Authors: Walter J. Boyne
Armand Bineau, arms aching, forced his wheelchair past the desk
where he had spent almost eight years serving Hafner Aircraft as chief engineer. In the old days, Hafner used to let him alone to do
his work, rarely making a suggestion. For the last two years, though,
Bruno was into everything, always wanting documentation, always
insisting on "improvements." Hafner knew just enough about air
craft design to be dangerous. He'd never had the engineer's capacity
to keep the entire concept in mind, to see that good ideas, perhaps even great ideas, sometimes didn't work as a part of the whole.
Ironically, the reverse was true with the present airplane. When Wright Field had announced the competition for a "multiengine" bomber, it had been Hafner who had insisted on interpreting the specification to permit four engines. There had been long arguments—in the past, "multiengine" had meant only two or three
engines, and that was how Martin and Douglas were interpreting it.
As the plane took shape on Bineau's drafting table, as the figures
began to add up, two things became apparent to him. One was that
his health was going, his heart unable to take the hours and Hafner's
harassment. The other was that Hafner had been right about build
ing a four-engine plane. They'd heard that Boeing was following the
same path, but it was only an industry rumor. Both companies had clamped tight security on the work areas.
The heart attack had not been a surprise—his doctor had been predicting it for years—but it came at an awkward time, just when
he was forcing Hafner to face reality. All of the engineering changes
had boosted the new airplane's weight by more than two tons—
equivalent to the bomb load—and every ounce of it could be attributed to Hafner's insistence on change, on "improvements."
When Bineau confronted Hafner with the overweight problem, the German had flared up in a wild fury. Bineau remembered for the hundredth time the insane look in Hafner's eyes. Years before, Bineau had polished a single stainless-steel propeller blade and placed it in his office as a decorative sculpture. Hafner had seized
the propeller and walked to the case where models of all the aircraft
designed by Bineau were stored. He had raised the propeller blade
and smashed it into the cabinet, sending glass flying and mashing the jewellike models into dust. Bineau was powerless to stop him, and the pointless destruction had triggered his attack, sending him to the hospital.
Bineau patted his breast pocket in frustration. The cigarette pack
that had been found there for more than thirty years was gone, a victim of his doctor's new regimen. No smoking, no drinking, and no more than ten hours of work per week.
He pulled a sheaf of drawings off the desk, sighing. They were of the control locks, a typical example of Hafner's interference. Histor
ically, the Army had always used external control locks on the
surfaces of big airplanes. Simple blocks of wood with felt protectors,
they kept the ailerons, elevators, and rudders from banging around in a high wind. Hafner had insisted on installing internal locks, operated from the cockpit, saying that the airplane was too big for
the standard locks to be used. The installation took a lot of engineer
ing man-hours, and added more than a hundred pounds.
He put the drawings back, aware that none of it mattered now.
The airplane was ready to fly, with Dusty Rhoades and Charlotte as
the test pilots. Bineau had pleaded with Bruno to hire professional test pilots, but he had refused.
"Look, Armand, the Navy has already got the attention of Congress about how difficult big airplanes are to fly. If we have Char
lotte fly it right from the start, we'll gut their argument."
Any hope that he might have had of persuading Bruno was undercut by Charlotte's own insistence on being the pilot. "If I can fly a Gee Bee, I can sure fly this," she said.
A summer storm threatened to delay the first flight, but the day dawned bright and clear, a fresh, salt-tinged breeze caressing the
field. The airplane was enormous, towering over the swarming
ground crew, more than twenty people absorbed in their individual
tasks. Bineau watched enviously as Rhoades reached up to grab the
sides of the belly hatch under the cockpit, swing his legs forward, and ease into the fuselage; a decade ago he could have done the same thing, but now he'd never see the inside of the airplane. Charlotte was right behind him, swinging up like a trapeze artist.
"That woman is a miracle," Bineau whispered.
They were comfortable together in bed or in a cockpit. Dusty motioned her to take the left seat.
"You make the takeoff. I'll be here to help if you need me."
To her surprise, the big bomber handled easily, needing only a firm hand on the controls. The takeoff and climb-out had been very little different from the transport's, and it stayed in the turns she
made, steady as a bowling ball in the gutter, until it was time to roll
out.
They flew conservatively for thirty minutes, and Charlotte made a perfect three-point landing.
When they got out, Charlotte pulled Hafner aside. "It's a great airplane. Give us a few hours of takeoffs and landings, and we'll dazzle Wright Field with this thing. The papers will have a field day, and you'll turn Congress around."
He said, "You win. And I guess you'd better let me know what
records you're planning. No sense arguing about this."
Bruno's emotions were obviously mixed. "You charmed them out of their boots with the A-11 and the transport. You can do it again.
It's sort of a tradition now." He wondered how they'd feel about it in
Germany if the Air Corps wound up buying the airplane.
The bomber turned out to be the worst-kept secret in military history. A vacationing newsman had watched the first flight in
disbelief, and turned out a feature about "the Hafner Aerial Arsenal"
that made the wire services. By the time the test program was well underway, the field was clogged with reporters and newsreel men.
The initial comments from Washington were adverse because Con
gressman Dade from Nashville pilloried the Air Corps for intruding on the Navy's mission. But by the end of May, the "Aerial Arsenal"
had accumulated more than forty relatively problem-free test hours
and the best press backing any American warplane had ever received.
