Trophy for Eagles

by Boyne, Walter J.

  "It would be tough for his family to accept."

  "That's not the trouble. It's his ego. What do you think we should do, Mother?"

  Charlotte leaned over and took Patty's hand, just as she had when her daughter was a child.

  "Patty, I'm going to ask you a favor. Don't call me Mother, call me Charlotte. It's not because I'm worried about growing old, but because I want to be able to treat you as a woman, not just as my daughter. I don't have many people I can really talk to."

  "Sure, it's very modern. I'll slip, but sure."

  "You have many more chances in life than I did, especially in flying. I never really mastered instrument flying, and Stephan says you're very good."

  "What's come over you, Mother—I mean, Charlotte? You seem to be entirely composed, rested, content."

  "I've grown up. Thank God." She looked a little embarrassed, and stared straight into Patty's eyes. "I don't need men or flying as I once did."

  Patty glanced out over the lawn. The openness was even more startling than the change in demeanor.

  Charlotte was arranging flowers in a vase, an activity so out of character that Patty couldn't comment on it.

  Patty nodded approval of the flowers, and, pressing, asked, "Why are you so content?"

  "Well, I have my daughter back with me for a while. The businesses are doing well, and damn few people in America can say that. Bruno's been on his best behavior around here; I can't remember the last time we had a fight. It's funny, because he was more nervous than I've ever seen him when he came back from Germany. I thought someone had threatened him."

  She was quiet for a while, then went on, "Mainly, though, I think I'm happy because I've finally admitted to myself that I'm hurt because what I've done for flying hasn't been recognized. I want to set some records, to win some races, to make my name known. In the past I wouldn't admit that to myself."

  Patty shook her head. "You're being too hard on yourself. Everyone knows that your demonstration flights have been the main factor in Hafner Aircraft sales."

  "That's part of the problem. The Army knows, sure, but not the public. Practically the only flying I've ever done was for the business."

  Patty's eyes lit up. They were getting closer to the subject she wanted to broach when Charlotte sailed the conversation into totally uncharted waters.

  "And, of course, there's the fact that I have a decent lover."

  Patty struggled to keep her face composed, her voice even. They had never discussed any subject like this before.

  "Should I ask who, or be politely silent?"

  "You don't have to ask. I'll tell you, because I want you to know. It's Dusty Rhoades. Surprised?"

  Appalled might be a better word, Patty thought. "No. Why not? You've been associated a long time, and propinquity is almost always a factor in things like this." She paused. "And you weren't exactly discreet, even in Orleans."

  "This isn't a 'thing like this,' but propinquity is certainly part of the cause." She watched Patty, amused at her attempt at nonchalance. "Let me fill in the blanks I see on your face. Yes, he's still handsome but he's put on weight. Yes, he is kind. Yes, I'm going to marry him someday. No, I don't know when. I'd have to get a settlement from Bruno that protected you, and I don't see that happening. Any others?"

  "No, and don't worry about protecting me. Stephan takes good care of me."

  "Well, the question you should have asked, because I know you must have heard the rumors, is 'What about his drug problem?' Right?"

  Patty nodded.

  "That's part of it too. He needs me, and that's something new for me in a man. I'm going to help him beat his habit, rehabilitate him."

  There was doubt and anguish in Patty's face.

  "Why am I telling you all this? Because I don't want to bother to cover up with you. I have to with Bruno, of course, although I'm sure he knows. But it would be inconvenient to make up stories with you too. What difference does it make? It's my business, and you're a grown woman."

  Patty stood up and paced the floor. Charlotte was right, but it was a lot to take in. "Maybe we ought to talk about something else. Like flying. When can I get checked out in the Hafner airplanes? And if I do, will I be a threat to you?"

  "Not a threat, a blessing. I'm not crazy about your flying, but I know how you feel. I felt the same way at your age. I'll turn it all over to you as soon as you can handle it. I will have to do the demonstration flights for a while; Bruno thinks I have a special rapport with the Air Corps. But you'd fit right in." She paused. "I've got a tip for you. Do your record-setting flying from city to city. There are a million records out there that have never been set—Kokomo to Hoboken, Cucamonga to Mojave—and the first time you fly it, you set a record. The press eats it up, and it's easy. Stay away from the pylon racing; it's too dangerous."

