American Dreams (57 page)

They flew over a railroad trestle spanning a stream overflowing with rushing water. Beyond it lay a scattering of casitas surrounded by the queer structures for storing maize that abounded in the region -- columns of concrete or adobe brick held up egg-shaped bins covered over with thatch. Carl tossed down two oranges to a pair of boys feeding chickens.

They waved, and as Carl waved back, Major Ruiz nearly yanked his arm off.

'For Christ's sake, what--?' Carl began, shouting over the snarl of the pusher engine. He saw the fright on Ruiz's face, then the cause of it, sweeping at them from the northeast quadrant of the sky. The Martin bomber.

It climbed abruptly, passing over twenty feet above them. Carl saw the full bomb rack, recognized the red-faced pilot despite goggles and a canvas helmet. Major Ruiz motioned frantically toward the south, wanting no quarrel with the renegade Englishman.

'For once I agree,' Carl said. He turned the rudder wheel and leaned to the right, his body in the shoulder yoke working the ailerons in tandem with the vertical rudder. The plane banked right to retreat.

In response the Martin executed its own turn and came back at them from the right, hurtling toward them on what appeared to be a collision course. Harvard was coming on so fast, Carl could see his teeth clenched in a spiteful smile. 'Pull up, pull away,' Major Ruiz screamed as Harvard drew his Colt revolver and started shooting. One bullet tore the wing
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fabric.

Harvard zoomed above the Curtiss at the last moment. Flying one handed, Carl pulled his revolver. Maybe the encounter was accidental.

Maybe Harvard had lain in wait. It didn't matter. They had a fight on their hands.

Crash Landing

355

Against the stormy Mexican sky the two planes buzzed around one another like crazed moths. Harvard made a second pass at right angles to the Curtiss, this time flying below it so he could fire upward while Carl's line of fire was blocked by the wings. Major Ruiz crossed himself again and again. Three shots blasted from below. One nicked the propeller, and Carl shuddered.

He dipped low, a hundred feet above the ground, then fifty, zooming toward the trestle where the water rushed and foamed. ITie Martin caught the Curtiss, flying level on the left, where Major Ruiz sat with a dark stain at the crotch of his breeches. Harvard gave Carl a chipper salute, the barrel of his Colt touching his canvas helmet. Then he extended his arm and fired. Carl pushed the control stick forward, dove, leveled out, chopping the tops off columnar cactus with his landing gear. The Martin climbed, flying above them and to the left. Harvard smiled his toothy smile and pointed down with an exaggerated gesture.

The bomb rack. The son of a bitch meant to drop a bomb on them.

The Martin veered to the right, directly overhead. Carl operated the rudder wheel and yoke to bank left. Harvard was a good pilot, and he followed.

Major Ruiz wailed, 'He's going to bomb us, he will kill us.' He grabbed the wheel at the top of the control stick, shoved it forward. The Curtiss abruptly dropped toward the ground.

Enraged, Carl shouted, 'Let go. There isn't a chance in a million that he can hit us.'

The major had his hands on Carl's, digging in with his nails to pry Carl from the stick. Carl rammed him in the head with his elbow. Major Ruiz bleated; the Mauser dropped between his legs and tumbled over the wing's forward edge, dangling by the strap, banging and tearing the fabric underneath.

Something sailed past the left wing. Carl watched the pipe bomb spinning earthward, then lost it behind them. After a loud detonation came a shock wave that rocked the plane as it sped toward the trestle. The engine began to run roughly. What now?

With a series of coughs and a spurt of smoke the pusher quit. Bad gas again? Whatever the cause, they were hurtling into a long glide; if they
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were unlucky it would drop them on the narrow trestle or hurl them against the wall of the cut, cracking them apart either way. He yanked the stick back, lifted the plane, praying they'd glide far enough to overshoot the trestle and land on solid ground.

He counted the seconds as the Curtiss lost altitude. Five. Six. Seven 356

Nightmare

The trestle flashed beneath them. He banked slightly to the right, heading for a cart path between tilled fields. Ruiz was gibbering like a man deranged. Somehow he'd lost his glasses.

The Curtiss dropped to earth. Carl felt the landing gear crunch, bounce them high, then crack and collapse as they came down again. The plane nosed over, throwing its tail assembly in the air. The major somehow hung onto the wing. Carl's shoulder harness broke; he was hurled forward, tossed high, and dropped in the field with a sudden sharp pain in his left leg. It streaked upward to his hip like wildfire.