In Downey, Bandy, Patty, and Roget sat through a double feature
to watch for a second time the Paramount newsreel which showed Hitler and what seemed like all sixty million Germans saluting, shots of nubile starlets traveling on the
Queen Mary,
a fashion show, and the big Hafner bomber. There were only about ninety seconds of it on film, but they were absolutely devastating. The
huge silver plane, with its finely tapered fuselage and four slender
nacelles, flashed by in a high-speed low-level pass, then peeled up to land and park with light planes perched under each wing to emphasize its size. At both showings, the audience broke into spontaneous applause when the announcer said, "And here's a
surprise—the giant Aerial Arsenal is flown by a lady pilot." Charlot
te dropped down out of the cockpit and embraced Bruner Hafner as
the scene faded out.
The three were silent as they drove back to the factory, terribly
aware that Hafner Aircraft's fortunes were rising while Roget Air
craft's were declining. Patty felt awkward, falling between the stools
of pride in her mother and concern for Bandy. Finally Hadley said,
"Has anyone heard how Armand is doing?"
"He's recuperating. Charlotte wrote that Bruno pretends to be so worried about him that he won't let him hang around the factory at all. My guess is that he just wants to ease Armand out, for some reason."
Bandy said, "Caldwell's asked me to spend June and July in Dayton, flying the new crop of fighters. I'll be there during the bomber competition. I'll try to get a line on it, and let you know how it looks."
Patty froze. "Two months! I thought this was going to be like a
reserve assignment, a few days every year. What gives?"
"I don't know. If we don't get some more orders for RC-3s, I may
apply for active-duty status."
Bandfield's comment wasn't offhand. Roget Aircraft was once
again hanging in the balance, its once blue skies tinged with red ink.
*
Sayville, Long Island/June 22, 1935
Bruno Hafner put the last suitcase into the Duesenberg's trunk and yelled: "Come on, Charlotte, we're late. Half the newsreel industry is waiting at the field for us to leave."
Charlotte ran out, a blond Myrna Loy dressed in white whipcord jodhpurs and jacket, a matching white helmet in her hand. She was
wearing her favorite red leather boots. Murray followed her with two
more suitcases.
"Jesus, we're only going to be out there for a week! You didn't need to bring the whole wardrobe."
"The hell I don't. You'll have me set up every day with the papers, and I'll have to wear something different all the time."
"Murray, you take care of things here."
"Things" meant mostly Nellie, Bruno's dachshund, and Murray knew it.
"Sure, boss. I'll bring her out on the train with me."
Hafner slipped behind the wheel of his Duesenberg, a brand new Model J with a Bohman & Schwartz custom body. Despite its huge
size, there was room only for two; Murray was going to have to drive
out to the field in the sedan.
Charlotte climbed in the other side, and Hafner slipped the car
into reverse. There was a shrieking howl of pain, and Murray cried:
"Stop, you backed over Nellie!"
"Oh my God!" Hafner leaped from the car; Nellie was lying
under the huge rear wheel of the Duesenberg, eyes wild, snapping,
her back crushed.
"Here, baby, let Daddy—" Hafner screamed as Nellie's frenzied
jaws closed on his hand.
"Get a blanket, Murray! We've got to get her to a vet!"
Murray looked at him in disbelief. Hafner was crying, his eyes
streaming tears.
"You go on to the field, boss. I'll take care of her."
"Goddam you, get a blanket. Nobody is taking care of her but me.
Murray grabbed the lap robe from the car, and Hafner seized the
bumper in his hand. Exercising a fear-driven strength, he lifted the
car so Nellie, now whimpering, could be pulled from beneath the wheel. The agonizing eight-mile drive to the vet passed in silence except for Hafner's frantic apologies to Nellie. Charlotte watched him in the mirror, amazed at the tenderness and the devotion he was showing, emotions he had never shown to her, or to anyone.
*
Wright Field, Ohio/June 24, 1935
It was six o'clock in the morning, and only two things kept Bandfield
from being completely happy: being too far from Patty and too close
to the bomber competition, where Hafner Aircraft was getting its mammoth bomber ready to make its first demonstration flight. The
rest of his life was pure joy, for Caldwell had put him to work flying
the new crop of Seversky and Curtiss fighters.
It galled him to see the bomber on the ramp. His only satisfaction was that he had heard that the Army was clearly dissatisfied with
Hafner's paperwork submissions. Henry Caldwell, scrawnier than ever under the pressure of his work, filled him in.
"This bird is way overweight, Bandy, according to the rumors.
Hafner says he's 'lost' the weight and balance history."
Bandfield shook his head. The weight and balance of an aircraft
was absolutely vital; Hafner couldn't have "lost" it. He had talked to
Charlotte earlier, and she had warned him, "Steer clear of him, Bandy. I think he's lost his mind. All he can talk about is that poor
dog. When the vet told him he had to put her to sleep, he blubbered
like a baby. He's just now beginning to get over it."
The hazy red June sunrise had stacked purple stratus clouds like rungs in a ladder. There was no wind, and the high grass made
boots glisten with the heavy dew. Ground crews were checking the
aircraft over; the engines were raucous in the dawn calm. Bruno was
conferring with Rhoades at the edge of the runway. Bandy was scheduled to fly the Curtiss Model 75 again, and he sat quietly with
Charlotte in the operations building, drinking coffee and chatting. Since his marriage to Patty, Charlotte had treated him like a son, and they had grown close.
"Are you sure you want to do this? That's a mighty big airplane."
She grinned at him. "Yes, my junior birdman, that's the whole point. It's about twice as big as anything Earhart has ever flown."