Bandfield's old friend from Western Airways, Corliss Moseley, signaled to him. The crowd had left in angry, tight little groups, and he and Moseley followed a still-boiling Mahew back to his room. Roget came after them with Mahew's staff from Allied Airlines.
Over the course of an hour, and half a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, Mahew calmed down. "What's the old saying, don't get mad, get even? Let's get even. Hadley, can you deliver me a prototype airliner with better performance than the Skyangel, at least eighteen seats, two hundred miles per hour cruise, by the end of the year?"
Hadley shot a quick glance to Bandy, who bobbed his head in agreement. "May we caucus for a few minutes? I'm sure we can do it, but I want to give you a best estimate."
The few minutes dragged into an hour and a half as Bandy and Roget sat making gross calculations of weight, drag, and material lead times.
"Can't be done, Bandy. We'd need a full year, at least, and then it would be close."
"We can't say that. Let's compromise, say two hundred and seventy days. If we get them excited, get them on board the design, they'll give us an extension. I hate to promise something we can't deliver, but I'm not leaving Dayton without a contract for something."
The old crafty-codger look came into Hadley's eyes. "A prototype in two hundred and seventy days, eh? Let's shoot for it. Lots of overtime, get the engine and propeller people on board early, subcontract a lot of things—landing gear to Cleveland Pneumatic, instrument panel to Bendix." Roget's face was ecstatic. "We can do it, by God, we can do it!"
Back out with Mahew, Roget once again assumed the diplomat's role.
"Jim, we can give you the airplane you want, one clearly superior to the Hafner job, in two hundred and seventy days. Figure three months for flight test and production setup, and we'll be able to deliver the first ten airplanes by August 1934, with ten per month after that for whoever wants them."
"Hadley, I want you to stick it to Hafner, bad. He's been running wild for a long time now, and it's time to stop him. If you deliver, Roget Aircraft has a rosy future, believe me."
Bandy and Hadley spoke simultaneously. "We'll deliver!"
"It's my turn to caucus, now," Mahew said, waving the two of them out of the room. They stood in the hallway, not talking, but filled with excitement. Hadley was walking up and down, ten steps in one direction, ten back, and Bandfield was standing tracing the intricate designs in the hall runner with his toe. Both men knew that this could be the big break, the benchmark design that would save Roget Aircraft.
Mahew stuck his head out in the hall and motioned them inside.
"Just to show you how serious we are, I'll guarantee you an order for sixty for Allied Airlines, with deliveries spread out over three years. But one other thing. This has to be shared with the other airlines. I want the first ten positions on your line, but after that, make sure that the others get a chance. Understand me?"
"Understand. Are you willing to put up any development money?"
Mahew's natural business caution intervened, and he hesitated before saying, "Let's say a million for openers, and you let me know what you need. I'm going out to the industry for the money, but I'll get it. I'll confirm all this in writing. Better make the airplane a trimotor. The pilots are used to them."
Hadley and Roget went to their room, to work all night, big silver carafes of rotten hotel coffee propping their eyes open. They argued and laughed alternately, and by seven the next morning, both groggy, they shook Mahew's hand again and presented him with two sketches. One was for a trimotor, the other for a twin-engine transport.
"Let us work out the specs, Ted, and we'll send you a final recommendation. A twin-engine plane means fewer engines to buy, fewer spares, better visibility."
Both men saw the irony in their return journey home on a railroad train. They had just pulled off the biggest airplane deal in their life, and would have plenty of time to reflect on it as the train chugged toward their Chicago transfer point. Four Roses whiskey swirled over ice cubes in the big cut-glass tumblers in the club car as they began to fill in the details of the design possibilities as if they were dots to connect in a puzzle. Dead tired from the tension of the week, both men dozed intermittently, dreams punctuated by the clatter of the rails. The pleasure of winning the impromptu design competition for the new transport evaporated as Bandfield thought about the future.
"Hadley, I'd like to see Bruno's face when he finds out about this."
"Forget about Bruno. Just think about his airplane. I want to have our transport's design parameters laid out by the time we get back to L.A. No mooning about—let's get cracking. It's a damn good thing the racer is finished and I can work full-time on this."
