Trophy for Eagles (54 page)

Unable to dissemble, Caldwell met the Beechcraft and pulled Bandfield aside brusquely, with a bare nod to Patty, saying, "What
is it with you, Bandfield? You smell like a French whorehouse! Are
you wearing some goddam perfume?"

Bandfield checked the wind sock and moved downwind.

"Jesus, Henry, you sure are an old smoothie. What a cordial greeting."

Caldwell's wattles turned a brighter pink. "Goddammit, Bandfield. Don't screw around. I invited
you
out here, not her."

"Jesus, you didn't invite me, you ordered me. I don't even know
why I'm here. I'm not working for the Air Corps anyway, and I sure
as hell haven't sold it any planes. What the hell business is it of yours who I bring with me?"

"Look, it's nothing personal." He thought for a moment, weighing whether he should proceed, then plunged ahead. "Frankly,
we're worried about Bruno Hafner. We're not sure where his loyal
ties lie."

"I'll tell you. They lie with Bruno Hafner and nowhere else."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. I've got some official word that
makes Hafner look pretty suspicious."

"You thought enough of Hafner to buy a whole bunch of airplanes from him. You didn't buy any from me."

"Touche.
But a lot has happened since, and that's why you're here."

Caldwell furrowed his brow. "I'm going to have to talk to Patty
personally, to reassure myself about her. Hafner is just her stepfather, I know, but it could lead to problems. I've got my neck on the line on this. But lemme give you some background, first. Then I'll tell you how you can help us."

They did it Army-style. Sitting in a top-floor office of the Materiel
Division headquarters building, at a highly polished dark oak table,
Bandy listened while a series of sharp young lieutenants and captains brought him up to date on all the trouble spots in the world, each man an expert with maps, pointer, and overhead projector. While he was getting groggy from the lectures, Caldwell spent the time getting to know Patty, gently interrogating her.

Bandfield was astounded at how weak the United States was militarily, given the critical world situation. If you believed the briefing officers, everything was apparently going to hell everywhere, and all Roosevelt seemed worried about was the Navy and the National Recovery Act. Maybe Lindbergh was right.

The Congress wasn't providing much money to the military, the Navy got the lion's share of what was given, and the Army kept a
tight rein on Air Corps spending. Every major country in the world,
including Russia and Japan, was getting ahead of the U.S. militarily, especially in the air.

Bandfield had promised Patty dinner at the officers' club, but Caldwell had asked him to come by his little house in Dayton first, to tell him what the whole trip was about. Patty, weary with the
interviews, and not anxious to see Caldwell again, had gone directly
to the club.

When Caldwell opened the door, Bandfield laughed openly. The
major, never spic-and-span, was scruffier than ever in a workman's
cap and a set of coveralls with a big Sinclair Oil sign with its familiar
brontosaurus insignia. Underneath was the legend "Mellowed a Hundred Million Years." Old Henry Caldwell would take longer than that to mellow.

"What the hell is this, Henry? Are you working as a grease monkey part-time?"

"Sorry, Bandy, but my old Hupmobile burned out a main bearing and I'm overhauling it. Tonight's one of the few times I've had to work on it. We can talk while I work, if you don't mind."

In the tiny wooden garage at the back of his lot, lit by a dangling
bare bulb in a white porcelain socket, Caldwell had rigged an A-frame to pull the Hupp's engine from the hood.

Caldwell reached inside the brass-buttoned coverall and pulled
out a standard Army manila folder carrying large red
secret
mark
ings.

"Bandy, it's all right here. It got delivered to me by a courier
straight from Air Corps headquarters. They tasked me to pin a rose
on you, and I'm pinning it. If you'll let me."

He wiped his hands on a greasy rag, then delicately pulled out a file and said, "And I learned a little bit about you. I never knew you and Slim had a midair or that you were a washed-out cadet."

"Being washed out is not the first thing anybody wants to talk about. Yeah, Slim ran into me one day down in Texas. He came
out of it pretty well. He got to Paris, and he's made colonel already."

Caldwell laughed. "Well, we can't do that well, but how would you like to be a captain and maybe go to Berlin and Rome? Or maybe China and Tokyo?"

Bandy raised his eyebrows. "I didn't even make second lieutenant. I stopped at buck-ass cadet."

"They want you for a special project. They need somebody who
has a reputation as a pilot, is an engineer, and knows how to build
airplanes. You fit the bill perfectly."

"Really? I don't know how much of a reputation I have outside of
a pretty small community."

"You'd be surprised. Anyway, to use you legally, we'll need to
commission you a captain in the United States Army Air Corps. I
can have the paperwork here tomorrow if you'll agree. Of course, you won't be able to tell anybody about it, or about the project for that matter."

"What am I supposed to do?"

Caldwell's voice dropped to a conspiratorial level.

"We'll arrange that you get some official tours, at the highest
level, of some foreign air forces. Some will be friendly, some not so
friendly. The not-so-friendly ones are our real interest, of course."

"I thought that's what the Army and Navy attaches did."

"They're supposed to, but they don't have your experience. Most
ly they see what the host country wants them to see."

Bandfield hesitated. "Tell me a little more about it. What does it have to do with Hafner?"

"Well, I'm not sure. I just think you might be able to confirm something about him on your trip to Germany. You'll be entertained, you'll meet a lot of the top people. Maybe you can sound something out."

