Page 6 of Air Affair

“One out of every four trips, sir.”

Hank watched as the more fearful among them swallowed and gripped their seats.

“Lieutenant O’Donnell, what happens if there’s thick cloud cover and you veer off course?”

“You run out of fuel, sir.”

More gripped their seats.

“Lieutenant Pritchard, what happens if the weather is against you, and you face unexpected headwinds?”

“You run out of fuel, sir.”

Now the entire cadet class sat wide-eyed.

“And Lieutenant Hawley, what happens if you let your mind wander and you do a piss poor job of navigating?”

Hank turned to the cadets. “Cadets, what do you think happens?”

“You run out of fuel, sir,” they answered as one from the worn wooden benches.

“That’s right, boys,” said Major Fleet, pacing back and forth in front of his audience with his hands behind his back. “And we haven’t even talked about mechanical failures. Every time you take to the skies, you are taking a risk. Mistakes in the air are deadly.” He stopped his pacing and turned to face the cadets. “Now, our military leaders think you need some extra practice with navigation before you face the Germans.”

A skinny cadet with huge eyes and plentiful freckles raised his hand in the first row. “How does this help us against the Germans, sir?”

“Your name, cadet?” the major asked with a smile. Someone always asked this question without fail.

“Brown, sir.”

“Well, Cadet Brown, do you know what the number one cause of death for Allied pilots is?”

Frowning, the cadet said, “Enemy fire, sir?”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Major Fleet answered. “But no, it isn’t enemy fire.” He perused all the young, eager faces, giving them a significant look. “It’s navigation errors. Green pilots follow their leaders into combat, get separated from the group in the fog of battle, and then can’t find their way home. That, gentlemen, is why you are here.

“Lieutenant Hawley here is going to demonstrate to you this morning how to land with the engines off.”

Beautiful. He was this morning’s sacrificial lamb. He absolutely didn’t get enough sleep for this, but, of course, he could never say no.

“Death or glory,” he murmured to O’Donnell, who raised his cup of joe in a mock toast.

“Death or glory, you crazy bastard,” O’Donnell replied. “Your society girl doesn’t know what she’s missing!”

Hank led the way out to the hangar, deliberately choosing a different Jenny than the one where Princess Belmont was perched last night. The last thing he needed was the distraction of imagining her lovely legs splayed across the fuselage right in front of him. He narrated his pre-flight checks for the benefit of the cadets. Mechanical failures were all too common with the Jennies. A man had to check every inch of the plane with a mechanic’s precision to ensure it was safe to fly.

Satisfied at last that the plane was ready, he signaled to O’Donnell to swing the propeller. O’Donnell gave it a good shove and backed out of the way. Hank opened the throttle and taxied out to the runway.

It was a bright, sunny day out, with not a cloud in the sky to obscure the punishing sun. The air rippled with heat, and his soaked shirt was sticking to him. Sweat stung his eyes beneath his goggles, and he couldn’t wipe it away. Blinking and squinting, he picked up speed on the runway. The wings lifted as if pulled by some invisible hand and left the ground behind.

Suddenly, his exhaustion disappeared, replaced by the familiar exhilaration of flight. The roar of the engine vibrated the whole plane. A breeze, nonexistent moments before, blew the sweat from his face. The ground dropped away, and he was a bird in the sky, flying toward the unreachable heavens. Maybe someday mankind would build a plane that could reach the stars, but for now, he was content to know he flew as high as any man ever had.

There was nothing like the freedom of flight. Every time he took off, he was gambling with death, but there was a peace in knowing the dice had been rolled already. He was in the air and he would either land safe or not. His skill could only take him so far. Fate held his life in the balance. One day, he would lose this gamble, but nothing made him feel more alive than cheating death time and again.

Turning back toward the runway, he said a silent prayer and cut the engine. No matter how many times he did this, it was a white-knuckle ride. It should have been peaceful, quietly gliding, the only sound the whistle of air through the wires on the wings. But death was coming toward him fast. If he didn’t maneuver the plane just so, he would crash, giving the cadets a lesson they would never forget and follow his brother, Benny, into the hereafter.

“Not today, Death, you son of a bitch.” He adjusted the angle of approach. Closer, closer. Benny’s face came to mind, as it so often did when he was in danger. Taking a deep breath, he pushed away the memory. He needed all his concentration for the task at hand.

Pulling up at the last moment, the wheels made contact with solid ground—a clean, gentle landing. The skid dragged against the runway, slowing the plane to a halt, and he said another silent prayer of thanks. He wasn’t a churchgoer, but no man who did what he did could live long without someone to pray to. Facing the thin line between today and eternity again and again did that to a man.