Barnstorm (15 page)

It was almost as though he had never left. But he was not the same. Trip didn’t fall or crash into things. He didn’t need Band-Aids. Try as they might, the Liar Flyers couldn’t rattle him with their usual teasing and banter. They would need to develop new material. Not easy for eighty-year-old has-beens who had not yet become accustomed to being has-beens. These ole geezers hadn’t developed any new material since Truman was President.

Abusing Trip wasn’t as much fun as it used to be. They had a new mission. They spent most of their time in the hangar working on the Stearman biplanes. Buzz had seriously considered cutting his losses and selling the three biplanes. This kicked them into gear and out of the cafe, pleasing Deb immensely. Even though it decreased the loitering traffic and impulse diner sales, the trade-offs were mostly positive.

The Liar Flyers finished their morning coffee and gathered up their antique airplane rehab supplies. Today was paint day. They all wore white coverall painter pants and carried an assortment of scrapers, brushes, buckets, and paint.

“Red, bright-yellow trim,” Hooker insisted.

“That’s Navy, not Army Air Corps,” Crash disagreed.

“Blue fuselage. Yellow wings,” came the verdict from Bomber. “Red and white, flag-stripped rear stabilizer.”

“What’s with these old fly-boys?” Trip asked Deb.

“Every time they slow down, or try to take a break, Buzz reminds them of his promise.”

“What promise?”

Deb continued, “He promised he would give them flying lessons to get them recertified as pilots. If, if they got the Stearmans flight-ready.”

“Is he nuts?” Trip asked.

“That’s what I said,” Deb agreed. “If they don’t get them done by the end of the month, Buzz also threatened to sell them to help cover his payments on his new jump plane.”

Buzz entered from the hangar and yelled at the Liar Flyers, “Let’s go guys, burnin’ daylight.”

“Now, they can’t agree on the colors,” Deb laughed.

“You haven’t heard?” Buzz said. “After lunch, we’re firin’ up the PT-17. Maybe run it up and down the runway.”

Shocked, Deb got in Buzz’s face, “You’re not gonna fly that rusty bucket-a-bolts?”

“Nah, not today. Just blow some cobs out of the carburetor. Bomber is one heck of a mechanic. If he can’t get a part, he creates something out of paper clips, chewing gum.”

“Chewing gum?” Deb shook a finger in Buzz’s face. “I forbid you to fly any of that junk.”

“Easy now, Deb,” as Buzz tried to calm her down. “I’ll probably have the mortgage paid off here before those planes see any action.”

“Gerty has a thirty-day mortgage deadline,” Trip interjected. “That’s what those old fly-boys need.”

“What?” Deb and Buzz said, in unison.

“A deadline,” Trip said. “Something to light ‘nother fire under ‘em. A demonstration flight. Call the newspaper, be good for business. Draw a big crowd.”

“That’s it,” Deb said excitedly. “There’s yer deadline to get ‘em hustlin.’ An air show. Pony rides. Get a clown or two.”

The mention of
clown
gave Trip a start. He felt a little lightheaded, had to pause for a moment to shake it off. The flashback of bulls, cowboys, Flossie, and rodeo clowns was a bit much for him. He moaned a quiet sigh of
I’m gonna be sick
.

Deb noticed Trip’s discomfort and put it together, “It was you!”

Trip could only offer an, “Uh.”

Deb poked Buzz that poke one pokes when proven right, “I told you it was him.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Buzz asked.

“The rodeo clown. I told you it was him.”

Deb relished being proven right. Excitedly, she danced around the table, hands aside her ears like the horns of a charging bull.

“Okay, okay,” Trip admitted. “It was me. But you gotta stop dancin’ around.”

“Ha,” Deb bragged. “That’s what we need. A flyin’ rodeo. ‘Stead of horses, bulls. Schedule a flyin’ rodeo. That place out in Iowa, there’s an annual fly-in of old biplanes. We’ll add in the ponies and some clowns.”

Buzz corrected, “You’re losin’ it, sweetheart. It’s a Flying Circus. And it’s not Iowa. Illinois. Galesburg, Illinois. Every year they have a reunion of Stearman biplanes. The National Stearman Fly-in.”

“You mean those barnstormin’ stories are true?” Deb asked. “Pretty much.”

Deb was with the program now, “Maybe we call one of those Galesburg guys. Get a couple of them to fly over here. Challenge our has-been fly-boys to a contest of some kind.”

“Whoa,” Buzz cautioned. “Let’s see if our PT-17 starts up first.”

