He took a deep breath in spite of the pressure on his chest and tried to pull the stick backward, but he could no more pull it back than he could have pulled up a sapling by the roots. He had not expected this. Tears crept into his eyes and his chin quivered. He did not know what to do. He had thought his decision to struggle for his life would entitle him to succeed, but apparently it did not make the least difference.
He loosened the safety belt and managed to get both feet on the instrument panel, thinking he could obtain more leverage this way; then, with the veins standing out on his neck and tears rolling down his cheeks he tried once more. In a little while his vision grew dim. He could not see his hands. The dials on the panel slipped out of focus and came floating toward him like wandering black halos merging and separating and merging again. This meant only one thing: the course was changing. But he thought he had waited too long and braced himself for the impact. He expected, for some reason, to ricochet at least once before the final crash, like a stone skipping across the surface of a lake, and then through the noise of the wind and the howl of the engine he distinguished a grotesque sound—it sounded to him like the terrified baying of a mad dog. He rolled his head toward the mirror. Why the mirror was turned down into the cockpit he had no idea, but there he saw the reflection of himself. His mouth hung open, saliva drooled from the corners. He wore a helpless, earnest look, a pleading look. After that he could not see anything, and lost all knowledge of himself.
When his sight returned he could not, for a moment, think where he was, but he had the feeling that he was older. Then it came to him that he was about to die. He thought of the road, which he remembered had been just in front of the engine; he glanced ahead, expecting to catch a glimpse of the road as it came smashing through. Instead, amazed, he saw nothing but the milky sky. The control stick was drawn all the way back between his legs and the SBD was soaring majestically upward, on its fin like a dolphin in the Florida sunlight. The airspeed was diminishing; in a few seconds the Dauntless would stall again, this time so close to the earth that no recovery would be possible.
At the last moment he brought the plane over and sank forward as though returning to the sea. He discovered that his feet were still on the instrument panel. Several of the dials were broken. He had crushed them beneath his heels.
The bomber was ruined. There was a jagged rip near the tip of one wing. Whether it had been the body of a bird, or a meteor fragment, or only the wind, he did not know, but something had torn the metal surface as though it were tinfoil, and part of the aileron was missing so that the plane would no longer fly straight ahead; it flew aslant, crabbed, and he was obliged to hold the stick to one side to prevent the wing from dipping and the plane from spinning down around it. The crack in the opposite wing had lengthened where the rivets had burst and the seam was gaping. The engine was vibrating so heavily that he guessed the propeller blades had been twisted out of alignment. The vibrations were passing over the entire airplane; he could feel them through the soles of his shoes and through the parachute pack on which he was sitting. He began to smell gas. The Dauntless was ready to explode. Even if it failed to explode it would not remain in the air much longer.
Something trickled over his lips. He put out his tongue and tasted blood and immediately looked in the mirror and saw that he was bleeding from both nostrils. He wiped his nose across the back of his head, looked in the mirror again, and saw the blood reappear. He did not feel sick or faint, so he concluded it was nothing serious. He was being pricked in the throat, however, and discovered splinters of glass in his muffler, which he cautiously picked out. The glass must have come from the broken dials on the instrument panel, but he did not know how it had gotten into his muffler. The cockpit was now thick with smoke and gas fumes. He could not see any flames streaming from the cowl, as there would be if the engine had caught fire, nor was there any heat, but there was a strong odor of burning oil which made him cough and choke. He tried to fan the smoke away, but it was too thick and seemed to be getting worse. Soon it was inside his goggles, so that his eyes watered and stung and he was almost blinded.