  Her expression changed from concern to anger as she continued, "I want it to be different for you! No matter what I do, the press doesn't care. That damn Amelia Earhart gets all the publicity."

  It was as close as Patty had ever seen Charlotte come to crying. She knew what the problem was—Amelia Earhart had just returned from her solo flight across the Atlantic, and you couldn't pick up a magazine or go to the newsreels without seeing her.

  "She's just an appealing figure, Charlotte. She looks like Lindbergh, and someone knows how to get publicity for her. Bruno is content as long as the Air Corps is pleased by your flying. Maybe you ought to get a press agent."

  Charlotte had recovered. "Well, maybe. There's one thing more, though, a quid pro quo for flying. I want you to start assuming more responsibility in managing the business. You've avoided it long enough. I want you to start putting in a forty-hour week at the plant."

  Patty jumped up and kissed her; she wanted the work more than the flying.

  *

  New York City/July 2, 1932

  The French consul in New York had arranged for a reception for Stephan and Patty at the Wings Club, and most of the aviation notables in town attended, including Charlotte's bete noire, Amelia Earhart. When they met in the receiving line, Amelia was very gracious, and Charlotte almost snubbed her. Nevertheless, when the receiving line ended, Amelia came to Patty and gently tugged at her elbow.

  "Can we go somewhere and talk for a moment?" Flushed with pleasure, Patty walked with her down the hall to the library. Earhart closed the doors behind them, and they sat at a huge walnut table layered with aviation magazines from around the world.

  They sat for a moment, each studying the other. Amelia's voice was low and vibrant, entirely different from the scratchy high-pitched tones of the newsreels. Not so tall as she appeared in her photos, she projected an aura of vulnerable authority, as if she were cast as the Saint Joan of flying for women, and was not comfortable in the role. Yet underneath her apparent fragility a resilient inner strength was apparent. A thousand questions occurred to Patty, but the first one came from Amelia.

  "Would you like a cigarette?"

  "No, but please have one if you wish."

  "I'm glad you don't smoke. I don't either, despite the Lucky Strike ads. I take the money from them, but I never say I smoke. I hate it."

  Amelia gave a little shudder, then moved her chair closer to Patty. The most famous woman aviator in the world kicked off her shoes and curled her feet up beneath her. "I understand that you learned to fly in France?"

  "Yes, my instructor taught me to fly, then I persuaded him to marry me."

  Earhart smiled, relaxing. As she let her guard down, her face softened, and the set smile that she provided photographers on cue turned into an intimate grin that said, "I like you, and I hope you like me."

  "Your instructor was lucky. What made you want to fly?"

  Patty realized that an interview was in process.

  "It's in the family. My father was a pilot in France during the war. He was an ace, but he was killed in combat. My mother flies, and oddly enough, my stepfather is also a pilot from the war. The German side. I guess i
t was inevitable for me to want to follow in all those footsteps."

  "My spies tell me that you are an expert instrument pilot."

  "I'm not sure I would say that, but my husband has given me almost one hundred hours of instruction in a Caudron cabin plane. I hope I've learned a little."

  Earhart pursed her lips, obviously hesitant.

  "This is a little difficult for me. For one thing, I've heard that your mother doesn't like me—I don't know why. For another, we've just met. But I want to ask a favor of you."

  "Don't worry about Mother; she's larger than life, and I'm sure if you got to know each other you'd be friends. And if I can help, I will."

  Again, there was a moment of silence. "I've been asked to go to Detroit for the introduction of a new Hudson car. I'm to be 'mistress of ceremonies.' I hate that term; it sounds as if I were going to service the entire audience."

  Patty smiled.

  "The car is going to be called the Terraplane, so they've invited some aviation figures to be present. Believe it or not, Orville Wright will be there, and that's the main reason I'm going. How could I refuse if he is willing?"

  Patty was still unable to see how she could help.

  "I've borrowed a new airplane to make the trip, a four-place cabin Waco with a Continental engine. It's really quite beautiful."

