Trophy for Eagles (41 page)

"He can't do that! He's embarrassed enough that his father is selling bootleg arms. Besides, he wants to fly."

"Yes, Charlotte, but we are living from contract to contract, just like everybody else."

Charlotte's voice took on the resolute tone that signaled she
would not yield. "Stephan is my daughter's husband. We will make
room for both of them in the company."

Hafner accepted her response. He could use Stephan in France; he didn't want him around the plant. A little time would have to pass, and the situation would take care of itself.

"We can if we get another contract," he said. "Just don't make any promises until we see what happens with the new airplanes."

Charlotte checked her appearance in the mirror. Looking good
for a daughter was different from looking good for a man, and her long hair was swept back into a bun. She applied a little lipstick just
as the knock sounded. The door was a fragile partition between two
fields of tension. Bruno stood very erect next to Charlotte, thumbs tucked by his trouser seams in a position of attention.

Charlotte opened the door, and kissed them both. Bruno said, "Come in, Patty, come in, champ. I heard about last night. I'll have to have Max Schmeling give you some lessons."

Time and motion froze as the other three turned to stare at him in
horror.

Bruno went on, "Well, Patty, are you pregnant yet? I'll bet Stephan's father would agree with me, by God—we need some grandchildren in this family, we do, by God!"

*

Cleveland Airport/August 28, 1932

A mood as dark and gelatinous as sea-urchin soup hung over the
Cleveland Institute of Aviation hangar that Stephan had rented. His mood had been foul for the last two days. The aircraft's engine was
still acting up, and his ground crew was no help. The two surly Frenchmen spent their time yammering about the inexcusable quality of American food and the lack of drinkable wine. The
magnificent cigarettes, smoked end to end, compensated somewhat,
but both longed to go back to Paris.

They were the only two sent from France with Dompnier. Pierre Nicolau was from the Caudron factory, and he knew the racer inside out. He looked like Jean Gabin, knew it, and mimicked him
as much as possible in word and gesture. Rene Coty was from the
Renault engine works, but had not yet been able to get the engine
working right. A brooding Parisian with curly blue-black hair separated from his eyebrows by a slim gash of pockmarked flesh, he kept
a cigarette dangling from his lips at all times. Something in his manner suggested that taking advice was not his strong suit.

It was their glowering presence that had inhibited Stephan from asking for help earlier. Now he had no choice—he had to qualify tomorrow, and race the following day. He had asked Hadley Roget to drop by and look at the engine.

Promptly at nine, Roget walked in, followed by Bandfield. Both
men walked around the racer, admiring it, oblivious to the obvious
dislike of the two mechanics.

Hadley listened to Stephan describe the problem, and what they had done to correct it. The engine would run perfectly well on the
ground; as soon as he was airborne it would backfire, sometimes so
badly that he wasn't sure he'd get it around the pattern to land.

Roget nosed around. The engine was installed so that the crankshaft lay on top, with the cylinders pointing toward the ground.

"Inverted engine, huh? What attitude do run it up in on the ground?"

Stephan was annoyed by Bandfield's presence and was trying not
to show it. He said, "Ah, three-point, of course. Nicolau holds down the tail, and I check it at full power. On the ground it is fine—in the air, pouf!"

Roget had Dompnier go through the drill; the engine sounded perfect.

"Stephan, this time let's run it up in a level attitude. Put a sawhorse under the tail and we'll see what happens."

Bandy placed a canvas cover on the stabilizer, then piled sandbags on it, while Roget and the two mechanics tethered the Caudron to tie-downs set in the concrete.

Dompnier started the engine. The airplane twitched and trembled, straining at the ropes. In less than sixty seconds, the engine song changed from a fluid roar and began backfiring, belching smoke and flame from the exhausts, the vibration shaking it as a terrier shakes a rat. Dompnier shut it down.

A quiet look of triumph crossed Roget's face, and he began pulling the cowling off. An hour later, he turned to Dompnier.

"There's your trouble. The oil return line is too small. When the oil pressure goes up, it can't handle it, and back pressure from the pump dumps oil down the rocker arms. Did you notice a rise in oil pressure after you took off?"

"Oui
—from about one hundred to one-eighty. It seemed to me that high oil pressure is good, not bad."

"Not this time, my friend. I think we can fix this, but it will be risky. We have to run a new oil line, and bore out the inlet. If we don't tap into anything we'll be okay. Will you risk it?"

Stephan shrugged. "I have no choice."

"Lemme take a look at the pistons, too. You might have scuffed
them during the backfires."

In another thirty minutes they had the pistons laid out. Two were clearly marred, one so badly that it couldn't be used again. Dompnier had spares, and the five men fell to work. By midnight, the engine was back together and Dompnier had run it up in a level position, the air-cooled Renault engine breaking the night-dampened silence of the airport.

Dompnier jumped down from the wing and embraced Hadley.

"Thank you, and thank you, too, Bandy."

"You're welcome, Stephan. We'd all better get some sleep. It's going to be an early morning."

*

Cleveland Airport/August 29, 1932

The slanting rays of the late-afternoon sun had turned the haze into an incandescent ball. The crowds were streaming away in long lines, and a weary Frank Bandfield sat with Roget, their backs braced against the Chevy's bumper, watching a red-and-white Gee
Bee Sportster practicing aerobatics across the northeast edge of the
field.

"Whose airplane is that, Hadley?"