A week later, Bandy and Roget were in the factory early, installing a huge paper poster on which was drawn the outline of the now-famous Hafner Skyangel. Beneath, in bold black letters, was written: "LIKE THIS, ONLY BIGGER AND BETTER!!!!"
*
Buffalo, New York/June 22, 1933
The Heidelberg Hof restaurant had prospered during Prohibition, when discreet payoffs to local politicians had enabled it to run a full bar without any problems. Now it was a little on the tatty side, with peeling prints of wholesome peasants frolicking in the fields and tonsured monks tippling at their wine casks.
Ernst Udet hardly fit the image of Germany's leading living ace. A survivor of the war, an aerobatic champion, a filmmaker—the chubby-cheeked flyer sat poking at his plate, trying to separate the gristly slices of smoked pork loin from the greasy sauerkraut, his normal cherubic smile vanished. He picked up a stack of white bread and thumbed through it as if it were a deck of cards.
"Well, it's not Horcher's, is it? My God, Bruno, how can Americans make millions of cars and not be able to make decent bread? How do you stand it?"
Bruno laughed. "I never eat it, just as I never drink the cold piss they call beer. If you stick to steaks and lobster and scotch, you can get by."
Udet's movements were mongoose-quick, in odd contrast to his soft, wryly humorous manner of speech. Underneath his courteous manner, he watched Hafner closely, trying to determine if and where he could fit into the scheme of things. Germany needed airmen now, but Udet did not require any more rivals. It was difficult enough just getting along with Goering and his cronies.
He patted his pockets for matches, pushing the earthenware bottle to Hafner as he lit his cigarette. "Can't fly on one wing; have another Steinhager." Hafner poured the clear liquor into the tall thin-walled double shot glasses.
Udet tossed his back and smacked his lips. "Just like the good old days, eh, Bruno?"
They had been good days, even in late 1918, when to their amazement they found that Germany, victor over Russia, was suddenly losing the war. "But times have changed. Then I was thin and had hair. Now, ach." He ran his hand over a balding dome just fringed with hair.
Hafner smiled. Erni was heavier, but that was not the big change. In 1918, he had been a little gamecock, sure of himself, netting trophies of aircraft and women with equal abandon. And even with sixty-two victories, Udet had been by far the best-liked ace. Von Richthofen had been aloof, a taskmaster, a visionary battle leader who seemed to know that he was doomed to die soon in combat. Goering had been a tyrant, perhaps of necessity, for he had taken over the Richthofen Geschwader when the German air force was short of everything but courage. But Udet—everyone had loved Udet, who had taken seriously flying and killing only. The rest—squadron discipline, dress, saluting—had meant nothing to him. The enlisted men particularly, already beginning to be infected with Bolshevik ideas, had respected him.
He was changed—aged and uncertain. He seemed to be unsure of what to say and how to say it.
Hafner watched him closely. He thought he knew why Udet had asked to see him. The Nazis had always said they would rearm Germany, and judging from the inquiries for arms his warehouse in New Jersey had been getting, they had already started.
"Remember how we had to put wooden
wheels on the airplanes on the ground, and change to rubber tires before a flight? Or fly out to drain the oil and scavenge the copper from a crashed British plane?"
"It's different now, Bruno. Things are looking up. We'll be flying new planes in a few years, with plenty of tires and all the oil and copper we need."
The flicker of Hafner's eyebrows showed his skepticism. Udet caught it, and tried to analyze it. His slow and sometimes hesitant manner gave him a chance to think before he spoke. He fiddled with the matches again, to gain time. A smart fellow, he thought; I didn't remember him that way. He was always charging out to get the enemy, going into combat every day. Even gave some victories away. That was suspicious!
Udet spoke. "I'm sorry I missed you last year in Germany. I was shooting a film in Greenland. SOS Iceberg. You saw it?"
Hafner shook his head. "Sorry. Has it played in the United States?"
"No, and you are lucky. It is a terrible film, almost killed me. I had to crash a Moth into the freezing water near an iceberg. I damn near drowned."
