Hollywood Buzz (11 page)

Chapter Eight

I asked the ground crewman who’d guided me in for directions to the headquarters building where I was scheduled to meet with Major Beacock. It was just down the flight line, near the tower, within walking distance. Moving at a fast clip, I passed men in uniform and observed mechanics in coveralls tinkering with a trio of A-24s parked on the concrete apron outside a vast maintenance hangar.

I had the low-lying stucco headquarters building in sight when a throaty female voice behind me exclaimed, “Pucci Lewis!”

I wheeled around. “Mad Max!”

Max was a WAAC I’d gotten to know on my stopovers at Wright Field in Dayton, Ohio. Certified in airplane mechanics, she was a top specialist in engines.

I reached out and clasped the grease-smudged hand she offered. “Hey, Max.”

Although Max’s thick khaki coveralls were grease covered, she was blessed with the kind of figure that could make even the grimiest of coveralls look good. Somewhat snug in fit, they caused the neckline to gape. A dirty oil rag hung out of one pocket, while a wrench stuck out from another. A small tattoo of a spark plug was visible below the rolled up sleeve on the forearm of the right hand which I now released.

Max was a blend of the bizarre and beautiful. With delicate features, Titian hair, and pale complexion, she was often mistaken for Irish. But she was Polish through and through, hailing from Hamtramck, an east-side Detroit suburb. Her real name was Maxine Koslowski, but the fellas she worked with at Wright had started calling her Mad Max because of the growling sound she made when stumped by a tough mechanical problem. Today, as always, a billed cap topped her buzzed-off hair.

We compared our short hairdos then talked fast, exchanging stories of what we were doing at March. Max, it turned out, had been transferred in only recently.

“How are they treating you?”

“They’re getting used to me.” Her green eyes twinkled merrily. “There’s a war going on. They have to.”

Only twenty-one, Max had earned a reputation as one of the finest mechanics at Wright. Her extraordinary skill was due, in part, to coming from a long line of mechanics in her family. She’d also had formal training through one of the government programs in high school.

At Wright, the need for mechanics was desperate, and Max had been thrust into the thick of things. But because she had entered a male-dominated field, she faced plenty of resistance, and the men flat out assumed she’d quit. Months later, when she hadn’t—and after they’d witnessed her talent—she’d gotten more and more assignments, and more and more respect. Including mine.

When I’d begun ferrying, the space limitations of fighter planes had presented a problem. Many night clubs and restaurants do not allow women in slacks, which meant trying to pack a dress or dancing shoes into a too-small flight bag already crammed with shirts, pants, and flight gear. On a stopover at Wright, I’d mentioned my dilemma to Max. Laughing, she’d grabbed a Phillips screwdriver and shown me how to access the ideal nooks and crannies for storing wardrobe “extras.” Amazing what you can fit into the ammunition box or under an inspection plate on a P-38’s wing.

Max was working on a new plane being tested at the base. My eyes lit up when I realized she was talking about a prototype long-range bomber escort fighter.

I quickly brought Max up to speed on my Hollywood assignment, briefing her on my involvement in the making of the WASP Victory Short and explaining that I was on my way to see Major Beacock to discuss the logistics for the film shoot of the ferrying segment.

“Max, I need a really hot plane for the shoot,” I finished up.

She shoved the brim of her cap. “Hmm. Get your drift. You want folks sitting up in their seats thinking: Wow, a gal’s flying
that
?”

“Precisely. It’d be the sort of coup that would distinguish the director—and his film—from the pack. Novara doesn’t deserve the boost, but if I offer him this he’ll more likely hear me out about the ideas I have for revamping his picture to meet Miss C’s standards.”

Max thought a moment. “Go ahead, run the idea by Beacock. But it’s iffy the brass will approve it. The P-51 Mustang’s their latest, greatest, and
most expensive
toy.” A smile played on her lips. “No matter what, come by after your meeting. She’s definitely worth a look-see.”

Max asked about Frankie. Her fine features skewed into a worried expression as I described my hospital visit. Max hardly knew Frankie, but as a mechanic assigned to the crash investigation team, she’d inspected the wreckage.

“Pucci, when you see tangled metal close-up like that…never fails, it always hits hard. Like a blow to the gut. I can feel the pilot’s terror trapped in a powerless free fall. Sometimes when I crawl inside, I can even hear the sounds of the metal grinding, ripping, twisting—like it was nothing more than pretzel dough.” Max shook her head to erase the awful thought.