He tried to think what he should do, but it was difficult to concentrate because the plane was shuddering so badly and the wing continued to dip. Everything was breaking apart, and he thought the plane might dive after the ruined wing at any moment. He could feel the vibrations from the throttle and control stick pass up his arms to the base of his neck and he discovered that unless he kept his jaw clenched his teeth rattled; this struck him as so preposterous that he grinned. Then the Dauntless gave a sickening drop like an elevator slipping a cable and he grew sober and again tried to decide what he should do. He could fly back to the station, or as far as he could go in that direction, and attempt to land. If permission was refused because of the condition of the airplane—if an attempt to land would endanger the lives of other people—then he would obey whatever orders the tower gave him. The next step, providing he got out alive, would be to confess what he had done. And he had knowingly, willfully, violated instructions. He had been told quite explicitly what would occur when the flaps of an SBD were closed during a dive. He had even been shown a movie of the khaki-and-blue wreckage in the woods where the lieutenant had crashed, and often since then he had thought of the lumberjacks who paused in their work to hunt for the meteor. But he had done it anyway; he had closed the flaps in the middle of a dive and the result was now in his hands. The Navy would expect him to return to the base without delay and accept the consequences.
There was one alternative. He could head for the Gulf of Mexico. When he flew over the beach he could lock the controls and use the parachute. In a few hours, if it held together that long, the Dauntless would be over deep water and out of gas. There it would crash and sink and the wreckage would not ever be recovered for examination. Meanwhile he could be making his way back to the station, and when they asked what happened he would swear that the engine failed in an area where there was no possibility of effecting a safe landing. That would be a form of truth because the engine would fail over the Gulf, although it would be a lie and he would always know it was a lie. And when they asked where the plane went down he could swear, not only that it had gone down at sea, but that he had sent it there in order to protect the lives of civilians who lived in the vicinity.
These were the courses before him, diverging sharply. If he chose the first, returning to the base, he must accept the judgment, however unreasonable, of other men; he would be washed out, and thereby forfeit whatever slight dignity there might be in quitting. In addition, there was a reasonably good chance he would be dishonorably discharged, or discharged without honor, or however it was they elected to convict him. He had destroyed government property, and what the sentence or punishment for that might be would depend, he supposed, on whether they adjudged the destruction accidental or intentional.
But if he chose the second course, abandoning and concealing what he had destroyed, he had only to judge himself.
He studied the sky, shading his eyes and squinting, searching for the glint of sunlight on metal or glass, but the wind had carried him far beyond the usual practice area. There was not another airplane in sight. He was alone. A cynical smile came to his lips and he began a careful climbing turn in the direction of the Gulf of Mexico.
While heading for the beach he rehearsed his story, and it was absurdly simple. He went through it again to be certain there were no mistakes, and nodded with satisfaction. Never before had he been in a situation where he could lie without literally telling a lie, and as he thought about this he understood how useful it might be to develop such a faculty.
So he leaned from side to side as he flew along, because he was afraid to bank the ruined plane, and he looked down and found that the land below him was an unearthly, sulphurous green—he was over a swamp. The hoarse cough of the engine disturbed a great blue heron that came flapping up from the stinking water and swung away to the east, and this big solitary bird t
hat flew so easily with its feet withdrawn and its head thrust forth as if in contemplation, this heron seemed to be saying that no other living creature had come that way. No one would discover the mendacity which would be his salvation.
He was pleased. He grinned as he looked ahead. There lay the Gulf. Soon he would be parachuting toward the beach while the Dauntless thundered out to sea, hour after hour, until at last it came down and left nothing but a brief scratch on the water.
He began to get ready. He took off the earphones and turned up the bill of his baseball cap. Then he reflected that the cap would blow off when he jumped, so he rolled it up and stuffed it into the pouch of his coveralls. The oxygen mask was hanging around his neck; it had slipped off his face when he pulled out of the dive. He unsnapped it and hung it on the panel. He pushed the radio cords aside so there was no chance of getting caught in them. Everything seemed to be ready. But all at once he realized he had forgotten the safety belt: he was still strapped to the seat. If he could forget that, what else had he forgotten? There was not much time. He fumbled anxiously at the hasp of the belt and finally managed to throw it open. Next, working furiously, he stuffed the shoulder harness behind the seat. He could not find anything more to do, so he practiced grabbing the ripcord handle. He felt restless and impatient; he wanted to jump into space and hear the boom of the parachute. He had never heard a parachute open, but he thought it must sound like a cannon and fill the air with a voluptuous shock.
