Good Hope Road: A Novel (32 page)

The Major was still in the chair, lost in his reverie. ‘Come with us,’ Jim had offered, but his father shook his head.

‘The camp.’

When he drove his father over, they had found the camp abuzz with news. The veteran camps in downtown Washington had been notified by the police early that morning of a planned partial evacuation.

‘Those camps must’ve gotten awful crowded, I’m guessing. The folks moved from there will be set up some place else, somewhere outside the city, they’re saying,’ Connor filled them in. Although the evacuation was to be a peaceful exercise, veterans from all the other camps were heading over in a show of solidarity with the evacuees.

‘You both coming?’

‘I will,’ the Major decided. He glanced at his son, a tired spark of humour in his eyes. ‘Jim here has his lady to tend to,’ he said dryly.

The men had guffawed, and Jim grinned, relieved to see his father brightening after his earlier apathy.

He’d offered to drop the lot of them over at Pennsylvania Avenue. When they reached the place, they found a swarm of policemen surrounding the cordoned-off camp while a crowd milled about restlessly on the periphery.

‘All going well so far?’ the Major asked a veteran.

The man spat into the mud in response. The official directive had changed, he told them disgustedly. Instead of a partial evacuation,
all
the veterans in the buildings downtown were to be removed, effective immediately. To add insult to injury, they’d just been informed that the promised alternative campsite was not quite ready: they were being turned out with nowhere to go.

The Major’s lips had tightened.

Connor was taken aback by the news. ‘It must only be for a while, till the other place is ready,’ he reasoned. ‘Until then, we’ll make room for every last one of them in Anacostia.’

‘Maybe I should stay,’ Jim said, worried in spite of himself.

The Major shook his head. ‘There’s nothing any of us can do about it,’ he pointed out. ‘It’ll all be over in a couple of hours. Go. Madeleine’s expecting you.’

He was still preoccupied with the evacuation as he turned into the parking lot of the hotel. She came running out of the foyer and was climbing in, almost before he’d brought the truck to a complete stop. Winding her arms about his waist, she kissed him, driving all thoughts of the camps temporarily from his mind.

‘I missed you,’ she said. She leaned back, equal parts amused and exasperated when he said nothing. ‘Why, Madeleine,’ she said for him. ‘I missed you too.’

‘I saw you just yesterday, didn’t I?’

‘Oh, never mind!’ She was smiling as he kissed her neck. ‘Here.’ She handed him a brochure.

The leaflet was an advertisement for a pleasure flight. ‘See Washington as Never Before!’ was written around the image of an aeroplane, its propellers in full whirl as it soared high above the Lincoln Memorial.

‘Come on, it’ll be fun,’ she urged.

They drove over the Memorial Bridge to the far shore of the Potomac River. Hoover Washington airfield was packed. Men in suits, newspapers tucked under their arms; women herding children, the click-clacking of their heels echoing off the walls as they hurried to catch their flights to Chicago and New York; and tourists, so many, gawking at the newly constructed building and posing for pictures against the backdrop of the gleaming planes parked outside.

It ought not to have taken him aback, the press of the crowd, not after the congestion of the Anacostia camp, Jim thought to himself, but it did. A pair of pilots swaggered by to the admiring glances of the crowd. He frowned. Who knew if those jackasses could truly even fly?

‘Let’s forget this,’ he almost said to Madeleine, his mind going back yet again to the Major, ‘how about we go back downtown instead?’ She was smiling up at him though, eyes so wide with excitement and anticipation that he held his tongue. Spotting a vendor selling hot dogs, he steered her over, relieved to get out of the way of the jostling throng.

A group of men sauntered up behind them. Jim listened to their chatter at first with only half an ear, then with growing incredulity. To listen to them yarn, each man was evidently a supremely accomplished pilot. Awe-inspiring were their flight records, every last one among them, a bonafide hero.

Jim looked at Madeleine in disbelief. ‘Did you hear . . .?’

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ she called out, to his consternation. She waved the brochure at them. ‘Would any of you be available to take us up for a spin?’

One of the pilots stepped forward. ‘Any member of the Flying Bologna Club would be honoured,’ he said cockily, ‘but allow me to be the first to offer my services.’

Jim eyed the man with suspicion, taking in the aviator glasses tucked into the pocket of his shirt, the raffish tilt of his hat.

Madeleine cocked her head. ‘The
what
club?’

‘The Flying Bologna Club. Dedicated to the promotion of the inaccurate principles of flight.’ He pointed solemnly to the badge on his shirt, shaped like a sausage with two wings attached. ‘Don’t get taken in, though, by our gas,’ the pilot assured them. ‘We
can
fly, you know.’ He quoted them five dollars for a trip above the Lincoln Memorial, the Monument and the Potomac.

Jim nearly choked. ‘It’s the Depression, or haven’t you heard? Fifty cents,’ he countered, ‘and that’s only because my girl is keen.’

They settled for two fifty, not that Jim was too pleased by the price, and walked out to the Curtiss Robin. She was a trim little three-seater with a closed cockpit. Jim ran a hand over the sunset-orange body, taking in the proud jet of the wings, painted a cheerful yellow.

‘Nervous?’ Madeleine whispered.

‘No,’ he said flatly, although he was, a little. He nodded towards the pilot who was walking jauntily around his plane, checking the undercarriage. ‘I should be though, what with Bologna Boy at the wheel.’

