirt runway, and stopped.
‘‘Get out of there, Mr. Ford,’’ he said to his student. He waited until Ensign Ford clambered out of the forward cockpit and onto the wing. Then he climbed out of the aft cockpit onto the ground, walked fifteen yards from the aircraft, unaware of the chilling effect the wind was having on his sweat-soaked flight suit. Without warning, he was sick to his stomach.
For a moment, he thought he was actually going to faint, but that passed, and he was then faced with shame and humiliation. Not only had he almost killed his student, but Mr. Ford was now standing there, looking at his IP’s instantaneous change from near God to literally scared sick, nauseated, and nauseating human being.
Ed became aware of the peculiar roar a Continental R670 engine makes when it is throttled back. He looked up and saw Dick Canidy’s plane about to land.
‘‘What happened, sir?’’ Mr. Ford asked, having found his courage.
‘‘The engine stopped, Mr. Ford,’’ Ed Bitter said. ‘‘I would have thought you would have noticed.’’
He had put his student into his place with the sarcastic superiority expected of instructor pilots. Doing so shamed him.
Canidy landed, taxied up beside him, and shut down his engine.
‘‘What happened?’’ he asked, and then he saw the sweat-soaked flight suit and repeated the question, this time with concern in his voice.
‘‘The engine quit,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘Just as I started the roll.’’
‘‘Jesus!’’ Canidy said.
‘‘I thought I was going into the trees,’’ Bitter confessed. ‘‘But when I got it right side up, it cut in again.’’
‘‘Fuel starvation,’’ Canidy diagnosed confidently. He walked to Bitter’s Stearman and climbed on the wing. The main fuel tank of the Stearman was located in the center of the upper wing, with the fuel line running down the wing strut to the engine.
‘‘Christ,’’ Canidy called from the wing. ‘‘Fuel’s pouring out of here. I’m surprised you didn’t catch on fire.’’
Bitter forced himself to climb up on the wing. He saw for himself what had happened. The brass fitting attaching the fuel line to the fuel tank had either been improperly tightened or had vibrated loose since the last time someone had looked at it. In level flight, the suction of the manifold had been sufficient, aided by gravity, to provide fuel to the engine. And spillage had been instantly vaporized by the slipstream.
Inverted, however, that hadn’t worked. Not enough gas had reached the engine to keep it running. And now, as Dick Canidy said, the fuel was really pouring out of the fuel tank.
‘‘I don’t suppose you have a wrench, do you?’’ Canidy asked. Bitter shook his head no.
‘‘I can’t tighten it very much with my fingers,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘It’ll really soak the fuselage.’’
‘‘I’ll walk up to The Lodge,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘They’re certain to have tools there.’’
‘‘That Gone With the Wind mansion?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘Yeah,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘And I’ll call in and tell them what’s happened.’’
Canidy jumped off the wing and called to the two student pilots. ‘‘Either of you guys got a wrench?’’ he asked. ‘‘We’ve got a loose fuel line connector. Or a pair of pliers?’’
They shook their heads, and then remembered to reply militarily. ‘‘No, sir. Sorry, sir,’’ they said, almost in unison.
‘‘Stay away from the airplanes,’’ Canidy ordered. ‘‘And no smoking. Mr. Bitter and I are going to find a wrench and a telephone. I can’t imagine it happening out here in the boondocks, but keep anybody who shows up away from the airplanes.’’
‘‘I think it would be better if you stayed here, Dick,’’ Bitter said.
Canidy looked at him a moment, then raised his eyebrows and smiled.
‘‘ ‘Reserve officers,’ ’’ he began to quote, ‘‘ ‘serving on active duty, will exercise all the—’ ’’
‘‘Suit yourself,’’ Bitter cut him off. ‘‘It’s about a mile from here to The Lodge, if you insist on going.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t miss Tara for the world,’’ Canidy said.
What he had begun to quote was the navy regulation that stated that reserve officers on active duty had equal rank with regular officers. He had graduated from MIT and been commissioned an ensign two days before Bitter had graduated from the Naval Academy. His automatic promotion to lieutenant, junior grade, after two years of satisfactory commissioned service had consequently come two days before Bitter’s automatic promotion. Lieutenant (j.g.) Canidy outranked Lieutenant (j.g.) Bitter, and it was sometimes necessary to remind him of this, for Bitter had a tendency to give orders.
They had walked about half a mile when a Ford station wagon came down the road toward them. When it reached them, it stopped and a trim, attractive woman got out.
‘‘Well, I’ll be damned,’’ she said. ‘‘Look who just dropped in out of the sky.’’ She advanced on Ed Bitter, grabbed his arms, and gave him her cheek to kiss.