  She paused, and then blurted, "It also has a complete set of flight instruments. I'd like you to go with me and give me some instruction on instrument flying."

  Patty sat up. What a compliment! Stephan would be pleased, and Charlotte absolutely furious!

  "I'm honored, but aren't there many pilots who are better qualified than I am?"

  "Not better, perhaps, but there are others, all men. I'm frightened of male instructors. I learned to fly from Neeta Snook, and even though I've flown with many men pilots, some of the best, it's hard for me to learn from them. That's why I do the cigarette advertisements—I use the money to train women instructors, and to teach other women to fly. I'm tired of flying being strictly a man's game."

  Patty nodded vigorously. "I think men find sex in flying. I'm not talking about groping around in a cockpit. There's just some mixture of death and sex in flying that appeals to them."

  "You're right. I know just what you mean. To men a plane is like a good bed partner. Women get a more spiritual lift from flying." She paused. "Not that there is anything wrong with a good bed partner."

  Patty laughed, and Amelia went on. "You know, most instructors either try to make a girl student pilot sick or they pinch her bottom, or both."

  "My mother pinches back; I think that's why she's been so successful."

  "There's the same sort of difference with clothes. Why men pilots feel they have to dress up like businessmen, with coats and ties, I'll never know."

  "You always look wonderful."

  "No, it's your mother who looks wonderful. I'm scrawny and not very feminine-looking. She always looks like a movie star."

  She patted Patty's hand. "How about it? Will you do me a favor?"

  "You're on!"

  Amelia, obviously delighted, leaned over and hugged her.

  *

  Detroit, Michigan/July 21, 1932

  The breeze from Lake St. Clair was simply more heat-laden moisture and comforted no one. It was an hour until dinner, and Patty lay naked in bed, flapping a towel for comfort as the beaded moisture of her bath was slowly replaced by perspiration.

  The trip up had been marvelous. The airplane was delightful, stable about all axes, and capable of an honest 100-mph cruise speed. Earhart deferred to Patty, letting her make most of the takeoffs and landings.

  It took Amelia a little time to get used to the hood Stephan had made for Patty to use while learning to fly instruments. It was a simple strap-on device, looking much like an accountant's green visor, but it blocked out the view of everything but the instrument panel. It was the next best thing to actually flying in clouds.

  Patty watched outside for other traffic, and gave Amelia course and altitude directions that let her practice turns, climbs, and descents. She particularly enjoyed dropping in on the airports at Pittsburgh and Cleveland, where Amelia caused an instant furor of activity. It was the first time Patty had been around a genuine celebrity, and she loved it.

  At Detroit, they landed ironically enough at the Ford Airport at Dearborn. With one last apologetic look at Patty, Amelia took on a different persona. From the moment she swept from the biplane's tiny cabin door onto the lower wing, Amelia had been "on," plugging aviation, and introducing Patty as "the Lindbergh of the thirties."

  Dinner at the Chapins' that evening made her think wistfully of France again: it was overdone roast beef, overcooked string beans, mashed potatoes, and overcooked gravy. There had been plenty of hard liquor available before the meal, but only iced tea with it. The coffee was wonderful.

  Whatever Chapin's faults in the gastronomy department, Patty could only admire his public relations skills. The next day the Terraplane was presented to the world from a shipping terminal only four blocks north of the main Essex plant. While some dealers and salesmen were given tours in the two thousand identical demonstrators that Chapin had assembled for a parade, the rest ate a huge lunch in gigantic tents spotted around the square.

  The high point was the christening. A champagne bottle had been carefully etched with acid so that it would break without putting a dent in the sweeping chromium grille of the new car. Amelia, in a high-necked dress that was drenched with sweat, gave the grille a gentle tap, and high-test aviation gasoline poured out over the Terraplane. Orville Wright, after hours of sitting anonymously with his fedora clamped sternly around his ears and eyebrows, stood up and clapped. Patty wished her mother had been there, to see if she would have tried to seduce him.

  She and Earhart got up early the next morning, and repeated the exchange of lessons on the way back to Long Island. On the approach into Roosevelt Field, Amelia pulled back on the throttle and yelled, "Patty, thank you so much. I've learned a lot. Please, let's keep in touch. I'm sure we can help each other in the future."