Impatient with Buzz’s caution, Deb insisted, “Schedule it, see how much gets done. It’ll give ‘em a goal. Heck, pick a date, thirty-days out.”

Trip entered the fray with, “Two deadlines. Raise some money to help Gerty with her mortgage.”

Deb slapped the tabletop, declaring, “Headline, Trip saves grandma’s farm!”

The three schemers settled down to consider the practicality of pulling something like this off. Their strategizing was rudely interrupted by a building-shaking rumble as an airplane engine backfired in the hangar next door. The ceiling lights in the cafe swung to-and-fro as the engine coughed and backfired again. Buzz leapt out of his chair so fast it fell over backwards. He tumbled to the ground, kicking the chair out of his way, as he rushed toward the hangar.

“Really?” he screamed. “Son-of-a. . .”

As Buzz opened the door separating the cafe from the hangar, the Liar Flyers started the engine again. It sputtered and backfired, a third time. The deafening sound and rush of airplane exhaust blasted through the cafe.

This plane might actually fly.

Late summer brought a bumper crop of tomatoes to Gerty’s garden. Canning tomato juice was in full swing. Gerty couldn’t sell a tomato at the local farmers’ market if her life depended on it. Seemed as though every spare clod of dirt in the county sprouted a tomato plant. Neighbors would donate them back and forth to each other until threats were issued.

The squash and pumpkin vines were wending their way to escape the garden confines. If not channeled, they might climb onto anything not moving. With Trip’s departure, it was up to Gerty and Zack to control the garden. Mostly Gerty, as Zack had limitations due his poor hoe control.

“I know, Zack,” Gerty lamented. “Kinda lonely without Trip. Only been a week.”

To Zack it had been seven weeks. Dog weeks.

Gerty pulled the garden gate closed, not sure what good it did. It didn’t keep the squash and pumpkin vines ‘in’ and never kept the raccoons ‘out.’ Her basket full of ripe tomatoes, she wished Trip were around to brag about her BLT’s. As Zack spun around her legs, he barked at an approaching car. It was Mel Smith. Gerty set her basket of tomatoes on Mel’s car hood and opened his door.

“Mornin’, Mel. How is Martha?”

“Her rheumatism is actin’ up. Getting old sucks. Right side of grass though.”

“Good start for any day,” Gerty agreed. “I still buy green bananas.”

“Ever the optimist,” Mel laughed.

“Enough small talk, Mel,” Gerty frowned. “You and I both know you didn’t drive all the way out here to talk about rheumatism and green bananas.”

Failing the courtesy of good eye contact, Mel fumbled his words, “Y-you know, I’m stuck on this one, Gerty. The big boys in Cleveland won’t approve an extension on your loan.”

“Look at that cornfield, Mel,” Gerty pointed. “Bumper crop this year.”

“Yeah,” Mel said, as he scratched his head. “Won’t come in soon enough to make a difference.”

“How about if I rent the place out?”

“That won’t work either. Every farmer in the Midwest has a bumper crop. All those huge crops mean falling corn prices. That lowers cash rent values.”

Mel pulled an envelope out of his suit breast pocket. Tapping it against his side, he couldn’t bring himself to close the distance to Gerty.

“Mel Smith, how did you ever become a banker? Your heart is bigger than Fort Knox. Relax, it’s not your fault.”

Gerty took a step toward Mel and extended her hand to accept the envelope. “Go ahead, hand it to me.”

“We’re out of options,” Mel said as he feebly handed the envelope to Gerty.

“It’s alright. Go on now, get back to town before Mr. Jerk Robinson robs you blind.”

Gerty removed her basket from Mel’s car hood and handed him two red tomatoes.

“They’re poison, aren’t they?” Mel grinned.

“If you promised to personally deliver them to Robinson, I’d inject them with rooster poop. Now, get going before we both get into trouble.”

The dust from the gravel lane settled as Gerty surveyed the barnyard. Every building gleamed with fresh paint. Even-rowed corn rustled in the mid-morning breeze. Diablo chased hens around the barnyard. But it would not be enough. Gerty knew that her farm was lost.

“Sorry, Lester,” she sighed as she slowly limped back to the house.

The upstairs had been packed first. Cardboard boxes cluttered Gerty’s living room, hallway, kitchen. The whole house was a wreck. Packing paper was everywhere. It was an obstacle course; difficult to set a foot down without stepping on something. It was as though the floor had disappeared. Every drawer, every door on the Hoosier was open. Gerty and Maggie had stopped saying
excuse me
days ago as they bumped into each other; back and forth from the Hoosier to the kitchen table. As Gerty emptied the Hoosier, Maggie wrapped treasures and junk alike in packing paper, placing them in boxes.

