Authors: Walter J. Boyne
Submerging in the fronds of a potted palm, he devoted himself to
eating and people-watching. Like any good instrument pilot, he
kept a scan going across the three most important parts. First there
were the good-looking girls, so plentiful that it was difficult to
concentrate. Then the race pilots, constantly grouping and regroup
ing, getting louder as the party wore on, as the drinks went down.
Finally, there was Charlotte, circling constantly, working the crowd, steering important people to each other, helping out when she saw someone cornered by a bore, making sure that the trays of drinks were circulating fast enough.
Bandy watched how the most famous names in racing kidded each other. There was a definite pecking order, with Turner and
Doolittle at the top, and the others ranking themselves down almost
as they had finished in last year's races.
Hughes came by, and Bandy tried to get him to talk about Hollywood. "I'm tired of talking shop, Howard. Tell me about
making pictures and living high with the starlets. Did you ever date
Jean Harlow?"
The veneer of Hughes's friendship went transparent and the real
Howard Hughes loomed large behind the familiar figure of Charles
Howard. Even his voice was different as he said, "Bandfield, the
only thing I ever talk is shop, and only with the experts. That's why
I've spent so much time with you and Roget."
Taken aback but trying to joke, Bandy said, "If we're so expert how come we're so broke?"
"Because you don't know how to make money. I do. But I don't know how to make airplanes, and I'm learning from you. When the time is right, I'm going to ask you to help me."
"Yeah, but how about the starlets? Come on."
A lid slammed down on Hughes. "Fuck the starlets, Bandy, let's talk airplanes."
"What were you all saying about fucking starlets?" Roscoe Turner, a man who had forced the world to pay attention first to his persona, then his skills, came over, smiling, resplendent in fawn
trousers, sky-blue tunic, and diamond-encrusted wings the size of a
Buick hubcap. His soft Mississippi drawl commanded attention.
Still irritated with Bandfield, Hughes drifted away without apology.
Turner watched Hughes leave, smiled, and said, "You used to work at Western, didn't you? I delivered an airplane there. I thought I remembered you."
The flamboyant Turner was obviously restless, the well-waxed
point of his mustache twitching. Bandy sensed that he wanted to talk, to unburden himself.
"You know, when I think about these closed-course races my gut
just crawls. You can't see anything, and the goddam turbulence from the propwash is trying to turn you over all the time. Wait here a second."
Turner went over to a tray of drinks, brought four back.
"Let's move against the wall. That asshole Roy Dickens is here, and I just don't feel like arguing with him tonight." Turner watched
in amusement as Bandfield carefully slid the two drinks onto his plate. "Hungry?" he asked as they stepped into a little alcove.
Bandfield didn't know who Dickens was, but was honored to be
talking to Turner.
"Dickens just gets on my nerves," Turner continued. "He's al
ways on his muscle, always complaining, never giving anybody a break." He pointed across the room to a tall Ichabod Crane type, a rawboned New England farmer with a hooked nose and buck teeth.
Dickens, at least six-four, was a well muscled two-hundred-pounder
who somehow still looked scrawny. His voice was loud and raucous. Bandfield watched and noticed that people backed away from Dick
ens as he moved.
"Still, Bandy, we're damn lucky to be here. These are the best pilots in the world, bar none. And most of them good guys. Just don't get in their way on the racecourse."
He sipped half his drink. "You could walk out there and ask
anyone—except Dickens—for the shirt off his back, and you'd get it
no questions asked. If your engine was acting up, they'd stay up all
night to fix it. But God, don't expect any mercy on the course."
He finished one drink and started the other. "One of the guys brought his mother to the races last year—bad idea, I think—and
she watched everybody for a few days. When it was over, she told
him, 'I don't understand it. You men all work together all day long until the race, and then you try to murder each other.' " His voice had dropped.
Bandy nodded, waited.
Turner grabbed his arm and lowered his voice to a whisper. "She's right, Bandy. That's what we do, we try to murder each other."
Bandy didn't know what to say and was somewhat relieved when a
reporter buttonholed Turner. Anxious to make up, even though he didn't know why his friend was angry, Bandy went over to Hughes.
"You should have hung around, Howard. Turner was just talking
about how dangerous it was on the course, how pilots tried to murder each other."
Hughes grimaced, embarrassed at his earlier show of temper. "Sorry about popping off like that, Bandy. You know, Turner may
be right. Everybody has every cent he owns tied up in the race. If he
loses, he's out of business, might not even be able to come back and race next year. So when it gets down to the pylons, it's Katie-bar-
the-door."
Hughes took a deep sip of his Coca-Cola. "Your drink as good as
Pisco punch, Bandy?"
Bandfield nodded, strangely pleased that Hughes was so obviously
trying to make up for being rude earlier.
"Head's up, Bandy! There's something coming our way!"
Charlotte had appeared from nowhere, dragging along a beautiful
miniature edition of herself, and, limping behind her, a short, dark man.
"Bandy, Charles!" She said "Charles" as if it had quotation marks
around it, letting him know she knew who he was. "So nice of you to come. I want you to meet my daughter and her husband."
Bandfield had a glass in one hand and a disaster area of a plate in
another, all shrimp tails, olive pits, and horseradish sauce. He dumped them both in a palm-tree pot and wiped his hand on his suitcoat pocket.
"Patty, Stephan, may I present Frank Bandfield and Charles Howard. Gentlemen, my daughter, Patty, and her husband, Stephan Dompnier."