She giggled as they settled themselves into their seats.

‘Have you two flown before?’ the pilot called.

‘We should get a move on,’ Jim said tersely. He kept his face impassive as the plane taxied into position, although his stomach was starting to tie itself in knots.

Madeleine leaned into him. ‘Excited?’

‘Sure.’

He turned to the window, so she wouldn’t see the apprehension in his eyes. The plane began to move down the runway, gathering what seemed to him an inordinate amount of speed. He shouldn’t have agreed to this, definitely not with Bologna Buck at the controls. With a stomach-lurching lift, they rose into the air. A steady momentum upwards, gravity pulling his head back, when thankfully, they levelled. Jim caught his breath.

The sky stretched above them, to the side and up ahead, a canopy of blue reaching in every direction. ‘Look,’ Madeleine called, above the noise of the engines. Cautiously, he leaned forward to peer from the windows, eyes growing wide with wonder at the sight of the Potomac far below.

An image flashed in his mind, from years ago, of a magic carpet in one of the books back home. He remembered the illustration in precise detail. A boy, his pet monkey perched beside him. The fraying edges of the carpet that was winging them through the sky. He remembered, too, the boy lying on the rug of the library, completely absorbed in that story. Filled with yearning as he studied that magic carpet, wondering what it must feel like, to soar so far above the earth.

A great sense of disbelief, then exultation stole over Jim as he watched now from the windows of the Robin. He was
flying
. The world dropped away beneath them, the edges of maps rendered at once meaningless and obsolete.

He laughed out loud. Madeleine’s hair lay wild about her shoulders as she turned to him in delight. ‘Do you like it? I knew you would!’

He laughed again, kissing her fiercely on the forehead. ‘The Connecticut,’ he yelled, pointing at the river below. ‘That time when you flew over it, did she look the same?’

It was the pilot who spotted the cavalry. ‘Do you see them?’ he called over his shoulder, puzzled. ‘The riders?’

He flew lower, banking over the Arlington National Cemetery. A stream of horses and men galloped through the park, now hidden, now coming into view from under the trees. The smile was wiped from Jim’s face as he filled with a sense of foreboding.

‘Where are they headed?’ Madeleine wondered.

He said nothing, watching grimly as the horses raced forward.

From this vantage point, their manes streamed about their heads like the fronds of some richly coloured, underwater fern.

The terminal was abuzz with rumours when they landed. People had seen the troops thundering over the bridge towards the Capitol. They were amassed at the Ellipse, just south of the White House, some had heard.

‘We have to leave,’ Jim snapped, rushing Madeleine along as she thanked their pilot for the ride.

She hurried beside him, trying to keep apace. ‘Whatever is the matter with you?’

‘They’re going after the veteran camps downtown. The Major,’ he said tightly. ‘He’s there.’

28 July 1932

ajor George S. Patton cantered along Pennsylvania Avenue in full dress uniform, oblivious to the stares of passers-by as he reconnoitred the terrain. His riding boots shone as he gently pressed his spurs into the flanks of his mount. The avenue, he noted with satisfaction, was akin to a broad, flat plain; the tanks should have no difficulty in traversing it. Assuming it was executed to plan, the entire operation could be completed with minimal fuss.

A pall of tension had hung over the barracks at Fort Myer this past month. It reflected the unease rippling through official circles as the impasse with the Bonus Army had dragged on. Congress had adjourned, so why, senior officials had questioned, were the veterans still in Washington, crowding the parks and the restrooms at gas stations around the city? The Bonus Army had thousands of mouths to feed, with hardly enough to go around. Things had been kept under control thus far, but with thousands of hungry, increasingly restless men still camped around the city, officials feared that Washington was sitting on a powder keg.

Today was the culmination of weeks of preparation. For many days now, Fort Myer had been on high alert. Everyone, regardless of rank, had been restricted to the confines of the post – they could leave the Fort only with special permission, and only for short per iods of time. War belts had been kept polished and ready and sabres placed within easy reach, with troops and officers alike put through anti-riot and anti-mob training.

Orders had finally been received earlier that afternoon. The 2nd Squadron of the 3rd Cavalry was to report to the Capitol at once. A band of over two hundred soldiers had pounded through Arlington National Cemetery, racing over Memorial Bridge to group on the Ellipse across from the Treasury Building. The infantry had followed suit in trucks, with an additional two hundred and fifty soldiers dispatched from nearby Fort Washington on a steamer along the Potomac. The old FT17 tanks that had last seen active duty on the battlefields of France had been pressed into service once more, loaded on to flatbed trucks that were even now trundling into the city.

Major Patton pulled on the reins as he approached Third Street Northwest, and his horse tossed its mane and whickered. He patted its neck as he observed the camp ahead, his mind running once more over the facts from the official briefing:

•  Earlier that morning, the police had attempted to evacuate the premises. The proceedings, however, had quickly turned ugly;

•  A riot had broken out between the veterans and the police. By the time the uprising was quelled, one veteran lay dead, and two others wounded;

•  Since the police no longer had the situation under control, the administration had called on the army. They were to rid the area of the Bonus Army and defuse the threat that they posed to peacetime Washington at once.

Major Patton touched the sabre by his side, registering the familiar nub of the olive drab canvas cover, the solidity of the rawhide and hickory base. Model 1913. The sabre was one that he’d designed, the most recent one to have been issued to the US Army. ‘Sabre George’ they’d called him, in the barracks . . .