“I suppose it was inevitable, but somehow I didn’t think it would actually happen,” Gerty lamented. “Careful, this frame came from my great-grandmother,” she said as she handed Maggie a picture of Lester.

Lester’s face disappeared under Maggie’s careful fold of paper. “Lester was an excellent farmer,” Maggie sighed.

“He would know what to do,” Gerty acknowledged. “I should probably pitch all of this stuff.”

Maggie took the stack of journals from Gerty to save them from the pitch barrel. “Nah,” Maggie said as she buried the journals in the bottom of a box. “Don’t pitch ‘em yet.

What did you call ‘em? Musings? Bring ‘em along, we’ll drink bourbon beside the fireplace this winter. Read ‘em and fling ‘em into the fire.”

“It’s nice of you to let me stay at your place until I get settled.”

“Got all that extra room, no man under foot. Yet,” Maggie added with a wink. “On a more serious note, do you think you’ll go to the sheriff’s sale? Might be tough.”

“Part of me says no. I don’t need to make Mel or Sheriff Brown feel bad.”

“And the other part of you?” Maggie challenged.

“Not Christian. I don’t have to decide now. Three more weeks. Let’s see how Christian I feel in three weeks.”

Maggie filled a box with another batch of Gerty’s journals.

The hangar doors creaked open. The sound of metal-on-metal created a cringe reminiscent of worn out brake pads. Only worse. Just as Band-Aids are best ripped off in one fast, aggressive tug, this hangar door should be opened quickly–in one fluid motion. Crash and Hooker hadn’t experienced a fluid motion in years. As they huffed and puffed with the hangar door, Deb couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Outta the way,” Deb ordered as she shouldered the door like a linebacker hitting a tackling dummy.

Sunlight bathed the hangar entrance revealing splashes of blue and yellow paint. Red and white tail accents glistened as morning light chased the hangar shadows. A fully-restored Stearman PT-17 stood ready to train another World War II pilot. If the biplane could talk, she probably would have shouted,
let’s go barnstormin!

The sound of the screeching metal door was replaced by the
oo’s
and
ah’s
of the Liar Flyers. Deb, Buzz, and Trip pushed the gleaming PT-17 into the full sun of the tarmac. The Liar Flyers avoided eye contact with each other as they were close to tears. They reverently walked around the plane, gently touching it as if it were a fragile, newborn baby.

Hands on hips, Buzz beamed, “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Never thought you guys could pull this off.”

Wiping a tear, Hooker said, “I feel like I’m in church.”

“You ain’t been to church since 1957,” Crash accused.

“I think it was 1954,” Bomber corrected.

“It never stops,” Deb observed. Shaking her head in disbelief, she flung a compliment toward the Liar Flyers, “Phenomenal. Take a piece of junk, turn it into this?”

Buzz and the Liar Flyers conducted a pre-test walkaround. Struts were shaken, fingertips graced the refurbished wings, and Hooker swiped his hand along the propeller’s edge. They all nodded in agreement, this baby was ready for a runway test. No flight today, just a test run. Put the engine through its paces. Buzz, foot on the wing near the fuselage, rose to climb into the rear cockpit. He hesitated and retreated back to the tarmac.

“Something wrong?” Trip asked.

Approaching Bomber, Buzz announced, “First taxi honor is yours, Bomber.”

Pats on the back accompanied Bomber to the rear cockpit. Buzz assisted the rickety fly-boy shuffle across the wing and instructed, “Crank her up to about nine-hundred RPM.”

“Got it,” Bomber agreed.

“Turn around, vary the RPM between nine-hundred and a thousand toward the north end of the runway.”

“Like ridin’ a bike,” Bomber assured. “How ‘bout a third pass at eleven-hundred?”

Confident that this really was like ridin’ a bike, Buzz agreed, “Sure, why not? Watch the oil pressure gauge. Let’s not blow the engine on our first test run.”

Buzz helped Bomber strap in and shook his seat harness.

A firm slap on the back and a thumbs-up to this old-timer pilot completed the briefing–once a pilot, always a pilot.

As Buzz retreated off the wing, he was elbowed aside by Deb. “Me too! I’m comin’,” she announced as she wiggled into the front cockpit seat.

“What?” Buzz exclaimed.

“Quick joy ride, I’m goin’.”

Knowing when Deb was not to be denied, Buzz adjusted Deb’s harness with a stern warning, “Remember, this is a trainer biplane.”

