Her Last Flight(17)

Papillon had just completed a double loop that set off a round of gasps and applause among the spectators. Irene thought she saw Sam lift his hand and wave to them as he soared up and off, presumably to circle the airfield and return for another maneuver, or else to land. The airplane grew tiny against the sky, a white gnat, and then disappeared altogether when it crossed a cluster of cumulus that gathered atop the hills to the east. A minute passed, and another. Next to Irene, Mrs. Rofrano checked her watch and folded her arms. Several yards away stood a group of pilots and mechanics who’d emerged from the cafeteria and from their sheds to watch Sam’s antics. One of them—stern, dark-haired fellow—glanced to Mrs. Rofrano and exchanged some telegraphic communication.

“Who’s that?” Irene whispered.

“My husband.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be back around any moment.”

But the seconds ticked on, and still there was no sign of the returning airplane. One of the other men turned away and scuffed his feet in the grass. Another lit a cigarette. Irene knew better than to say anything. The silence held them together. Nobody needed to say a single word; everything known was obvious, everything unknown was better off unmentioned. Like among the surfers back in Santa Monica, you didn’t talk about the danger or the possibility of annihilation, the various scenarios when somebody went missing, sharks or rogue waves or cramp or miscalculation. What was the point?

Over on Vanowen, an engine backfired. Everybody jumped, except Mr. Rofrano, who just flinched. Irene remembered what Sam had said, that Rofrano had flown in France during the war. She looked at his profile, at the nape of his neck, and tried to imagine him flying over France, dodging enemy fire, shooting down other airplanes. The most dangerous job in the war, she knew. If the Germans didn’t get you, the airplane would. On the other hand, it was better than dying on the ground, in a trench, like a rat. At least you died free, you died in honorable combat, like a knight or a bird of prey. Mr. Rofrano had a large, sharp nose, and it pointed to the sky, hunting for the Papillon. If anyone could pluck out an airplane from the sky, it was surely this man, a wartime flying ace.

Mr. Rofrano lifted a pair of field binoculars to his eyes. A stir passed through the crowd. Mrs. Rofrano touched Irene’s elbow and nodded to the sky.

At first Irene didn’t see anything, just that deep, flawless California blue and the green-golden hills underneath. She squinted and shaded her eyes. Somebody swore softly. She heard the purr of an engine, but it was just another automobile passing down the road. “Where?” she whispered to Mrs. Rofrano.

Mrs. Rofrano pointed.

Irene blinked and squinted.

A tiny gray dot wobbled into the corner of her gaze. She gasped, and it was gone.

She blinked again. There it was! Like somebody poked a hole in the sky with a needle, except it was moving, it grew larger and took shape.

“She’s in trouble,” said Mrs. Rofrano.

“What? How do you know?”

“Clear the field!” somebody called out, and the crowd turned and scattered, even Mr. Rofrano, who ran toward one of the sheds, followed by the other men. Irene tagged after them. She stopped in the doorway of the shed as the men pulled on the yoke of the fire engine inside.

“Get the door!” yelled Mr. Rofrano.

Irene grasped the door and pulled with all her strength, so it slid all the way open, and the men yanked and yelled at each other and pulled the engine into the sunshine. Now Irene could hear the airplane, humming and sputtering. The fire engine had an enormous tank, and all four men leaned desperately into the yoke as they hauled it down the field, parallel to the wide avenue of beaten grass that formed the landing strip. Irene lifted her skirt and ran to follow them. Her scarf fell free from her hair. She ripped it off and balled it in her hand, in case they needed a bandage or a tourniquet. The noise of the Papillon grew louder. Irene stopped and cast into the sky, where the airplane skimmed downward at a strange angle, sort of sideways, while the wings tilted back and forth.

“It’s the rudder!” somebody shouted.

The fire engine rolled to a stop, halfway down the field, and everybody just stood there watching, because there was nothing to be done, was there? This drama was about the pilot and the plane, the wind and the ground, and everybody else was just a spectator. Irene clenched her fists and her breath. She smelled the burning oil, the fear. In later years, she wished she could remember the way the airplane came in, the hundred tiny maneuvers made by the pilot to compensate for the rudder’s failings, but now, her flying career still before her, she didn’t know a thing about rudders and maneuvers, in her ignorance she didn’t notice any of it. She stood in awe, watching the hairy descent, the swoops and skids of battle, the crump of impact, the dust, the men running, Mr. Rofrano in front of them all.





Hanalei, Hawai’i





October 1947



We’ve all got a thing that terrifies us. I saw a lot of airplanes crash during the war, and I encountered the aftermath countless times more, and still I never did get used to the sight or sound of some machine smashing into the ground.

When you hear the telltale noise, you gird for horror. The things modern machinery can do to a human body, it’s enough to make you retch your guts out, enough to make you die of pity. I don’t know how the army surgeons survived it. I don’t understand how you could lock up the pity and the horror into a steel vault deep inside the bank of your soul, how you could set about repairing a mutilated limb or a split-open skull or some devastated viscera in the same way you might repair a flat tire, say.