Page 1 of Plane Passion

1

NEW JERSEY, 1920,

The fuel gauge read empty as Newark came into view, so Ernie nudged the plane higher. If he was going to have to land without engines, he wanted all the altitude he could get.

Stinging sweat dripped into his eyes beneath his goggles as he scoured the familiar landscape, looking past the wooden wings for the dirt airstrip. Triumph was within reach. He’d break the Chicago to New York record if he could just manage to land.

A brisk, autumn breeze was blowing, and he was grateful for the protection of the full-body, leather suit he wore. He’d heard a company in Europe was working on an airplane model with an enclosed cockpit. That sounded like heaven. Not that the Postal Service would ever spring for such luxury.

There was Heller Airport at last, sandwiched between a fireworks factory and a Tiffany jewelry factory. It was one of the worst airfields he’d ever had to land in. The runway was too short, and the surrounding buildings limited visibility. And yet he had never seen a more beautiful, welcoming sight.

His engine began to sputter.

Not now. Please not now.

The smell of hot metal and oil sharpened as his tired engine struggled.

“A few more minutes, sweetheart, and we’ll be home free,” he said in a soothing voice, patting the dash panel. With his other hand, he gripped the wood control stick, his knuckles white.

His heart pounded in his ears as he tilted the nose downward and began his descent. The change in angle sloshed some last remaining drops of fuel into the engine, which roared back to life, thank God!

“That’s it. Nice and easy,” he cooed as if the plane needed reassurance. Or maybe he was reassuring himself. This was cutting it far too close.

He coasted down, adjusting his heading, taking the most direct course he could. There would be no circling this time. He needed wheels on the ground as fast as he could manage. The smoke of the factories tickled his nose as he prayed he’d make it down in one piece.

An updraft jolted him. And then another. He steered his course, steady as possible.

The ground approached. His engine stuttered again. He cursed under his breath.

A sharp turn. A quick drop. Almost there…

Wheels touched dirt, and he let out a shuddering breath as he pulled hard on the elevators to slow down. It would have been downright embarrassing to end his flight in the dirt pile at the end of the runway—an all-too-common occurrence at this godawful airport.

Ernie leaned forward as the plane decelerated far too slowly for his liking. The dirt pile loomed as he ground to a halt at the last moment. Not his finest landing. But at least he was down in one piece.

And he’d done it. By God he’d battled through and broken the record from Chicago.

He sank back in his seat, and a rush of triumph cut through his exhaustion. People would have to sit up and take notice of Ernie Pritchard after this.

A crowd of jumpsuit clad pilots and mechanics rushed out of the hangar to surround the plane as he stood on stiff legs and climbed out of the cockpit.

“You did it, Pritchard! Congrats!”

“Seven hours and forty-three minutes! Amazing!”

“President Wilson should give you a medal!”

They crowded around to sing his praises, and he reveled in it. This was the biggest thing he’d ever achieved, and, tired as he was, he meant to enjoy his moment in the sun. They doffed their grease-stained caps and threw them in the air with a “Hip, hip, hooray!”

A reporter in a rumpled brown suit and straw hat snapped a photo as he descended from the plane. “How does it feel to break the 1918 Chicago to New York record?”

Hot dog! He was going to be in the papers!

“All in a day’s work.” Ernie flashed his most debonair smile. “I’m just doing my job delivering the mail.”

If Ernie was strutting a bit as they walked together to the hangar, he couldn’t help it. His crowd of well-wishers hung on every word, and it wasn’t every day a nobody from Brooklyn broke a world record.

“I see you’re flying a Curtiss R-4. Did you make any special modifications to it for this flight?”