Udet snubbed his cigarette out, lit another, and poured more Steinhager. He pulled a long, slender green leather folder out of his coat pocket and put it on the table, along with a pen. Udet was an inveterate doodler, a caricature artist. He sketched an enormous fat man, bulging out of the cockpit of an airplane, pudgy fingers bejeweled, his arm extended in a Nazi salute. Tossing it over to Hafner he asked, "Did timer Hermann take good care of you?"
"Ja. Good likeness, Ernst. God, is he fat! I wouldn't have recognized him if he hadn't been all decked out in a general's uniform, with poor stupid old Loerzer at his side."
Both men knew that it was only fair that Goering kept Bruno Loerzer at his side. In 1915 arthritis had crippled Goering, reducing him from a dashing infantry lieutenant to a convalescent, destined to be a supply officer in some garrison town. Loerzer had gotten him into flying, first as an observer, then as a pilot. From that point on, they had been inseparable, managing to get assigned to the same unit, if not the same aircraft, until their successful combat records made them commanders of different fighter units—Loerzer had Jasta 26 and Goering Jasta 27.
Udet and Goering had been more rivals than friends, and Loerzer always took Goering's part. But all three men had liked Hafner, and he had provided a friendly link among them.
"Apparently you are some sort of fair-haired knight with Goering.
He often talks about you, which is rare; he usually talks about himself. What's the story?"
Hafner smiled to himself. The story was simple: he had made a hero out of Goering and never mentioned it afterward. It was just after the war had ended on that bitter November 11, when the politicians had sold the soldiers out, and Goering was ordered to surrender their aircraft, their precious, hoarded Fokkers, to the French at Strasbourg. Goering, already shaken by a brush with a revolutionary "Soldiers' Council," was uncertain how to comply. Hafner had pulled him aside and said, "Let's go—and everyone crash on landing. We'll comply with the terms of the Armistice—but give them shit."
The Fokkers had whirled low across the field in impeccable formation, wheels just brushing the grass, wingtips interlocked, to show the French that these were not amateurs arriving. Then a soaring chandelle climb and they had landed like clowns, crashing their airplanes one by one. Hafner had dug in a wingtip, sending his Fokker cartwheeling and destroying it. Others ran into each other or into the line of trees that edged the field. When they were finished, the furious French had nothing but kindling on their hands.
The act had made Goering a hero anew, at a time when Germany sorely needed new heroes. But Hafner's role was still a secret. It would remain that way. "We just got along. He needed friends; I was one."
"Ja, even now, even with all his phony charm, Hermann is not easy to work with." He thought to himself, And he needs friends more than ever, more than he knows. "But he's doing a good job even if he eats and drinks too much, and ..."
He moved his hands as if he were shoving a hypodermic needle in his arm.
"Dope? Does the Fuehrer know?"
Udet laughed, dragging deeply on the cigarette. "There's not much Uncle Addie doesn't know, because those swine around him tell him everything. They're like a ladies' sewing society, all gossip. I hate them."
Hafner was unsettled. He'd gone to Germany last year to meet the leading men in the German military because Udet had sent him a message pleading that he do so. Udet was sending a mixed signal, telling him of deficiencies in the leadership he was expected to support. Was he trying to confuse him deliberately? Testing him, perhaps? Well, he thought, I've nothing to hide, I'll tell him what I think.
Udet went on. "Goering was badly wounded in the Munich putsch," Udet explained, "and picked up the morphine habit while he convalesced. He controls it, and even with it, he's the best of the lot. God, you should see some of them—crazy Hess, that filthy Streicher."
Hafner decided to call the bluff.
"If you hate the Nazis, Ernst, why are you here? Why are you working with them?"
Udet let the cigarette smoke roll out of his nostrils in a long, lazy stream, eyeing Hafner steadily, as if the remark made profound sense.
"And what was I to do? I don't hate Germany. And how long do you think I can go on making a living picking up handkerchiefs with my wingtip and flying under bridges?" He was quiet a moment, and then said, "And especially doing this." He drank a Steinhager, and poured another.