“When I first saw that A-24, I couldn’t believe Frankie survived. Thought about her a lot while I combed the mess. Wondered about her mental state…what she’d be like when—
if
—she recovers physically…”

Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then I said, “Novara plans on including a clip of the crash in our film. For ‘dramatic impact.’ Can you imagine?” My voice reflected my disdain.

Max sneered with disgust.

“It’s another reason I’m seeing Beacock. I want to reshoot the target towing scene. He didn’t get any actual footage after all, and it’s the kind of
va-voom
we want in the picture. Most of all, I’m hoping that if I serve it up to Novara done right, he’ll agree to forego including the accident.”

Max had been biting her lip. “Don’t do it.”

“What?”

She lowered her voice. “Don’t tow target for the camera.” She read my puzzled expression. “Come see me after your meeting with Beacock.”

***

Before arriving at Beacock’s office, I’d mulled over what it would take to win approval to fly the P-51 for the shoot. The biggest objection, I’d concluded, would be giving our enemies a free look at our newest fighter. To better argue my case, I forced myself to consider the opposite view: why might it be
beneficial
for the enemy to get a peek. At last, sitting across the desk from the skeptical Beacock, his bald head shining as if it were spit-polished, it hit me. Now that we, as a country, had at last reached our goal of “overwhelming air superiority,” why not flaunt it?

After lagging behind in aircraft design and production, we’d caught up by retooling our automobile factories and transferring assembly line know-how from making cars to churning out aircraft and aircraft parts. Thanks to our ingenuity and sacrifice, our current inventory was superior to that of our enemies.

“Sure it’ll take
chutzpah
to put our most advanced fighter on celluloid for everyone to see, but we’re giving a message of our confidence to the enemy. Telling them, we don’t care if you see what we have. In fact, we want you to know what you’re up against. We have the capacity to keep churning out new and better planes engineered to outfly and outfight the best you have. You don’t stand a chance of winning the war.”

Talk about
chutzpah
! The rush of words that was my logic for flying the P-51 burst from my lips like hot lava spewing from a volcano. It wasn’t until I’d finished that I began worrying whether I’d been too assertive.

Beacock, to my relief, listened with his bald head nodding and didn’t seem offended by my style or the bold proposal. He brought up the
Flight Characteristics of the P-51
film that had recently been completed. Sam had mentioned it yesterday. Brody had directed, Sam had been the writer, Arthur Kennedy had a role in it. In a film like this, a camera plane stays with the image as it climbs, the narrator giving the speed, rate of climb and so on. In the air, with the plane going through a stringent set of maneuvers that duplicate air combat tactics, the narrator defines and analyzes every action, emphasizing the plane’s capabilities.

Such training films are for training, not for public consumption, but what I proposed to Beacock involved only a fly by—a look see—without the particulars. Beacock gave a final nod. “I’ll run it past the brass,” he promised.

I left the headquarters building feeling satisfied with what I’d accomplished.

***

The cool of Hangar Three’s interior felt refreshing until a spark fired in me upon seeing the three fighter planes in for repairs and parked in a scattered row along the hangar’s center.

Two of the models were familiar. The twin-engine, twin-boomed plane with a 20-mm cannon and four machine guns on its nose was the plane I regularly flew, a P-38 Lightning. This fighter, though, had a larger-than-life tinted headshot of a woman stenciled on its nose. The photo, about two feet by two feet, was likely the wife or girlfriend of the plane’s pilot. It was in good taste; a lot better than the naked women some planes boasted.

The snub-nosed fighter next to the P-38 was a single engine P-47 Thunderbolt like the one I’d ferried into Long Beach two days ago. Difference was that this P-47, like its P-38 neighbor, had been personalized to suit its pilot. Fighter pilots were notorious for their cocky aggressiveness, and this plane’s pilot had much to boast about. He’d taken out twenty-eight of the Luftwaffe’s fighter plane inventory, memorialized by the four rows, seven across, of red, black and white swastika decals on his plane’s fuselage. Each decal included markings of either ME 109, ME 110, or F.W. 190—model numbers for Messerschmitts and the Focke-Wulf.