“So?” Deb protested.

“So, don’t touch the foot bars or any of the controls. Bomber has control from the rear cockpit. Don’t be surprised when stuff around you starts movin’.”

“How stupid do I look?” Deb laughed.

Buzz started to respond, then thought he best treat Deb’s last question as rhetorical.

Bomber didn’t show an expected disgust or frustration that Deb had commandeered his front seat. His Sky Gypsy Café nemesis was now his flight partner and stealing some of his show. The grease under his fingernails and scrapped knuckles clearly screamed that today was a
guy’s day.
Through his flight goggles, a quick wink and glint in his eye also communicated that he still had it. His mind wandered back to his good-ole barnstormin’ days when the prettiest gal in every town across the Midwest eagerly hopped into his Stearman. Deb wasn’t exactly Bomber’s sweetie, but she did represent all those babes over the years who were. Yep, Bomber still had it.

Crash and Hooker came to attention, offering salutes to Bomber. Bomber returned the salutes and gave a thumbs-up.

Deb clapped her hands like a bubbling schoolgirl who had just been asked to the senior prom by the high-school quarterback. Buzz circled his hand in a wind up motion
. Crank her up
.

The Stearman engine came to life and sputtered. Exhaust and smoke spewed from the seven pistons as the propeller spun and stopped. Even Crash and Hooker jumped as the engine backfired. Bomber tried again. The PT-17 spat out a sound that was almost symphonic in its full-throated roar. Only the owner of a Harley-Davidson could fully appreciate this sound. Smooth and even. The biplane vibrated and shook on the tarmac. It was as though a sleeping beast had been wakened after a long hibernation. Everyone jumped and cheered. Buzz raised his right hand above his head and circled, then pointed to the runway.

Deb raised her hands as though in the front car of a roller coaster. Bomber eased the throttle forward. He eyed the fluttering gauges on his instrument panel. All looked in order. Tires that had been flat for thirty years slowly inched, rolled forward.

“Most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard,” Crash said.

Hooker agreed with, “Better than the Harley we rebuilt. Detroit, ’61.”

“Detroit, right,” Crash said. “Wasn’t it in? No, you’re right. Harley, Detroit, 1961.”

“Really?” as Buzz shook his head. This was the first time he’d ever heard the Liar Flyers agree on anything.

Bomber had accelerated to the end of the runway, his first pass a success. The engine sounded solid. As agreed, the RPM hovered at nine-hundred. Everyone hooted and hollered as the plane lumbered toward the other end of the mile-long runway. As it stopped and positioned for the final, higher RPM taxi test, Buzz walked over to Crash and Hooker. Standing between them in a group hug, Buzz said, “Great job, guys. Super.”

Bomber started his final pass. Deb once again had roller coaster, raised arms. Bomber was focused, left hand on the throttle. As the biplane gained speed, the wheels bounced and settled back on the runway, then bounced again. Still in his group hug with Crash and Hooker, Buzz furled his brow, puzzled. Buzz removed his arms from the group hug and shaded his eyes as he stared down the runway. He started a slow, then more brisk walk forward.

Crash and Hooker, experienced pilots, even though that experience was thirty-years stale, locked eyes. Had they been in the cockpit with Bomber, they would have confirmed that he was pulling the joystick back between his legs. Buzz stopped, arms fully extended as he watched the biplane bounce twice. Arms still fully extended, in disbelief he turned to face Hooker and Crash.

The plane took off!

Hooker and Crash dropped their jaws, shrugged, as if–
not me
.

The left wing dipped dangerously low, close to leaving yellow paint from the wingtip on the runway as Bomber banked the PT-17 into a steady climb. The liberated old biplane wobbled as if the pilot were eighty years old and hadn’t flown in three decades. The Stearman that had trained American farm-boy heroes to battle Goering’s Luftwaffe took on new life. Like a caged tiger freed for the first time in years, the biplane thundered into the clouds. It wasn’t clear whether Bomber or the PT-17 was in control. Almost as if it had a mind of its own, definitely a spirit now on a rampage, the restored beast did a gentle roll as it gained altitude.

The white-knuckled passenger tightened her grip on the cockpit supports on the fuselage at her sides. Deb lost her grip on self-control. Her blood-curdling screams were drowned out by the surge of the seven-cylinder, air-cooled radial engine. Even Deb couldn’t compete with the two hundred twenty horsepower monster that was hurtling her tassel-high, or more appropriately tassel-low, skimming the surrounding cornfields at ninety miles per hour. As the biplane swooped low over the hangar, the rear wheel clipped the wind sock that now trailed in tatters behind the blitzing blur of fabric, wire, and struts.

