Page 13 of Air Affair

As if to prove his point, the plane began to spin out of control. He was losing altitude fast. Instinct and training kicked in and moved him through the motions of recovering. Idle the engine. Ailerons neutral. Rudder opposite the spin. Elevator forward.

A ray of sunshine pierced the clouds ahead. Was he coming out the other side? As he flew forward, the wind died down. The rain turned to a drizzle and then stopped. And as suddenly as it had started, it was over.

Breathing hard, Hank forced himself to relax, loosening the death grip he had on the stick and moving around as if to prove to himself he was still all there.

His brother’s face hovered in his mind’s eye. Was this how Benny died? A spot of bad weather? Or was it enemy fire? Or an engine malfunction? All Hank knew was the debris of Benny’s plane was found near the town of Cantigny. How his brother died, Hank would never know. It ate at him. How long would it be before he followed his brother to the same fate?

But it was no good thinking like that. Hank shook his head to clear it and tried to focus on the present.

Examining the landscape, Hank cursed. He’d veered inland and had to get back on course and pray his fuel would get him to Philadelphia. Adjusting his trajectory, he made a beeline for his destination, letting the hot sun dry his soaked clothes. Just as Philadelphia came into view, the engine began to sputter. He wasn’t going to make it. Desperately, he scanned for a field where he could set down and found one in the nick of time—a wheat field by the look of it. They’d have to compensate the farmer, but it was a small price to pay to keep the Jenny intact, not to mention saving his neck.

It was a bumpy descent that made him think fondly of his landing without power just the other day. At least then he’d had a beautifully clear runway. At the moment, he was praying that the stalks of wheat wouldn’t damage his delicate wooden wings as they whipped against the plane with terrifying cracking sounds. There was no socialite in powder blue waiting for him at the end of this rough and jarring ride, but thank God, he made it on one piece.

No sooner did he grind to a shuddering halt than the farmer came running at him wielding a pitchfork.

“What do you think you’re doing to my field, you young whippersnapper?” the man demanded.

“I’m with the Postal Service, sir. My airplane ran out of fuel before I could land. Can you take me to the nearest telephone? I’d be happy to pay you,” he said, knowing he’d be reimbursed. Because this was a common occurrence, they had a standard operating procedure for it.

The man narrowed his eyes, but he lowered his pitchfork. “I’ll take you for fifty cents, even if you do look like something the cat dragged in.”

It was highway robbery, but Hank had no choice. “Done.” He handed over the money.

After the man dropped him off, he called the airfield and asked for a cadet to come out and bring fuel. The cadet could make the hop to the airfield with the Jenny while Hank drove the truck back.

Before long, he was at the airfield, taking a shower and putting on clean, dry clothes. It made him feel human again. He ate some lunch and smoked a cigar before heading off to D.C. in a different Jenny.

Everything went exactly according to plan on the second leg of his journey, and he landed in D.C. by suppertime. Lieutenant O’Donnell was there when he landed, as was Lieutenant Thompson, who he hadn’t seen in about a month. “You got tomorrow off, Hawley?” Thompson asked.

“I do.”

“Thought so. We’re going out on the town tonight. Join us?”

“With pleasure.” A night out with the boys. That was what he needed to keep his mind off things.

“Oh good,” O’Donnell said, rubbing his hands together. “Maybe we’ll finally pry out of you who this mystery woman was.”

“Mystery woman?” Thompson asked. “Tell me everything.”

“I thought you were engaged, Thompson.” Hank shook his head.

“Engaged isn’t dead, Hank. Spill the beans.”

“He won’t say where he met her or who she is. All we know is that she’s a rich blonde with blue eyes.” O’Donnell stopped in his tracks. “Saaaayyyyy, that Belmont girl who came to the airstrip the other day fits the description. It isn’t her, is it?” O’Donnell’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

Hank lit a cigar to hide his alarm. “As if a girl like that would even deign to speak to me.”

“That’s not a ‘no,’” said Thompson, nudging Hank in the ribs.

“You two are worse than a sewing circle, you know that?” Hank said, waving his friend off with his cigar. “Now let’s go find some nice girls that think we’re goddamn heroes and show them a good time, shall we?”

Thompson led the way to a waiting cab. “I heard about this place from Ericson. He says the jazz is hot and the ladies are hotter. It’s on Massachusetts Avenue by Dupont Circle.”

They rode the short distance to the bar and got out of the taxi. Hank could hear the ragtime piano spilling out of the High Flyer from the sidewalk. As they walked inside, the scent of beer and hot pretzels permeated his nostrils. Peanut shells littered the floor, and a wooden propeller hung on the back wall with a sign claiming it was from the Wright Flyer.

Hank chuckled. Fat chance of that. Everyone knew the Wright brothers were more secretive than the Military Intelligence Division when it came to their planes. But it was fitting somehow for a pilot bar. What pilot didn’t make a tall claim from time to time?

The place was hopping even though dinner hour had only just begun. A group of young women out for some fun settled into the table beside them. Before long, they were all on the dance floor together doing the turkey trot.