Hafner was proving to be a little too sharp, a little too smart. He could be dangerous. But he could also be a good ally. In all the turmoil of the emerging air force, allies were absolutely necessary. With Hafner's connections to Goering and Loerzer, he could be invaluable.
"Goering has promised me the rank of colonel when they announce the new air force, and he'll put me in charge of aircraft selection."
Hafner felt his interest quicken. He had his own ideas on the airplanes a great power needed, and they were a break with past thinking. Perhaps Udet could be convinced.
Udet said, "That's why I asked you to come here. After two years of trying, I'm finally getting to buy a Curtiss Hawk, the dive-bomber. They call them Hell Divers, and they are like flying artillery."
Hafner was silent, absorbing all of Udet's remarks, analyzing the quiet fury that was now obviously blazing beneath the genial surface. They had both been hammered in the fires of war. He wondered how Udet had been affected. He knew that his own standards of judgment and morality had been forever changed. He had probably killed forty or fifty men in the air, and perhaps twice that many ground strafing. He could not be sure about the number, but he was very sure that he had enjoyed doing it. Once you operated on that level, once you had established an internal ethic that killing was a pleasure, almost nothing else in life fit in. He remembered his boyhood days, when he would go to church on Good Friday, convinced that his sins were going to pull the thunder and lightning directly down on him. During the war he realized there was no one looking down, no God to judge him. You could do whatever you could get away with. Was Udet the same?
Udet was staring at him, wondering where his mind was.
Hafner snapped back to the present and said, "I know the airplane. It must be obsolete, or the U.S. government wouldn't have permitted its sale. It doesn't compare with my own A-11."
"Ah, maybe so, but as an aircraft type it is superb! There was an American film last year, Hell Divers, a good film, showing how the American Navy uses dive bombers. I had it shown to the Fuehrer, and finally got permission to buy some demonstrators."
Hafner had seen the film; it was excellent, but hardly a basis on which to make state armament decisions. He filed the remark away. If he was ever in a social situation with Hitler, he'd bring up his own film-flying with Howard Hughes.
"We'll build our own, of course. I have already talked to Henschel and to Junkers. But the Curtiss is a start. I don't think the Americans know what they have."
The fat waitress, her dirndl riding up over huge thi
ghs, had been hovering, happy to have real Germans in the restaurant. Udet pleased her with a lewd grin and then waved her away. He decided to be direct.
"Tell me, what did you think about our new Chancellor?"
"If you asked me last year if he ever had a chance to be elected, I would have said no. He is terribly impressive, messianic—but so common."
A mixed expression came over Udet, successively reflecting humor, fear, and embarrassment. He was both a commoner and common himself, and so was Hafher for that matter. But Bruno was like so many Germans, enamored of the Hohenzollerns who had done them so much harm, just because they'd been invited to dine with them, or spent a weekend hunting in some baronial preserve. It was a medal mentality.
"Ach, Bruno, don't be too quick to judge. It's hard to like Hitler and too easy to underestimate him. That's why he's Chancellor. They underestimated him." He looked around quickly and said, "And that's why I'm here. You can laugh about Addie and unser Hermann all you want—but they are going to rearm Germany, and in a way that will make the world tremble."
Udet watched Hafner closely, trying to gauge his reaction. He could offer nothing in the way of money or luxury to compare with what Hafner could enjoy in the United States. But the old martial drums, the banners, the combat, they might snare him.
Even sitting, Hafner towered over Udet like a huge gorilla. He looked skeptical, openly testing the smaller man.
"Do you think the other politicians will let them? Christ, the Nazis are riffraff, brawlers! They won't last six months in civilized society. They are good only to protest, not to wield power and have responsibilities." It was the party line he had heard from his relatives; he thought differently himself.
"They've already lasted six months, Bruno, and Hitler is taking complete control. Goering's put twenty thousand people in concentration camps. There will be more. They burned the Reichstag and had Papa Hindenburg suspend the constitution. Don't worry about this bunch lasting—Hitler will only leave the Chancellery feet first!"
Trophy for Eagles Page 31