The Dauntless was tilting more ominously. He had already trimmed it as best he could; now he was obliged to lean against one wall of the cockpit in order to sit erect. The engine was not going to last much longer; but he was only seconds away from the beach, and if the plane would fly out to sea for just two minutes it would go down in deep water where nobody would ever locate it.
Then he grew a little sick because he knew he was not thinking lucidly: he had carefully planned his escape without once thinking about the canopy. It was closed and locked. He would have butted his head against it when he tried to stand up and might have knocked himself unconscious.
He let go of the throttle and grabbed the release catch. The hatch slid open easily, though he could feel the metal edges grinding through the corrosion. It occurred to him that for the past few minutes he had been doing everything more violently than usual. He recalled how much difficulty he had had getting the hatch open at the field, but now it had been simple—he had not been conscious of much resistance. And he had noticed, too, how the halves of the safety belt flew apart and banged against the walls of the cockpit, but had not thought about it. Suddenly he understood it was terror that had given him such strength. He had heard of this happening to people, but it had never happened to him. He felt a surge of elation, a furious joyful urge to demonstrate this power while it lasted; he glared around for something to attack—anything—it did not matter what, so long as he destroyed it, while the disintegrating bomber, tilting always a few degrees more steeply, thundered nearer to the Gulf.
But then he became aware of the damaged engine, which frightened him so that he forgot everything else. When the canopy was closed he had not been able to hear much except a distant roar, and sometimes the wind; now he heard the broken thudding and clanking. He leaned forward, ready to let go and dive over the side. Nervously he licked his lips, but the crust made him ill and he was panic-stricken by the idea that he might faint. Oil was seeping along the cowl, drops were blowing against the windshield. He tried to wipe away the streaks, even though he knew this was impossible because the oil was outside the glass and he was wiping the inside. Again, unable to stop himself, he reached forward and wiped frantically at the glass. He could barely see through it, but he was able to make out the beach and the combers rhythmically crashing in the sunlight.
So, at last, the time for which he had been waiting was at hand. This was the moment to stand up, cross his arms on his chest, and escape. No longer was there anything to prevent him. Nothing bound him. And yet, with a truculent expression, he went riding out to sea.
A few minutes later the small gray bomber commenced a cautious climbing arc and headed landward, bearing directly for the station.
As he approached the practice area he was mystified to see a number of airplanes converging on him. In amazement he watched them angle toward him from every direction.
He plugged in the radio and called the tower for permission to make an emergency landing. He was answered by the WAVE, but a male voice interrupted, advising him to fly over the field so the damage could be assessed.
“Negative,” Melvin replied. “I don’t think I’ve got time.” He looked at the aileron, which was about to fall off, and then he looked to the other side to see if the crack in the wing had gotten any wider. He screamed—he did not know what—into the microphone. Ashamed of himself for having become hysterical, he stared at the wing and spoke again, calmly, but in an urgent voice. “Request permission to land on first approach.”
No one answered.
He repeated the message, adding, “First approach imperative. I say again. Imperative! Do you read me? Over! Over! Come in Saufley tower!”
After a long silence the tower responded, “Read you loud and clear.”
“All right, let’s go!” he shouted. “What about it? I’ve got to come in! I’ve only got a few seconds!”
There was another pause.
The Dauntless was listing steeply. At any moment it would wheel and fall. He was pressing the right rudder pedal to the floor in an attempt to hold a direct course toward the field.
“You got a fire truck out there?” he called.
The tower answered, “Crash wagon standing by. Come ahead.”
Someone cried in a piercing feminine voice to get the asbestos ready; he was not sure whether the voice had come from the tower or whether it was his own. He realized he was panting with excitement.