Deb stomped her feet on the cockpit floor like a driving instructor trying to stop Louise from driving Thelma over a deep canyon cliff. In her moment of panic, Deb forgot Buzz’s admonition to
not touch the foot bars
. While Deb had flown with Buzz on numerous occasions, she had never been at the controls. Without any instruction or flight training, who would have known that quickly stomping her right foot would send a specific instruction to the plane? The adrenalin coursing through Deb’s veins certainly gave her more strength than the ancient old ex-barnstormer seated behind her. Try as he might, Bomber couldn’t override Deb’s control of the surprisingly responsive biplane.

At this point, in most air shows, the aerobatic pilot releases white smoke, announcing the finale. The only white smoke coming from the PT-17 emanated from Deb’s ears. Her eyes were huge as she swayed left-to-right, reacting to her own, involuntary guidance of the plane.

Bomber needed to tame the beast. Either the PT-17 beast or the screaming beast in the seat in front of him. For every one of Deb’s actions, it took all of his ingrained flying skills to employ a counter-action. Even the Red Baron could not have kept this herky-jerky plane in his gunner sights. Pitch. Yaw. Up. Down. Bomber finally succeeded in initiating a steep vertical climb. As Isaac Newton could have predicted, gravity would ultimately win this battle. At the peak of his climb, Bomber knew that Deb would experience close to zero ‘G’ force, thereby inducing a high probability that she would toss her cookies. As the old Stearman failed to defy gravity, paused, lifeless, it then tumbled backwards toward the earth in a death spiral. The plane fell like a rock. Mostly upside-down as it tumbled toward the tarmac. The desired effect was achieved. The blood rushed out of Deb’s brain. Dizzy, not quite blacking out, her feet slipped off the bars. Bomber was now the sole pilot of this plummeting hunk of antiquity.

Spiraling toward the earth, Bomber hoped that Crash and Hooker had strung the wires between the struts correctly. While zero ‘G’ force had loosened Deb’s control as the unsuspecting pilot, the accelerating ‘G’ forces now speeding air over the double-stacked wings created the lift necessary to pull the one-ton biplane from its steep dive. Would it also pull the wings off the fuselage? Five seconds to that verdict.

At full throttle, Bomber yanked the joy stick back between his legs. One cough from any one of the seven cylinders stroking below him, one backfire, he and Deb would be planted in a crater beneath a cornfield. There might be a tearful memorial service, but it wouldn’t be necessary to find a cemetery plot. He and Deb would share space six-feet-under next years’ corn crop. A shared grave, for eternity, with Deb. A shared grave, for eternity, with Bomber. They deserved each other.

Bomber was an excellent mechanic, just as Buzz had said. The propeller whirled and hummed as it sliced through the September air. The Army Air Corps was right.
If a student pilot can fly a Stearman, he can fly anything
. It was like riding a bike. It all came back to Bomber. A reflex. Instinctive. He leveled off above the cornfield and swooped low over a nearby woods. The blood returned to Deb’s brain. She could almost snatch leaves from the tops of the trees.

Bomber circled and waggled his wings to his shocked compatriots. One last pass as he settled the plane onto the runway. The chirp of the tires on the asphalt drowned out the screams emanating from the front seat. The waiting spectators sighed in unison as brows were wiped and nervous knees unbuckled. As the plane shuddered to a stop in front of the hangar, Bomber killed the engine. Crash, Hooker, and Trip restrained Buzz from charging and tearing Bomber limb-from-limb.

Bomber, now standing on the tarmac, had assumed a triumphal stance. Buzz broke loose from his captors and made a beeline for Bomber. Deb, weak-kneed and wobbly, had succeeded in extricating herself from her cockpit prison and seat harness. This possessed queen bee buzzed her own beeline for Bomber. A Roller Derby elbow to his ribs, Deb knocked Buzz aside. While he would not actually rip Bomber apart, Buzz could offer no such assurance that Deb would not. Buzz grabbed Deb around her waist and lifted her off the ground. Legs kicking in the air, arms flailing, Deb screamed, “I’m gonna kill the jerk!”

One hand on his hip, the other caressing the nose of the old Stearman, Bomber looked as though he were posing for a cover of
The Saturday Evening Post.
No one noticed the enormous wet spot on the crotch of his coveralls.

No way could an eighty-year-old bladder defy the laws of physics.