Airport (120 page)

Carrying a bag with emergency supplies wherever he went was characteristic of Milton Compagno. So was taking charge now, even though–as a G.P.–he was outranked professionally by the other two doctors who were internists.

Milton Compagno never considered himself off duty. Thirty-five years ago, as a young man who had fought an upward battle from a New York slum, he hung out a shingle in Chicago’s Little Italy, near MHwaukee and Grand Avenues. Since then–as his wife told it, usually with resignation–the only time he ceased practicing medicine was while he slept. He enjoyed being needed. He acted as if his profession were a prize he had won, which, if not guarded, would slip away. He had never been known to refuse to see a patient at any hour, or to fail to make a house call if sent for. He never drove past an accident scene as did many of his medical brethren, fearing malpractice suits; he always stopped, got out of his car, and did what he could. He kept conscientiously up to date. Yet the more he worked, the more he seemed to thrive. He gave the impression of running through each day as if he planned to assuage the world’s ailments in a lifetime, of which too little was left.

The journey to Rome–many years postponed–was to visit the birthplace of his parents. With his wife, Dr. Compagno was to be away a month, and because he was growing old, he had agreed that the time should be a total rest. Yet he fully anticipated that somewhere en route, or perhaps in Italy (never mind regulations about not being licensed) he would be needed. If so, he was ready. It did not surprise him that he was needed now.

He moved first to Gwen who was clearly most critical among those hurt. He told his colleagues, over his shoulder, “You attend to the others.”

In the narrow aisle, Dr. Compagno turned Gwen over partially, leaning forward to detect if she was breathing. She was, but her breath was light and shallow. He called to the stewardess he had been speaking to, “I need oxygen down here.” While the girl brought a portable bottle and mask, he checked Gwen’s mouth for an unobstructed airway; there were smashed teeth, which he removed, and a good deal of blood; he made sure the bleeding was not preventing respiration. He told the stewardess, “Hold the mask in place.” The oxygen hissed. Within a minute or two a vestige of color returned to Gwen’s skin, which had been ominously white.

Meanwhile, he began to control bleeding, extensive around the face and chest. Working quickly, he used a hemostat to clamp off a facial artery–worst site of external hemorrhage–and pressure dressings elsewhere. He had already detected a probable fracture of the clavicle and left arm, which would need to be splinted later. He was distressed to see what appeared to be splinters from the explosion in the patient’s left eye; he was less sure about the right.

Second Officer Jordan, having moved carefully around Dr. Compagno and Gwen, took charge of the remaining stewardesses and was supervising the movement of passengers forward in the aircraft. As many tourist passengers as possible were being moved into the first class section, some squeezed in, two to a seat, others directed to the small, semicircular first class lounge, where spare seats were available. Such extra clothing as remained was distributed among those who appeared to need it most, without regard to ownership. As always, in such situations, people showed a willingness to help one another, unselfishness, and even flashes of humor.

The other two doctors were bandaging passengers who had received cuts, none excessively serious. The young man with glasses, who was behind Gwen at the moment of the explosion, had a deep gash in one arm, but it could be repaired and would heal. He had other minor cuts about the face and shoulders. For the time being, pressure dressings were applied to his injured arm, and he was given morphine, while being made as comfortable and warm as possible.

Both the medical attention and movement of passengers was being made more difficult by heavy buffeting which the aircraft, at its present low altitude, was taking from the storm. There was constant turbulence, punctuated every few minutes by violent pitching or sideways movements. Several passengers were finding airsickness added to their other troubles.

After reporting to the flight deck for the second time, Cy Jordan returned to Dr. Compagno.

“Doctor, Captain Demerest asked me to say he’s grateful for everything you and the other doctors are doing. When you can spare a moment, he’d appreciate it if you’d come to the flight deck to tell him what to radio ahead about casualties.”

“Hold this dressing,” Dr. Compagno ordered. “Press down hard, right there. Now I want you to help me with a splint. We’ll use one of those leather magazine covers, with a towel under it. Get the biggest cover you can find, and leave the magazine in.”

A moment later: “I’ll come when I can. You can say to your captain that I think, as soon as possible, he should make an announcement to the passengers. People are getting over their shock. They could use some reassurance.”

