Authors: Walter J. Boyne
"What's with this Charles Howard crap anyway, Howard? I know
you have pots of money, but why do you need an alias?"
Howard put down a wrench. "Look, I'll tell you again. I want to be something in this industry, but I want to do it on merit. I could
walk into any airline in the country and get a job as Howard Hughes
because they'd all want to skin a dumb kid out of his money. They'd
let me fly and tell me I was doing well no matter how badly I did."
Hadley was nodding. He had indeed been told before, but he wanted to hear it again, to see if this hardworking, no-nonsense young millionaire was sincere. He grumbled some more, trying to find an argument he could win. He stood glaring at the younger
man like an ancient British gladiator thrown into the ring with some
up-and-coming young Celt. Roget was tall, and his thin blond hair
was sunbaked to silver. His spare frame was covered with a well-
defined musculature looking like braided steel wire under his skin.
Hughes was as tall as Roget and his negative image in coloration,
with a deeply tanned skin and dark black hair. He didn't seem to be
heavily muscled but had proved already that he was just as strong as
the older man.
Hughes shot Hadley a grin and broke into his thoughts. "I don't
know why you worry what my name is. You rarely call me anything
but smart-ass. But I keep remembering that it takes a crusty old
bastard like you to tell me the truth. Besides that, I like the way you
work."
He turned to the Standard, then looked back.
"Charles Howard. Don't you forget, because that's the way the checks will be signed, too."
*
Oakland, California/August 6, 1927
Lindbergh had lit the torch; James Dole had thrown a bucket of
gasoline on it. Pineapple Derby madness was already overshadowing
the covey of proposed transatlantic flights, and pilots and airplanes
from every corner of the country were converging on Oakland.
The flexible contest rules—the race had already been postponed twice—were bent to accommodate crazy contestants. Airplanes that
had been intended to do no more than carry two passengers in and
out of cow pastures were being filled with homemade gas tanks for
the 2,400-mile flight across total emptiness. In backyards and barns,
welding torches glowed, fabricating monstrosities that could barely
get off the ground, much less across an ocean.
There was a fever, a contagion, and it was simply Lindberghitis.
The slim, soft-spoken airman had given more than stature to an
industry; he had given hope. Pilots who had starved for years were
willing to risk anything for a chance at glory.
It had never been tougher for Bandfield; the prize money dictated
that he compete, even though it meant compromising everything he believed in, everything for which he'd tried to stand for. Instead of
flying a well-engineered, well-proven plane in which safety was an
uppermost consideration, he was back working with Roget, trying to
pull rabbit performance out of a tired old hat of an airplane. Hadley
had persuaded Vance Breese to sell them an ancient beat-up crate
that had been used on the Varney Air Lines Elko, Nevada, to Pasco,
Washington, route. It was an open-cockpit four-placer that had
crashed twice, the scars of its rebuilds evident in the cut-and-try welding of its fuselage and the splices in its wing. Yet it had one
great virtue: it was available. Now they were working night and day
to install the tanks where wet mail sacks had lain and scared
passengers had thrown up as it threaded through the passes in the
Rockies.
Roget passed the time by riding Charles Howard unmercifully while the three of them spent twenty hours a day trying to stretch and strengthen the mail plane.
Howard was eager enough, but Roget was a constant critic.
"Godammit, Charlie, I said to be here at seven o'clock. I'm busier than a one-armed paperhanger with the crabs, and you come sauntering in at nine. Where the hell were you?"
"Sorry, Hadley—I had a date, went to see Wings, then for a drive
in the country."
"That's a pretty good movie, Charlie. I really liked the flying
scenes." Bandfield felt obliged to make amends for Hadley's contin
ual hard-timing of the boy.
"The movie stinks. I've seen it five times, and it gets worse every
time."
Hadley snorted. "Well, smart-ass, why don't you make a better one?"
Howard looked at him. "I just might, Hadley, and I'll get you to fix up the airplanes for me. That was one of the problems—the
airplanes didn't look like real World War airplanes. My date said so
too, and she doesn't know anything about it."
"Well, your ass has a date with my foot if you're late again. Now
get your kiester over to Manly's supply shack and get me some gasket
material, and try to get back here before winter." Howard shot off on
the double.
"How come you're so hard on that guy, Hadley? I know you're a
mean old geezer, but he's not used to it."
"Look, Bandy, Charles Howard is just the name he works under.
His real name is Howard Hughes, and he's the richest kid in town, the guy who put up the money for this airplane. I taught him to fly, and now I'm teaching him to build airplanes."
“
Holy shit, Hadley. Then how come you're so mean-ass to him?"
"He told me to treat him just like I'd treat anybody else. He
doesn't want any publicity. And he figures somebody would find out
who he is if I was nice to him."
"Yeah, that'd be a tip-off. What kind of a pilot is he?"
"He's a fucking natural. He says after this, he's going to get a job
as a copilot on an airline, then go into aviation in a big way. I want
you to be nice to him, though—we may want to tap his bankroll again someday."
Bandfield shook his head. Winter had taught him rich people could be nice; maybe Charlie Howard, whatever his name was, would be okay.
In the meantime, he had to figure some way to cram enough fuel
tanks in the airplane to get him to Hawaii. Normally the Breese had a range of six hundred miles at the outside. Bandfield winced at the overload he knew it had to carry to get him 2,400 miles to Hawaii.