Roget, never idle, was cleaning spark plugs as they sat, pressing
their ends into a cone-shaped tin and letting high-pressure air sandblast them clean. Squinting, he said, "Looks like Charlotte Hafner's bird."

"She's damn good. I don't think she's moved a yard out of the field boundaries, and she's done everything from snap rolls to spins."

The tiny Gee Bee landed out of a loop, touching down just inside
the field boundary. It taxied to a stop inside the wire fence surround
ing the hangars Hafner had rented. The pilot got out with the log book in her hand and ran inside, while mechanics pushed the
airplane into the hangar. Without apology, they brushed past Band
field and set up a protective restraining ring of wire, threaded
through steel stanchions, designed to keep onlookers out. He was a
little annoyed, but stood there, grasping the wire with both hands and jingling the little red "Team Members Only" signs.

Bandfield was waiting outside for Charlotte to emerge, but it was
Patty who walked out, short hair glistening in the sun.

"Hello, Bandy. Thanks for helping Stephan with his engine last night."

"Aw, you're welcome, we were glad to do it. But I have to say you
surprised me just now. I thought your mother was flying. You were
really great." He suddenly felt awkward, all hands and feet, uncomfortable that she might think he was somehow following up on
their dance of two nights before.

She turned and nodded in the direction of the hangar. Then she pivoted and said, "Don't go just yet."

The words "Well, how about a cup of coffee
..."
turned into an
uncontrollable scream as pain coursed through his arms. Patty slumped to the ground laughing, and inside two mechanics fell into
each other's arms, hysterical from the oldest joke in aviation—the
electric fence hot-wired to a Model T magneto. Four turns sent a
harmless jolt of electricity through anyone dumb enough to grab the
wire.

"I'm sorry, Bandy, I couldn't resist. We don't often get people over here, and the guys get bored."

Feeling was returning to his arms, and he smiled weakly. "Yeah,
that's a good joke. We used to pull it back in Salinas. Ha ha."

Concerned but still smiling, she took his arm and rubbed it, and he realized the electricity wasn't all in the wires.

"I have to act a little rowdy once in a while just to make sure they
know I'm one of the guys."

"You sure don't look like one of the guys in that outfit."

She glanced down, and buttoned the upper button of her blouse.

"Bandy, maybe you can help me. Stephan has been in a blue funk ever since that ridiculous incident at the dance. I'm worried that Dickens—or Stephan, for that matter—will do something stupid during their race."

Bandfield nodded. She was smart. It was just something like the
fight that might cause either one of them to try to do a little more than was safe during the race.

She continued, "I'd like to get them at least to be civil to each other. I talked to Dickens earlier, and he offered me a ride in a friend's airplane he's making a test flight on."

"He shouldn't take you on a test flight—might be risky."

"No, he says it's just routine. He was apologetic, and I don't want
him to be angry with Stephan."

Bandfield shuffled, uneasy at the prospect. "He won't be too happy to see me."

"Well, I'm worried about you too. Why not apologize for slugging him? What will it cost you?"

"Seeing as your little trick with the wire keeps me from moving my arms, it might cost me a black eye."

"You can move them, all right. I've seen that hot-wire trick
played often enough to know how much sympathy you deserve, and
you've already had your quota."

She kept her arm linked in his as they strolled across the dry grass,
spotted here and there with empty Coca-Cola and Quaker State Oil bottles. He liked being close to her.

"When I talked to Dickens earlier, he apologized. He said he was
just drunk. He promised to apologize to Stephan, too, if I'd take a hop with him. Just be nice and we'll get this all fixed up."

They talked about the dance and the Caudron's engine, and her mother's chances in the women's unlimited race the following morning.

"Dickens said he was test-flying the airplane to pay back a favor to
an old friend of his who has entered in the Cleveland-Dayton-Toledo round-robin race."

"I didn't think Dickens had any friends," Bandfield scoffed.

As they approached the hangar Bandfield could see Dickens's head sticking up on the other side of an ancient Bach biplane. The
patched and tattered airplane had obviously spent too many winters
parked outside in the weather, and Dickens was checking everything
with extra care. Bandy watched with distaste, unable to understand
why Dickens would ask Patty to fly in such a wreck. When he glanced into the cabin, he saw that there was a bench fitted instead
of the usual two separate seats. In the air, she'd have a hell of a time
getting away from him if he decided to make a pass.

"Hello there, Bandfield. I guess I owe you one for that sucker punch the other night."

"No hard feelings, Roy. Have one on me, as a gift."

Dickens gave his usual nasty smile. "No, I've got hard feelings all
over my ribs. I'll pay you back someday, you can count on it."

After the walk-around inspection, Dickens slid over to the left
side, and Patty climbed up into the right. After propping the engine
for them, Bandfield trotted alongside as they taxied slowly to the
edge of the grassy field. The landing gear was splayed out like an old
washerwoman's legs, the paint on the struts cracked like varicose veins.

Dickens leered at him as he went through the engine run-up, the tired engine coughing and backfiring. Bandfield could tell that the
spark plugs were fouled with oil. Dickens stood on the brakes as he
put the throttle forward to full power, deafening the onlookers with
the sharp staccato exhaust noise. The plane strained forward like a sprinter against the chocks, slack fabric quivering, landing gear bending forward.

Bandfield made the classic "cut the engine" sign and bounded up on the wing. Dickens brought the power back and Patty opened her
door.

With his left hand, Bandfield unbuckled her safety belt; he shot his right hand under her rump and scooped her out of the cabin, backing off the wing and falling with her on top of him.