"I don't know, Henry. I've got a lot of responsibilities back at the
plant. And I don't want to leave Patty."

"Take her with you. And Hadley can run the plant, can't he?"

Bandfield's mind was racing. Actually, the timing was not bad. Douglas had outsold them across the country, and it seemed certain
that the production line for the RC-3 wouldn't run much beyond the original order from Mahew. If he left, went on the Air Corps payroll, it would make it that much easier for Hadley to survive.

Caldwell seemed to be reading his thoughts. "You know, Hadley
came to work for us once when things were quiet at the plant, back in the early thirties. You were off trying to sell airplanes, and the money he was making kept Roget Aircraft going. Maybe it's your turn to pull a tour of duty and let Hadley run the plant."

Bandfield nodded, wondering how Patty would feel about being
married to another Army captain.

"When would I start and how long will it take?"

Caldwell looked at his watch. "Well, it's six
p.m.
now ..." His voice changed from the joking note. "We'd like to start right after the first of the year."

"Let me talk to her. My inclination is to go along with you, but I
want her to approve."

"Bandy, did you ever hear of the draft in the last war?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Well, think of this as your private draft. You can talk it over with
Patty, and think it over all you want, but come the first of the year,
you are going."

Bandfield bridled, then subsided, knowing that he wanted to go,
and there was no point in arguing about being forced to do what he wanted to do.

"Go on back to Downey and get Hadley squared away with the
plant. The sooner you get started, the better, because we want to send you through a few quick schools before you go."

"Schools?"

"Yeah, the fighter tactics school. We want you to spend a month or two here at Wright Field, flying all the different airplanes we
have, so you'll have some basis for comparison. And they're bringing in some guy from the East Coast to give you a crash course in
German."

Bandfield looked bewildered.

"This is a long-term project, isn't it, Henry? You're not investing all that time and dough in me for a one-month trip on the continent."

Caldwell nodded. "As I said, a lot depends on you. But yeah, they're looking to call on you in the future. It's sort of like reserve
duty, you know—you're called up for a while, then get sent back to
civvie street."

"Jesus, tell me, Henry, what the hell is going on? The Nazis are building subs, the fascists are marching in England, the communists are trying to take over China, there's fighting in Spain,
Mussolini's talking about going to war. Finland seems to be the only
country with any sense. Are we going to be strong enough?"

"Shit no, Bandy, that's the problem. We're worse off than we were in 1917. The Army's got only a few thousand men—Rumania's got more men under arms than we do!—and you know how bad off we are in the air."

"And I'm supposed to fix it?"

Caldwell laughed. "Well, it'll be a start, won't it?"

Bandfield knew that he would agree, and looked for some quick
rationalizations.

"Well, it could actually help the business to see what the compe
tition is doing. Would the Air Corps have any problems with that?"

"Hell no. We won't be paying you much, just a captain's pay and
expenses. Anything you get out of it you'll deserve."

Caldwell figured he'd let out enough line, so he set the hook.

"The beauty of it is that you and Patty can travel at government
expense. She'd have to keep her eyes and ears open, but from what
I've seen of her, she'd be a real asset."

"I'll think it over."

Caldwell's face creased into three parallel lines as he grinned. "You already have. But talk it over with Patty and Hadley, and let me know. For the time being, don't tell anyone else. Okay?"

"You're on!"

*

Burbank, California/September 28, 1934

The crazy working habits of Howard Hughes were a match for his career. He turned everything upside down, from hours of work to return on investment. The money that flowed endlessly to him from
his Texas tool company and his oil investments were poured into the film and aviation industries with equally lavish abandon. He was filmmaker, airplane designer, and playboy, all rolled into one, and if he'd had a candle he would have burned it at both ends and
the middle as well. Yet the situation was exactly right for Hadley
Roget, giving him the time needed to keep his own plant going. Hughes rarely surfaced until after nine in the evening, so Hadley was able to keep on top of things at Roget Aircraft and still be on hand when Hughes needed him. It meant sixteen hours a day,
seven days a week, but that was the way he'd worked all his life, and
if he began spending some time at home, Clarice would have been suspicious.

He had been Hughes's "boss" for years; it felt funny to be working
for him. But Hughes's unusual way of dealing with people seemed to work. He'd pick the best people he could find, tell them what he
wanted, then leave them alone. Usually the results were better than
he could have expected.

It was a weird world, though. The pay was wonderful—Hughes
doled out salaries as if they were all movie stars—and the other
people were first-rate. The racer was beginning to take shape, and it was clearly a winner, a sleek low-wing monoplane with the smooth
est finish he'd ever seen. The fuselage was all-metal, with every
plate butted into the next and flush-riveted so it was smoother than
glass. Hadley had been asked to build two wings, one short for the speed-record attempt and a longer one for a transcontinental record.

The only puzzle was Dusty Rhoades. Hadley was shocked by his
appearance. In the past, he had been husky, almost overweight, dressing as fastidiously as Adolph Menjou. Now he was rail-lean and dressed like a scarecrow, his long hair uncombed and his
manner strange. He had been a great pilot, and apparently still flew, but most of his work with Hafner had been administrative. Hughes
seemed to be using him as a general handyman. In his usual bluff way, Hadley asked, "Dusty, what the hell are you doing here? I didn't know you knew Hughes."