  *

  Laredo, Texas/July 24, 1932

  American food had always puzzled Stephan, but this was absurd. He had suffered some terrible food on duty in Algiers, but one expected it there. He pushed away the plate of beans and rice. For one solid week he'd eaten nothing but goat, in stews, steaks, and roasts, and with only beer to drink. His system was beginning to stage a revolution.

  The only thing positive was that no one would know he had been to the sunbaked Texas town, as forsaken as a Foreign Legion outpost. Patty's trip with Amelia Earhart had been a godsend. He had told her that he had to go to San Antonio, on assignment from the French air force, to see the American training establishment. He had spent one day there, and then had taken the lurching, gritty train south to Laredo and the hardly antiseptic clinic of Dr. Ravenal Drinkley.

  Accustomed to European hospitals and spas, he was dismayed by the rambling bunkhouse structure at the edge of the desert, broiling in the hundred-degree heat. Something had apparently been lost in the translation between what Drinkley was doing and what Stephan's own physician, Dr. Lissarague, had thought he was doing. Lissarague had heard that Drinkley was a specialist in fertility, when in fact most of the other patients were seeking potency.

  But Drinkley, who inspired confidence despite his enormous bulk and the fact that his white medical coat tended to be a display of menus past, had assured Stephan that increased potency was just a fortunate—and sought-after—by-product of a vast increase in fertility. He quickly agreed to take the week-long regime.

  He was the only European there; the clientele were from California for the most part, and he thought that two or three of the older men were incognito film stars. The rest were from South America, primarily Argentina, but a few from Brazil.

  All were apparently wealthy; one had to be. The course of treatment cost $1,000, payable in advance, and including the monotonously goat-lad
en meals. Stephan had dipped into a private account, and the expenditure for the treatment was going to interfere substantially with future dalliances.

  The ghastly meals were derived from the treatment. Drinkley had a secret process by which glands from goats were placed in a centrifuge; the resulting essence was then not only injected in the patients, but served in a revolting concoction that was taken four times a day. The unfortunate goats from which the glands had come appeared at every meal in some barely disguised state. Drinkley made a virtue of the fact, claiming that the cooked-goat diet helped the body adjust to the raw-goat injections.

  Drinkley apparently dissolved his goat extract in some sort of beeswax emulsion; the twice-daily injections left large lumps that took time to absorb. On the day he left, Stephan's legs looked as if he were trying to smuggle marbles out beneath his skin.

  Between the treatment, the food, and the heat, Stephan knew that he would deserve any babies he conceived. At the end, he was aware only of an increased sense of potency, but that could easily be attributable to abstinence. It had been easy to refuse to join the others, anxious to check their progress, on their clandestine trips across the border to Nuevo Laredo's red-light district. Lurking in the back of his mind was a hideous conjecture that some youthful indiscretion was responsible for his fertility problem.

  *

  Salinas, California/July 30, 1932

  Clarice Roget mused at the tremendous change in Bandfield. Ordinarily brimming with energy, he had come back from Peru in a supercharged state as they worked desperately night and day to get the bomber proposal prepared. The shock he had felt over Hadley's accepting money from Hafner Aircraft for the fifty-five-foot wing disappeared as the engineering fever caught him. Never at rest, his fingers drumming the table, feet rocking back and forth, twirling from one spot to another like some sort of human milkshake machine, he was exhausting just to watch.

  Up at six and at the drafting table by seven, he would work all day on the bomber, running reams of figures through their pathetic old adding machine, making his slide rule hum as he checked and double-checked. Then he would bolt down an enormous supper, whatever Clarice put on the table, it didn't matter as long as there were two or three helpings and plenty of bread and butter. After the cake—she always had at least one kind of cake, maybe two—he'd race out to the barn to work on the racer, on cars, whatever Hadley wanted. Around midnight he and Hadley would hunker down over the kitchen table, under the glare of the bare bulb hanging down from the ceiling, to split half a pie and drink a pot of coffee, talking over the day and planning the next.