The third plane was a lean, low-wing monoplane with six wing-mounted machine guns. There was no nose art on this fighter, no marks whatsoever, in fact. Brand spanking new, it was the finest-looking fighter I’d ever seen. The P-51 Mustang.

I stood spellbound until a waving motion from inside the plane’s closed bubble top canopy drew my attention. It was Max.

She opened the hatch and climbed down. “Some piece of machinery, huh?”

At my emphatic nod, Max grinned. “Its range is phenomenal. Our first fighter/bomber that’ll fly all the way from England to Berlin and back. Best part is, even with all the weight, she can do better than 425 miles per hour, easy. And she’s responsive. Still a few bugs to work out; but, no doubt, this is one hell of a plane.” She beamed. “It’s that high-altitude long-distance fighter we’ve been waiting for.”

“Be great to take her up.”

Max’s eyebrows shot up. “Beacock’s gonna stick his neck out for you, then?”

“We’ll see,” I shrugged. “He’s put my request in the hopper.”

Max threw a light punch to my upper arm. “Attagirl! But not all that surprising. He’s seen your record. Knows you’re an H.P.”

I couldn’t help smiling at the “hot pilot” allusion. “He also brought up the flight characteristics picture that was filmed here. Did you meet Brody, the director?”

“Yeah. Film crew spent a lot of time with this baby.” She smiled affectionately at the P-51. “
I
spent a lot of time with the crew. And Arthur Kennedy, Lee J. Cobb, too. Technical advisor.” Max sighed. “Too bad about Brody. Didn’t know him, but more grim news.”

I nodded.

Sam had dropped Arthur Kennedy’s name in connection with the hush-hush training film he’d been working on. He hadn’t identified it to be the P-51 film, though. “Do you know Sam Lorenz, then?”

“Sure I’ve met Sam. Kind of an odd fish…” Max chuckled. “I’m an odd fish myself then. Yeah, he’s all right. And Frankie seemed friendly with him.”

“They’re pals. He said he was out here, spoke with her just before she went up…” I paused. “You said I shouldn’t tow target for the camera. What did you mean?”

Max glanced around, then steered me to a tool station on the perimeter of the hangar’s interior. There were other mechanics at work nearby, but out of earshot.

Max, a grave expression on her face, slipped her hands deep into the side pockets of her coverall. She looked me in the eye. “Give me your word you’ll never reveal where you heard what I’m about to tell you.”

My heartbeat picked up its pace. I made the sign of the cross over it.

Max lifted her cap off to rub the coppery bristles. “There was sugar in the gas tank of Frankie’s A-24.”

“What?”

“There was sugar in her fuel,” Max repeated softly.

I blinked. The sabotage Miss C had hinted at. Was Frankie, then, Miss C’s source? “How do you know?” I asked, my voice now a whisper.

“I made the discovery.”

I was in an awkward spot. Had Miss C also promised never to divulge the information and her source? Had she told Max about her sub rosa plan for sending me to Hollywood? I felt certain she hadn’t.

Miss C and I had not covered this scenario. Well, Max had had enough confidence in me to confide the truth about what was going on so I made a snap decision and confessed my behind-the-scenes mission. Luckily, Max seemed relieved at having a coconspirator.

“But how could anyone deliberately do such a thing?” A new sense of rage coursed through me as the monstrous nature of the deed set in. “Who would do it? Why?” My voice rose in pitch and volume with each question.

Max twisted the cap in her hands. “Shhh,” she whispered. “I don’t know. All I know is that the A-24 was serviced Friday, the day before Frankie’s accident. The plane was beat-up physically, but it checked out okay. I saw the paperwork. I know the mechanic who signed off on it.”

Her voice dropped another notch. “My guess is someone got to the A-24 after the servicing, but before Frankie took it up. Someone who wanted to teach her a lesson. A fatal lesson.”

“Lesson? You mean that women shouldn’t be flying
military
planes?”

Max nodded ever so slightly.

I fought for rational thinking. “But what makes you so certain Frankie was the target?”

“Not Frankie, necessarily. But a WASP. What’s behind the theory?” Max placed her cap back over her stubbly hair, jiggling the bill until it was comfortably in place again. “For one, that plane was earmarked for training exercises; the saboteur knew a WASP was likely to take it up. For another, the A-24 was low on fuel the day it was serviced. The log shows the fuel was added from the same holding tank that fueled two other planes that day. Those planes had no problems.”