“Fire apparatus standing by. Take it easy, cadet. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“That’s what you think!” came the wild feminine scream, and he suspected himself. The tachometer needle was bouncing back and forth across the dial. Most of the gauges were broken. Fluid was dripping from the bottom of the instrument panel. The engine stopped, caught, missed again, caught, and kept going.
“Navy one-five-six. Navy one-five-six. This is Saufley Field. From which direction will you arrive? Over.”
“From which direction will I arrive?” Melvin gasped. It seemed unbelievable they would ask such a question when he was about to crash. He was furious with the officers who were in charge of the situation; they must be incredibly stupid. They were not doing anything right. He choked and coughed, wiped his eyes, and began talking to them, but stopped in consternation when he realized he was chattering and that he could not recall what he had just said. He coughed again and rolled his head feverishly from side to side trying to find enough air to breathe.
“Say again, one-five-six. Your previous message was garbled. We do not read you. Say again. Say again, Navy one-five-six. Over.”
Melvin did not answer. There was nothing anyone could do for him. He placed the microphone in his lap, watched the oil stream across the windshield, and waited for the crash.
Another SBD was drifting toward his left wingtip; he looked at the pilot and was not greatly surprised to see McCampbell, and he knew, then, even before he looked to the right, that Roska would be there. And there he was, with his curious egg-shaped head slightly tilted and a look of cautious estimation on his face. He floated in, judging the distance. The dinky salmon-pink baseball cap was cocked low over his emerald eyes. Roska had tried to wash the cap but it had shrunk and turned that ridiculous color.
The two of them were already flying a tight formation, but they were intent on coming even closer. Melvin knew it was dangerous for them. If his plane should give out, as it was ready to do, he could not help sliding into one of them, perhaps both of them, and they would go down. He glanced at the altimeter; it registere
d ninety feet. At that altitude nobody would have a chance. He knew they were aware of the danger. He was particularly puzzled by Roska who had always disliked and feared formation flying even at a safe altitude, and then it occurred to him that they were closing in to demonstrate their faith in him, their belief in his skill and in his courage; and because he had never thought of himself as being skillful or courageous, he was deeply moved by this. He wanted to let them know how he appreciated it, but what they were doing was so insane that he bared his teeth at them and furiously motioned them away. Neither paid any attention; they did not even bother to read the signal, which was so extraordinary that he was dumbfounded. He saw that their eyes were fixed on the diminishing space between his plane and their own. Already they were so close that he could have stepped from one wingtip to another. He wondered if they meant to lift him up and carry him forward to the field the way Sam Horne in his madness had tried to save Elmer.
He believed, then, that he was going to be killed. Their presence convinced him of this; it was as though they were priests who had come to administer the final sacrament, and, seeing them, he gave up hope. He had no more will to live, but was filled with resignation. Death seemed not so terrible. The others who had been killed, wherever they were—and he accepted without doubt that they must be somewhere, unchanged, in their own bodies as before, with their own prejudices and ambitions not in the least affected by death—wherever they were, all those uncountable billions he had never met, and his own few friends as well—the Deacon, Elmer, a few more here and there whom he had known by name or face—if they were watching him now, and he assumed they were, they must be amused at his predicament.
The engine of the Dauntless was knocking and thudding, but it was still going; it should have quit long ago and the fact that it continued to operate now began to annoy him. This airplane was to be the cause of his death, and having at last submitted to the idea that on this day at Pensacola, in this bright pleasant hour a little before noon, he Melvin Isaacs, aviation cadet whose home was in Missouri, son of Jacob and Hannah, brother of Leah, would meet his death in a training accident, and, dressed in a blue uniform, would be shipped home for burial, and then, gradually, as one day followed another, be forgotten—amenable at last to this grotesque and senseless termination of his affairs, he could not help resenting the intractability of the machine. He looked at it stupidly. It was destroyed, but it kept going.
The Patriot Page 24