‘‘Aunt Genevieve,’’ he said. ‘‘May I introduce my roommate, Lieutenant Richard Canidy? Dick, this is my aunt, Mrs. Brandon Chambers.’’
‘‘How do you do, Mrs. Chambers?’’ Canidy replied formally.
‘‘Oh, call me Jenny,’’ she said. ‘‘Eddie, and maybe his father, are the only stuffed shirts in the family.’’
‘‘He would make me call him sir,’’ Canidy replied. ‘‘But I outrank him.’’
‘‘Oh, I’d like to be in
a position to order him around,’’ Genevieve Chambers said, laughing. ‘‘Now, what’s this all about? I don’t think it’s a social call, dressed the way you are in those overlarge boys’ rompers.’’
Canidy laughed. He liked this woman.
‘‘I had a little engine trouble,’’ Ed said. ‘‘I’m going to need some tools, and then the telephone.’’
‘‘Hop in,’’ Jenny Chambers said. ‘‘That’s no problem. I’ve got Robert with me. Robert can fix anything with a coat hanger and a pair of pliers.’’
The house was even larger than it looked from the air.
‘‘Is this where they made Gone With the Wind?’’ Canidy asked innocently.
‘‘Of course,’’ she said. ‘‘Clark Gable made us a deal on the house when they were finished with it. It comes apart for shipment.’’
Canidy was aware that he was getting another of Ed Bitter’s looks of shocked disapproval. He smiled at Jenny Chambers.
‘‘Actually, it’s quite old,’’ she said. ‘‘Antebellum. My husband’s father restored it.’’
‘‘It’s gorgeous,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘It’s a shame that no one lives in it,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s just a vacation place. My husband hunts from it, and the wives and children get to use it when there’s no hunting.’’
Robert turned out to be a very large black man in a pin-stripe suit.
‘‘Hello, sir,’’ he said. ‘‘Was that you scaring hell out of the chickens?’’
‘‘How are you, Robert?’’ Ed Bitter replied.
‘‘Robert,’’ Jenny Chambers said, ‘‘this is Lieutenant Canidy. He’s Eddie’s friend, and his commanding officer. He can actually tell him what to do.’’
‘‘Oh, I’d like to be you,’’ Robert said. He shook Canidy’s hand.
‘‘Robert’s been taking care of me, keeping me out of the clutches of evil, since I was a baby,’’ Jenny Chambers said. Robert beamed with affection at her.
‘‘I understand you might be able to come up with a wrench for us,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘I’ll settle for a pair of good pliers.’’
‘‘They’ll probably send a maintenance crew from Mobile, ’’ Bitter said.
‘‘We should stop that gas from dripping all over the plane,’’ Canidy replied. ‘‘I think it’ll be all right to fly out of here.’’
‘‘I got some tools in the car,’’ Robert said.
‘‘Why don’t you get on the horn, Eddie, and call in and tell them what’s happened. Don’t tell them to send anybody till we have a chance to take a good look at it.’’
‘‘Yes, sir, Mr. Canidy, sir,’’ Bitter said. He gave Canidy a mock salute. But there was something not entirely joking about the exchange.
‘‘And I’ll see, in the meantime, what I can fix for you to eat. A sandwich, at least. Robert and I just came down this morning. I don’t know what’s here, but there should be enough for a sandwich,’’ Jenny Chambers said.
The car was a 1939 Lincoln coupe with Alabama license plates. A very expensive car, in keeping, Canidy decided, with Tara. And Eddie was a member of the family. That was very interesting. It also explained a number of things about him, not only his Buick Roadmaster convertible.
The trunk of the Lincoln held a toolkit, with a set of open-end wrenches in individual compartments. Tightening the fuel line connection—even taking great care to make sure the wrench didn’t slip and spark—took no more than a minute. Robert handed Canidy a rag, and he wiped the line down. There was no drip, and therefore no reason Eddie couldn’t fly the Stearman.
Canidy was aware that he was disappointed. It might have been interesting to have been forced to spend the night here. There was a moment’s rebirth of hope when he thought that the gasoline might have dripped into the fuselage, where it would have formed dangerously explosive vapors. But when he looked, he saw that it had fallen onto a solid piece of the aluminum, and from there down the solid aluminum wing root to the ground. Once an hour had passed to allow any chance vapors to disperse, the plane would be safe to fly.
Canidy ordered the student pilots into the Lincoln’s backseat, and rode with Robert back to the mansion. Jenny Chambers had opened a tinned ham, and made sandwiches and tea.
‘‘I’d love to offer you something stronger than tea,’’ Jenny Chambers said, ‘‘but Eddie has told me that you can’t drink and fly.’’
‘‘Not very far, anyway,’’ Canidy replied. ‘‘But I appreciate the spirit of your offer.’’