Bandfield said, "I've read a lot about you, Captain Dompnier. I understand your machine is very fast."
"Very fast when it runs well—but so far it is not running well; there are some difficulties with the engine."
Hughes asked Patty, "Are you entered in any of the events?"
Pleased to be treated as an equal, Patty said, "No, although I might try one of the aerobatic contests. I'm going to practice some more in the next few days, then see what happens."
They made the usual small talk, until Dompnier asked about the Roget Rascal. Bandy plunged into conversation, and didn't notice that Hughes had taken Charlotte into the ballroom.
Patty listened for a while without comment, then said, "You men
are incorrigible! I've been listening to nothing but airplane talk all day. The band is playing and I want to dance."
Bandfield nodded and turned to leave. Stephan said, "Mr. Band
field, I'm sorry, but for the past few weeks I've had a little problem
with my legs. I was in your Southwest, and apparently contracted some sort of rash. I'm not dancing tonight. Will you do the honors for my wife?"
Bandfield put out his arm and led her into the ballroom where Buddy Baskette and his Shaker Heights Heroes were playing "How Deep Is the Ocean" underneath a revolving mirrored ball.
Patty was light enough on her feet to avoid Bandfield's. He was
trying so hard to say something clever that his hands were wet with
sweat.
She noticed. "Are you all right? Would you like to go back?"
"No, I'm fine, I'm just a little nervous. I haven't danced in a long
while, as I'm sure you can tell."
She floated in his arms, easing the need for conversation by singing the words of the song softly. It was over too soon, and he
took her back to Stephan, who looked like a Singer's midget stand
ing between Roy Dickens and Roscoe Turner. Dickens was swaying
as if he'd had too much to drink, and his voice, always loud, was
slurred. Dompnier, looking uncomfortable, spoke.
"Thank you, Mr. Bandfield. Colonel Turner was just talking about some of his cross-country flights."
Dickens's booming voice sneered,
"Colonel
Turner?
Colonel?
He's no more a colonel than I am. A fancy uniform don't make you no colonel."
Dompnier looked appalled as Dickens, obviously thinking he was
on to a good thing, went on, "Well,
Colonel,
you get rid of that goddam flea bag you used to haul around?"
Patty had heard Dickens's voice, and came over as he droned on,
"Old
Colonel
Turner here, he used to carry this shitty-assed lion named Gilmore around with him, like it was a big deal."
Dompnier pulled himself to his full height and yelled into Dick
ens's chest pocket, "Be careful of your language, Mr. Dickens. My
wife is present."
Dickens's hands shot out and caught Stephan by his shoulders,
lifting him to his own eye level. "You watch what you say, Froggie,
or I'll smash you."
Turner moved behind Dickens and grabbed his arms as Band
field's fist slammed noiselessly just under the big man's rib cage.
Dickens's breath whooshed out, and he was doubled over, gasping, as they hurried him out, Turner murmuring something about "too much to drink."
When they returned, Dompnier was standing at the side, rigid with fury, embarrassed as much by being saved as by being assaulted. Bandfield said, very formally, "Captain Dompnier, on
behalf of the other American pilots, I apologize. Dickens is always
obnoxious, and there is nothing I can say to excuse it."
Turner said, "Well, let's get a little good out of a bad situation.
Ah'll tell you fellows about a little trick our friend Mr. Dickens uses,
to show you the sort of Yankee gentleman he really is."
Stephan feigned close attention, trying to find a way out of his physical humiliation. Vague, irrational thoughts of duels ran through his head. If only the man had not been so enormous, if his movement hadn't been so sudden. If only the other two had not intervened!
Bandfield sensed Dompnier's burning indignation, and understood it. Dickens was a slob. Taking advantage of the Frenchman's size and the element of surprise was nothing compared to his
insensitivity in treating Dompnier like a rag doll in front of his wife.
Turner, hands up and flying, went on, "You know, you fly so
close out there that you can't wait for the airplane ahead of you to actually move, you have to watch its control movement to see which way it's
going
to move. Everybody knows it, even a polecat
like Dickens knows it. I've seen Dickens flick his controls to fake turning out when you try to pass him. It looks like he's moving right
into your path."
He drained his drink and sucked an ice cube into his mouth, crunching it. A frazzled-looking Dompnier finished his own drink and started on another.
"Your natural reaction is to slam the stick to the side and kick rudder." Turner moved his hand and kicked his leg as if he were
flying. "If you do, you go outside, and lose position and time, which
is what he wants. What you've got to do is bore straight ahead and
hope he's bluffing. And knowing Dickens, he is." He paused. "Of
course, if he's not, you have a midair. So you've got to be careful."
They shifted the talk to the Depression and to France. Patty came
back and took Stephan's hand. He shook his head at her, and she moved off. He had to be away from her, to talk to the other pilots until his anger cooled.
*
Cleveland, Ohio/August 28, 1932
Bandy had a lot to think about the next day. He had really enjoyed dancing with Patty Dompnier, and he still felt embarrassed for her husband. He couldn't imagine what had gotten into Dickens, but
he knew it wasn't over. He was so preoccupied that he didn't do well
in his time trials, flying wide, and averaging only 219 mph. Yet he
was almost satisfied with the Rascal's performance, even if he wasn't
with his own. Roget had pared the frontal area down as much as possible, and the landing gear was little more than a case-hardened
automobile spring with a tiny wheel attached—another Roget patent. He turned 230 mph in the straights, fast enough to win if he
flew better than he had today, and if he was lucky. And he had to be
lucky.