Blinking, dazed, he listened to the buzz of the Martin as it circled leisurely away from them, climbing to a thousand feet, then turning back.

He pushed at the ground with both hands, dragged his right knee up, gained his feet only to fall. He couldn't stand on his left leg. Something was broken or torn.

Major Ruiz sat straddle-legged in front of the crumpled plane, the Mauser in his lap, hair hanging in his eyes, tears streaking his olive cheeks.

The Martin was returning, and they were perfect targets.

'Shoot at him,' Carl shouted. Ruiz fumbled the Mauser to his shoulder as the Martin flew over. A pipe bomb dropped from the undercarriage rack, tumbled slowly downward.

Harvard's timing was faulty, though. The bomb landed fifty yards behind the Curtiss, shaking the earth with its boom and tossing up a cloud of dirt. As the Martin went over, Major Ruiz tried to fire but for some reason could not. He fumbled with the bolt like a bewildered child. Carl fisted his hands, began to crawl, using his right knee to push. His left was useless.

'Give me the rifle,' he yelled as he crawled. The Martin buzzed out of range, made another slow turn, and came back for a second attempt. Carl dug his arms into the rough ground, ripping the elbows out of his shirt, bloodying his skin, dirtying the red silk scarf. He jammed his right knee into the ground, pushed, jammed it in again, pushed. His left leg sent pain streaking through his body.

'I want the rifle,' he yelled. The major stared at him blankly. 'Do you
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hear me? Help me up. Brace me against the plane, then give me the goddamn rifle.'

Grabbing the vertical wing behind him, Major Ruiz put his fist through the fabric, found a strut, and used it to pull himself to his feet. He stared at the approaching bomber, then at Carl.

'Damn you, you yellow bastard' - Carl was nearly incoherent with Crash Landing

357

pain and rage - 'help me!' Pop-eyed, Ruiz threw the rifle at him and ran.

Lying on his side, Carl stretched his hand out, caught the Mauser's barrel, dragged the rifle to his chest. The Martin's drone grew steadily louder. Carl shoved the rifle butt in the dirt, used it to raise himself to a sitting position by climbing the barrel hand over hand. Dizzy with pain, he got the rifle to his shoulder. The Martin approached from behind. If the bomb got him before he shot, well, that was that.

Shadows of wings flickered over the bare ground. The Martin appeared overhead. Carl fired upward seconds before the bomb detonated behind the Curtiss. A torrent of earth fell on Carl, blinding him.

He spat out dirt, rubbed it out of his eyes. The Martin was descending rapidly, veering into a steep right-hand bank. Harvard slumped like a rag doll, hanging onto his seat with both hands. Carl's round had hit him, a lucky shot. Harvard had to be fighting to stay conscious because he clearly couldn't control the plane. It nosed downward, straight to the ground. Carl watched with horror and fascination as the impact broke the engine loose.

It flew forward like an iron guillotine. Harvard's head was sliced from his shoulders and sent spinning into the sky like a bloody medicine ball.

The engine buried itself in the ground. The Martin telescoped with a crackling and snapping of struts. One or more of the bombs detonated in a flash of fire and noise. Seconds later there was nothing left except wreckage and smoke ascending toward the storm clouds. Carl flung the hot metal of the rifle out of his hand, rolled over in pain, and threw up.

A mestizo found him. The man had a reticent air but the shrewd eyes of someone who saw an advantage. Yes, he had a mule. He would trade it for the rifle and Carl's Colt. Lying on the dirt floor of the man's hut, with a fiery jolt of pulque partially dulling his pain, Carl shook his head. He held the rifle in the air while clutching the pistol to his chest.

'You have this. 1 keep this.'

After some argument the bargain was struck. The man found a rope
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and tied him on the mule's back. Carl guessed he was twenty-five or thirty kilometers from the Federal position. He set out at first light with more of the milky pulque in him and his gun hand resting on his thigh.

The mestizo pointed him in the direction of the railway line.

At half past noon, with the sun frying his skull and his tongue a piece of dry wood, he spied something coming toward him through the heat devils above the glittering rails. He halted the mule and waited. Out of the haze 358

Nightmare

came a hand car pumped by sweating Federalistas. Carl grinned an insane grin of relief, released his knee hold on his mount, and fell sideways to the ground in a faint.