She laughed. ‘‘I like you, Lieutenant Canidy,’’ she said. ‘‘And is it really true you can order Eddie around?’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Is there anything you would like me to have him do for you?’’
‘‘Order him here for the weekend,’’ she said. ‘‘All of you, of course.’’
‘‘I don’t . . .’’ Eddie began.
‘‘Tell him to let me finish,’’ Jenny Chambers said.
‘‘Let the lady finish, Lieutenant,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Or he’ll clap you in irons,’’ she said, and then she went on. ‘‘My daughter, who is in college, up north, Bryn Mawr, is coming here with two friends,’’ she said. ‘‘So there would be people about your own age. And my husband used to be a pilot, and loves to talk flying. And then your cousin Mark is coming up from Mobile, Eddie, with his wife. You haven’t seen them in years, either.’’
‘‘The girls are a little young for Dick, Aunt Genevieve,’’ Ed Bitter said.
‘‘Just the right age,’’ she argued. ‘‘I’m five years younger than your uncle.’’
‘‘And you’re putting Dick on a spot, you realize.’’
‘‘Not at all,’’ Canidy said.
Dick Canidy suddenly got out of his chair and walked to a photograph sitting on a table just outside the dining room.
‘‘Can I get you something, Dick?’’ Jenny Chambers asked.
‘‘I thought this photograph looked familiar,’’ he said. It was a picture of Sue-Ellen Chambers and her husband.
‘‘And is it?’’
‘‘No,’’ he said.
‘‘That’s my son, Mark,’’ Jenny Chambers said. ‘‘And his wife, Sue-Ellen.’’
‘‘You’ll meet them this weekend,’’ Ed Bitter said. ‘‘Since it has been decided we’re going to come up here.’’
If he were a gentleman, Dick Canidy thought, he would say sorry, he’d already made plans for the weekend. But he said nothing. He wanted to see Sue-Ellen again.
Did this reveal, he wondered, yet another previously undetected dark and unpleasant facet of his character?
He took another look at Sue-Ellen Chambers’s deceptively innocent face, and turned around.
‘‘We’d better be going,’’ he said.
3
On the half-hour flight from Mobile back to NAS Pensacola, Ed Bitter was unhappily aware that the engine trouble he had had at The Plantation by now had come to the attention of the brass, who were likely to find out that he had violated regulations by doing acrobatics under five thousand feet.
But it had not been a crash landing, so he felt sure he could get away with having the incident officially determined to be an ‘‘unscheduled, precautionary landing,’’ rather than an ‘‘emergency landing.’’ Unscheduled, precautionary landings occurred all the time, the precaution generally having to do with an airsick student, or a piss call for an instructor who had forgotten to take a leak before taking off.
So he would probably be officially off the hook. Where they landed was then going to be the real problem, since the students, Ford and Czernik, were likely to rush back to the student BOQ to regale their fellows with the fascinating tale of landing at a private airstrip, near a mansion that, no shit, belongs to Mr. Bitter’s family.
So he would have to explain the situation to them, and ask them as a personal courtesy not to tell the story. He probably still couldn’t keep it all completely quiet, but he probably could kee
p it from being a sensation. If he could talk to them about it the right way.
Fortunately, there was a ritual after this particular exercise, which would give him the opportunity to talk to the students. On the satisfactory completion of their last training flight in primary training, Ensign Paul Ford and Ensign Thomas Czernik had stopped being ‘‘Mr. Ford’’ and ‘‘Mr. Czernik’’ to their instructors and became fellow officers, who could be addressed by their first names and permitted to drink with the instructor pilots as social equals.
It was in a sense more of a rite of passage than either their first solo flight had been (about a fifth of all students who made their solo flight were subsequently busted out of primary for inaptitude) or the official awarding of wings in the parade on Friday would be.
‘‘Dick,’’ Ed Bitter suggested as the two instructors and the two students turned in their parachutes to Flight Equipment, ‘‘why don’t you take Paul and Tom over to the club and buy them a couple of beers, until I can fill out my reports and get there?’’
‘‘I think you’d better lie about your altitude when the engine quit,’’ Dick Canidy said. ‘‘We’ll back you up, if they ask.’’
Czernik and Ford nodded willingness.
That was embarrassing. Officers were expected to be wholly truthful. But Canidy was right. Unless he lied, he was going to be in trouble.
‘‘Thank you,’’ he said barely audibly, and then forced himself to smile.
The officers’ mess served a two-quart pitcher of draft beer for thirty-five cents. Canidy and the two students had just started on their second pitcher—enough beer to give Paul Ford courage to raise the question of what had happened to the Kaydet—when a Marine orderly appeared in the room. Canidy glanced up and then ignored him. He could think of no possible reason that a Marine orderly who ran errands for admirals would be interested in him.
The Last Heroes Page 5