They were going to have to beef up the landing gear, run another strut to the wing, and reinforce the fuselage to take the weight of the tanks and gasoline. It was baling-wire-and-bolt-on mechanics, the very thing he hated, and had sworn he'd never do again.
He kept a running tab on the weight not only because he had to for the judges but also to keep track of the center of gravity. If it hadn't been for the rules, he would have thrown the records away, because they provided nothing but bad news.
The Oakland flight line was like old home week, and he was
pleased when Jack Winter walked in, immaculate in gray plus fours,
maroon sweater, and white cap. He'd invited Bandy to make a
thorough inspection of his gorgeously finished Vega himself. It was
the first plane of the new Lockheed line, and no effort had been
spared on it. It reassured him about Millie; if any plane could make
it, the Vega could.
"Did you hear about Art Rogers?"
Bandy shook his head no.
"He went in yesterday on a test flight."
Bandfield rubbed his hands on some cotton wool. "Can't say it surprises me. The plane was too radical."
A special plane had been built for Rogers, the twin-engine,
twin-tail
Angel of Los Angeles.
He had read about it and seen some photos. The
Angel
was an absurd conception powered by two tiny
three-cylinder British Lucifer engines, notoriously unreliable, mounted front and back on the little egg-shaped fuselage. Thin booms carried the twin-ruddered tail surfaces. Like most of the planes entered in the race, it was a half-baked design scratched out on butcher paper by a nonengineer.
Roget stuck his head in the hangar. "Come on out—here comes the Hoot Gibson special! It's crazier-looking than a bag full of assholes!" They strolled out to watch the big twin-engine Fisk
triplane, financed by the cowboy star and carrying his portrait on the
nose, ease around the pattern looking more like a three-masted clipper ship than an airplane.
"Christ, that crate is all drag and a yard wide."
Bandfield shook his head. "He's overshooting final. He ought to go around."
The Fisk, close enough now so that they could see its orange
wings and black fuselage, moved slowly in a turn back toward the
edge of the field.
Winter broke in, "Hey, he's trying to sideslip it back on course."
They watched in amazement as the Fisk slid like a lopsided stack of pancakes toward the bay. The engines roared as the pilot poured
the power to it, but the triplane just edged wingtips first into the
water, dissolving like a graham cracker in a glass of milk. As soon as
they saw the crew swim free, they rolled on the ground, laughing.
That night Bandfield walked past the crumpled remains of the Fisk, a battered, ruptured duck with only Hoot Gibson's face still identifiable. The face was a reproach; the more Bandy flew, the more conservative he became, the more concerned about improving the slapdash engineering of most civilian planes. Even a professional firm like Lockheed could no longer afford to rush an airplane from the production line to a major race.
The accident jolted him into really taking a close look at his own
plane. He walked around the Breese, sitting with its fabric peeled back, a drip pan full of oil under the engine, one tire slightly bald,
the Varney Air Lines logo still visible under the hastily applied coat
of paint. It was marginal, but he and Hadley would have it in shape
for the race. They had solved the problem with strap iron and savvy,
not with engineering elegance. Even if they won the race, it wouldn't mean anything for aviation, nothing like if Jack Winter's Lockheed did.
Suddenly missing Millie, he, walked down to Winter's immaculate Vega, where a mechanic was painting its name,
Miss Duncan's Golden Eagle,
on the highly polished yellow-painted skin.
Millie was there, excitedly studying a clipping from the
Oakland Tribune
showing a cutaway diagram of the plane with its life rafts, drift meter, fuel tanks, emergency rations, radios, just about every
modern convenience. Jack Winter was taking no chances.
Their wedding date was set for December. He had the feeling that all the details—or even the awareness—had not been assimilated in
Green Bay, where a winter wonderland ceremony was supposed to
take place. Jack, true to form, immediately told them that his
wedding present would be the prize money for winning the Pineap
ple Derby. This immediately changed their honeymoon plans from Philadelphia to Havana.
It also changed their thinking. Bandy had planned on winning the $10,000 second prize, and spending it all on the honeymoon
and building a house back in Salinas. Now, with the prospect of an
additional $25,000—Winter was sure to win—they were talking about forming a partnership with Hadley and setting up a first-rate aircraft factory.
There was one fly in the ointment of love. In spite of the fact that their friendship and frustrated passion gave them a happiness usual
ly found only in the last reels of a Mary Pickford film, he was jealous
of the coverage the press was providing her. Petty as he knew it was,
it was undeniable. It was bad enough that Lindbergh, his old flying-school chum, was world-famous. But his girlfriend, not even a pilot? The injustice rankled even though he knew it shouldn't.
"Great shot. You look like you're ready to fly without an airplane." She didn't notice the sarcasm, exhibiting an ingenuous
delight in her photo with Jack standing by the propeller and looking
mystically skyward.
And there was another element, more serious than jealousy or a lover's pique. Bandy didn't know how to tell her that the endless
round of publicity was also affecting her judgment. He felt she was
being drawn irrevocably into the flight, and wouldn't be able to withdraw even if she wanted to at the last moment. He wanted her
to be very sure of what she was doing, aware of the risks involved
before it was too late. But nothing he said seemed to matter. Jack had fitted her out in a cute military costume, an officer's tunic with
Sam Browne belt, jodhpurs, and cute knee socks with clocks around
the top. She looked absolutely darling, and couldn't walk two steps without having a reporter asking a question or a photographer firing
a flash of powder at her.