The army doctor who examined Carl's leg said no bones were broken, though he'd surely torn or sprained something and should rest the leg until he could walk without severe pain. Carl followed orders by staying in a berth in the private car, where Rene brought news.

'The major was caught wandering around nude in a bean field. Why he removed his clothes no one knows. Since I had already relayed your account of his behavior, he was shown no leniency. He was shown the wall instead.'

Carl took no satisfaction from it. He sipped tepid water from an old canteen Bert filled for him.

'By the way, mon ami. There is still no pay from our employers. That's two months and more we've gone begging. I'm out of patience. Besides, the rebels are winning. General Obregon's Division of the Northwest has taken Guadalajara. Huerta stepped down day before yesterday, went into exile aboard a German naval cruiser. A man named Francisco Carvajal, former chief of the Supreme Court, is trying to hold the Constitutionalist government together. If we're to fight for these people, there should be some profit in it, if not some honor, or hope of victory.'

Carl meditated on Rene's words for a moment. 'Are they at war in Europe?'

'Not yet.' Rene showed his thumb and index finger with a half inch between. 'This close. Everyone is mobilizing. By August they will be fighting.

I expect my country to be more reliable about pay for aviators.' Rene was about to lick a cigarette paper. 'Shall we find out?'

'What about our contract with this crowd?' Carl said.

'I suggest abrogating it in the middle of the night. Certainly 1 would give
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them no opportunity to punish us. We could strike for the gulf coast and work our passage on a freighter. To New Orleans, perhaps. We owe these people nothing, Carl. They have not dealt fairly with us. What do you say?'

Carl saw flashes of the terrifying aerial duel with Harvard.

'I'll let you know.'

With a resigned shrug Rene went out.

Fritzi and Loy 359

Carl sat on a rock, by himself, well away from the train. Lying across his knees was Tess's red silk scarf. The scarf had seen hard use. Both ends were fraying, and the crash had marked the fabric with dark brown spots of his blood. He'd already washed the scarf to remove dirt, and sewn up a three-inch rip. Now he worked with a cloth and pan of water, scrubbing the spots.

Fly in France, in another war? Well, why not? Recovering after the crash, he'd experienced a familiar pride and exhilaration from the simple fact of survival. He remembered similar feelings after brushes with disaster in fast cars. Maybe survival in dangerous situations would be the sole accomplishment of his life. Anyway, if he refused Rene's offer, what would he do? Limp back to Chicago and tell the General he was ready to go into the brewery? Even if he could stomach that, the papers said the U.S. was going dry; breweries might go out of business.

Carl stared at the spots. The water didn't remove them, only faded them a little. He tossed the cloth into the pan, hung the wet scarf around his neck, and went to find Rene, to tell him yes. He'd miss Bert, the Indian boy, and the legendary awfulness of Bert's cooking. But he would miss nothing else about this place.

66 Fritzi and Loy

C T~~\on't dress fancy,1 he'd said. She wouldn't think of it. Saturday J-S morning she spent a mere two hours trying on outfits in front of her mirror.

Dissatisfied with every one, she fan out of time and desperately chose the least objectionable - a tailored white shirt with a dark blue silk scarf, a full skirt with vertical blue and white awning stripes, a smart panama hat with a blue band, white stockings, and white buck shoes with brown accents.

She rode the cars to Edendale, where B.B. garaged the studio Packard.

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She'd arranged for its use by telephone last night. She drove over the rough, winding road through Laurel Canyon to the forty-acre Universal ranch in the San Fernando Valley; there Mr. Griffith was filming his version of The Clansman.

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Nightmare

Despite Eddie's advance comments about the size of the production, Fritzi was still agog at the reality. Five or six hundred men had been marshaled, in authentic Civil War uniforms. Trenches had been dug, batteries of artillery put in place. The ranch was heavily treed and dotted with hills; she saw cameras on several summits for simultaneous filming.

The company was taking a late lunch on blankets and sheets spread in the sere grass. She assumed Loy was with the horsemen scattered across the location. Most were dismounted and resting. She'd find him at the end of the day, or he'd spot her. That was one advantage of her costume. She looked like a yacht flag.