“Yes, sir.” Cy Jordan looked down at the still unconscious figure of Gwen, his normally mournful, hollow-cheeked face accentuated by concern. “Is there a chance for her, Doc?”

“There’s a chance, son, though I wouldn’t say it was the best. A lot depends on her own strength.”

“I always figured she had a lot of that.”

“A pretty girl, wasn’t she?” Amid the torn flesh, blood, and dirty, tousled hair, it was difficult to be sure.

“Very.”

Compagno remained silent. Whatever happened, the girl on the floor would not be pretty any more–not without plastic surgery.

“I’ll give the captain your message, sir.” Looking a little sicker than before, Cy Jordan went forward to the flight deck.

Vernon Demerest’s voice came calmly on the cabin p.a. system a few moments later.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Demerest…” To overcome the roar of wind and engines, Cy Jordan had turned the volume control to “full.” Each word rang clearly.

“You know we’ve had trouble–bad trouble. I won’t attempt to minimize it. I won’t make any jokes either, because up here on the flight deck we don’t see anything that’s funny, and I imagine you feel the same way. We’ve all come through an experience which none of us in the crew has ever had before, and I hope will never have again. But we
have
come through. Now, we have the airplane under control, we’re turned around, and expect to land at Lincoln International in about three quarters of an hour.”

In the two passenger cabins, where first and tourist class now mingled without distinction, movement and conversation stopped. Eyes instinctively went to the overhead speakers as everyone within hearing strained to miss nothing of what was said.

“You know, of course, that the airplane is damaged. But it’s also true that the damage could have been a whole lot worse.”

On the flight deck, with the p.a. mike in hand, Vernon Demerest wondered how specific–and how honest–he should be. On his own regular flights he always kept captain-to-passengers announcements to the barest terse minimum. He disapproved of “long-playing captains” who bombarded their captive audience with assorted commentaries from a flight’s beginning to its end. He sensed, though, that this time he should say more, and that passengers were entitled to be told the true situation.

“I won’t conceal from you,” Demerest said into the microphone, “that we have a few problems still ahead of us. Our landing will be heavy, and we’re not sure how the damage we’ve suffered will affect it. I’m telling you this because right after this announcement the crew will start giving instructions on how to sit, and how to brace yourselves, just before we land. Another thing you’ll be told is how to get out of the airplane in a hurry, if we need to, right after landing. If that should happen, please act calmly but quickly, and obey instructions given you by any member of the crew.

“Let me assure you that on the ground everything necessary is being done to help us.” Remembering their need for runway three zero, Demerest hoped it was true. He also decided there was no point in going into detail about the problem of the jammed stabilizer; most passengers wouldn’t understand it anyway. With a touch of lightness in his voice, he added, “In one way you’re lucky tonight because instead of one experienced captain on the flight deck, it just so happens you have two–Captain Harris and myself. We’re a couple of ancient pelicans with more years of flying than we sometimes like to think about–except right now when all that combined experience comes in mighty useful. We’ll be helping each other, along with Second Officer Jordan. who’ll also be spending part of his time back with you. Please help us too. If you do, I promise you we’ll come through this together–safely.”

Demerest replaced the p.a. mike.

Without taking his eyes from the flight instruments, Anson Harris remarked, “That was pretty good. You should be in politics.”

Demerest said sourly, “Nobody’d vote for me. Most times, people don’t like plain talking and the truth.” He was remembering bitterly the Board of Airport Commissioners meeting at Lincoln International where he urged curtailment of airport insurance vending. Plain speech there had proved disastrous. He wondered how the members of the Board, including his smooth, smug brother-in-law, would feet after learning about D. 0. Guerrero’s purchase of insurance and his maniacal intention to destroy Flight Two. Probably, Demerest thought, they would be complacent as ever, except that now instead of saying
It will never happen
, they would say, Well, assuming Flight Two made it back safely, and whatever was said or wasn’t, sure as hell he was going to create another big fight about airport insurance vending. The difference was: this time more people would listen. Tonight’s near disaster, however it turned out, was certain to attract a lot of press attention; he would make the most of it. He would talk bluntly to reporters about flight insurance, about the Lincoln airport commissioners, and not least about his precious brother-in-law, Mel Bakersfeld. Trans America’s public relations flacks would do their damnedest, of course, to keep him incommunicado “in the interests of company policy.” Just let them try!

The radio crackled alive. “Trans America Two, this is Cleveland Center. Lincoln advises runway three zero still temporarily out of use. They are attempting to clear obstruction before you arrive. Failing that, will land you on two five.”

Harris’s face went grim as Demerest acknowledged. Runway two five was two thousand feet shorter, as well as narrower, and at the moment with a bad crosswind. Using it would compound the hazards they already faced.

Demerest’s expression clearly reflected his reaction to the message.

They were still being thrown about severely by the storm. Most of Harris’s time was occupied by holding the aircraft reasonably steady.

Demerest swung around to the second officer. “Cy, go back with the passengers again, and take charge. See that the girls demonstrate the landing drill, and that everybody understands it. Then pick some key people who look reliable. Make sure they know where emergency exits are and how to use them. If we run out of runway, which’ll be for sure if we use two five, everything may come apart in a hurry. If that happens we’ll all try to make it back there and help, but there may not be time.”

“Yes, sir.” Once more, Jordan eased out of his flight engineer’s seat.

Demerest, still anxious for news of Gwen, would have preferred to go himself, but at this stage neither he nor Harris could leave the flight deck.

As Cy Jordan left, Dr. Compagno arrived. It was now easier to move into and from the flight deck, since Jordan had moved the smashed entrance door to one side.

Milton Compagno introduced himself briskly to Vernon Demerest. “Captain, I have the report of injuries you asked for.”

“We’re grateful to you, Doctor. If you hadn’t been here…”

Compagno waved a hand in dismissal. “Let’s do all that later.” He opened a leather-covered notebook where a slim gold pencil marked a page. It was characteristic that he had already obtained names, and recorded injuries and treatment. “Your stewardess, Miss Meighen, is the most badly hurt. She has multiple lacerations of the face and chest, with considerable bleeding. There is a compound fracture of the left arm and, of course, shock. Also, please notify whoever is making arrangements on the ground that an ophthalmic surgeon should be available immediately.”

Vernon Demerest, his face paler than usual, had been steeling himself to copy the doctor’s information onto the flight log clipboard. Now, with sudden shock, he stopped.

“An ophthalmic surgeon! You mean… her eyes?”

“I’m afraid so,” Dr. Compagno said gravely. He corrected himself. “At least, her left eye has splinters, whether wood or metal I’ve no means of knowing. It will require a specialist to decide if the retina is affected. The right eye, as far as I can tell, is unharmed.”

“Oh, God!” Feeling physically sick, Demerest put a hand to his face.

Dr. Compagno shook his head. “It’s too early to draw conclusions. Modem ophthalmic surgery can do extraordinary things. But time will be important.”

“We’ll send all you’ve told us on company radio,” Anson Harris assured him. “They’ll have time to be ready.”

“Then I’d better give you the rest.”

Mechanically, Demerest wrote down the remainder of the doctor’s report. Compared with Gwen’s injuries, those of other passengers were slight.

“I’d better get back,” Dr. Compagno said. “To see if there’s any change.”

Demerest said abruptly, “Don’t go.”

The doctor stopped, his expression curious.

“Gwen… that is, Miss Meighen…” Demerest’s voice sounded strained and awkward, even to himself. “She was… is… pregnant. Does it make any difference?”

He saw Anson Harris glance sideways in startled surprise.

The doctor answered, a shade defensively, “I had no means of knowing. The pregnancy can’t be very far advanced.”

“No,” Demerest avoided the other man’s eyes. “It isn’t.” A few minutes earlier he had resolved not to ask the question. Then he decided that he had to know.

Milton Compagno considered. “It will make no difference to her own ability to recover, of course. As to the child, the mother was not deprived of oxygen long enough to do harm… no one was. She has no abdominal injuries.” He stopped, then went on fussily, “So there should be no effect. Providing Miss Meighen survives–and with prompt hospital treatment her chances are fair to good–the baby should be born normally.”