On Wings of the Morning (3 page)

“I’m so glad, Otto. Papa says you can help Mama and me with the chickens and the garden.” Otto sighed. There was no escaping work on the farm, even with a broken leg. He had hoped to have extra time to read some of the books he had selected from the bookmobile which came by once a month. The library lady tried to save books on airplanes for him. She knew how much he liked to read about them.

Mama and Papa came in with Dr. Carter. “All right, Otto, you can go home with your parents. Just remember what we talked about,” said Carter gravely. “I’ll see you back here in a couple of weeks to see how that leg is doing. We should be able to take the cast off in time for school.”

Otto struggled to sit up on the side of the bed. Rose came in with a pair of crutches which she gave to him. He put one under each arm. The padded pieces felt funny, but he made one tentative step, then another. Mata held onto him as he traversed the room and slowly went to the door. He turned to look at Doc and Rose. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you, Mrs. Carter.”

Rose waved. “No more jumping from haylofts,” she called.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Carter,” Otto waved.

He clumped down the path to the Model T. His papa helped him into the truck bed where Mata climbed up beside him. Mama had brought one of the goosedown pillows from the house and put it under his cast. Mata clung to him as if he would float away. Papa started the truck and swung it in a wide half-circle to head out of town. Some of the buildings were decorated with flags and bunting for the upcoming Fourth of July celebration. Otto looked forward to the picnic and fireworks every year. No foot race for me this year, he thought.

Soon they were in the countryside, the fields on either side of them golden beneath the warm sun. Otto felt the breeze from their passage tousling his hair and, tired from lack of sleep the night before, fell into a surprisingly deep slumber and dreamed he was flying above those golden fields.

“Otto! Otto Kerchner!”

Someone was calling his name, it seemed from a long distance away. Otto was thinking hard about the design of a new airplane. He looked down at the paper on his desk where he had sketched a sleek silver monoplane with a huge radial engine. It would be called the Kerchner Model 1 and it would be faster than anything in the skies.

“Otto! Stand and recite!”

Otto snapped out of his reverie. He was in school and being called on to recite by Miss Smith, his fifth grade teacher. She was a small hateful woman. All the kids at school said she hated children, and they wondered why she was a teacher. She had a particular dislike for the children of recent immigrants, and a
special
dislike for Otto. He didn’t know why.

He stood beside his desk, hearing snickers from the boys and giggles from the girls in his class from all the girls except for Betty Ross, the banker’s daughter. She liked Otto and was kind to him. He looked at her, and she smiled encouragingly.

“Otto!” snapped Miss Smith.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Now that you have joined us in our class, tell me, please, what town and state you are in. If you can, that is.” More snickers and giggles.

“We live in Pioneer Lake, Wisconsin,” Otto recited mechanically.

“I’m
so
glad you know where you are, Otto. What are the principal crops of our little community?”

“Local farmers grow wheat, corn, potatoes, and other fruits and vegetables.”

“What else do they raise? You should know this!”

“Cows, both dairy and beef.”

“What month and year is this?”

“It is October, 1931.”

“And who is the President of the United States?”

“Herbert Hoover, ma’am.” How long would this go on? Otto knew the answer: far longer than he wanted it to, or until he missed a question.

“And what were you drawing at your desk just now?”

“An airplane.”

“Will you show it to us?”

Otto obligingly held up his drawing.

“And what were you supposed to be drawing, young man?”

“A map of Wisconsin.”

“I don’t recall Wisconsin looking like that. Do pay attention, Otto. I know you’re slow, but try to keep up. You may be seated.”

Otto took his seat, his cheeks burning. The boy in front of him had turned around when his inquisition began. He sneered at Otto, “Fly boy! Why don’t you fly off someplace else?”

Otto started to reply, but the only insults he could think of were in German, and he would be severely punished if Miss Smith heard him speaking German. He had come to first grade speaking only German, and had to repeat the year while he learned English. He wasn’t the only one: there were a number of children who spoke only German when they started school.

He pulled out another piece of paper and rapidly sketched an outline of Wisconsin. He penciled in tiny farm houses and barns here and there, drew in a few cows and rounds of cheese and for good measure, larger than any of the other little pictures, several airports complete with hangars, runways and little airplanes taking off and landing. He leaned back and studied his work. It pleased him and he smiled. Just then, a shadow fell across his desk. Miss Smith had sneaked up on and was glaring at him, holding her hand out. “Let me see your work, Otto.”

He obediently handed his map to her, hoping she would not tear it up. He wanted to show it to Mata.

“So this is what you think the primary industry of Wisconsin is, Otto? Airplanes?”

Otto couldn’t speak. The whole class turned around to stare at him, except for Betty who put her head down on her desk. Miss Smith turned to them.

“You may all go to recess, children—“and looking back at Otto—“You may stay here.”

Otto slumped in his seat as the class filed out, some of the boys making faces at him. Betty smiled slightly, and then he was alone with his teacher.

“Otto, how many times have I told you to stop wasting your time with airplanes?’

“But, Miss Smith, airplanes are the future…”

“But we’re not in the future, are we, Otto? We’re in the present, and in the present the airplane is a dangerous rich man’s toy that will never amount to anything. People travel by train. That’s the way to go! It’s fast, easy and economical.”

“Miss Smith, it’s faster to fly to the west coast than it is to take the train.”

“And do you know that most of that trip is by train?”

“But, Miss Smith…”

“No more from you, Otto. Your work is unacceptable.” She ripped his map to tiny shreds. “You may go to recess now.” She stood and glared at him as he slumped out of the room.

All the classes were outside in the October sunshine. Some of the girls jumped rope, played hopscotch or stood in little groups talking; the boys played tag or shot marbles in rings drawn in the dirt. Otto went over to one of the benches by the school and sat down and put his head in his hands. He became aware someone had sat beside him. He hoped it wasn’t one of the bigger boys who would beat him up. Again. He lifted his head and opened one eye. He saw a nimbus of golden hair and immediately smiled. “Betty!”

She smiled back. “Are you all right, Otto?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Miss Smith didn’t like my map. She tore it up.”

“I’m sorry.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know why she singles you out.”

“I don’t either. She just doesn’t like me. She thinks I’m dumb. I’m not dumb, am I, Betty?”

Betty smiled at him. “No, you’re not dumb, Otto. You’re very smart. You know so much about airplanes, and…”

A small boy ran up to them, breathless. “Otto! Otto! Did you bring your airplane?” Otto sometimes brought rubber-powered models that he had built and flew them with some of the smaller boys, who chased them in the field behind the school.

Otto brightened. “Yes, it’s right here in my bag. Betty, would you excuse us while we go flying?”

“May I come?”

“Sure, if you want to. I didn’t know you were interested in airplanes.”

“I think they’re so beautiful, like silver birds.”

Otto pulled out a silver replica of
The Spirit of St. Louis
about six inches long.
He had figured out how to build it from pictures in a German-language magazine that his parents received. He didn’t have balsa wood and had no idea how to get any, so he cut thin slices of pine with his knife and assembled the tiny craft, powering it with some pieces of rubber he cut from an old inner tube. He figured out the airfoil from a book he got from the bookmobile about the Wright brothers and painted the model silver with some leftover shed paint. The craft was heavier than he would have liked, but it did fly after a fashion.

Otto and Betty and a cluster of smaller boys made their way to the field beside the recess area. Otto said to the boy who had come up to him, “Merle, you turn the prop while I hold the plane.”

Merle studiously turned the propeller with his index finger, his tongue stuck out in concentration.

“Give it a hundred turns,” Otto instructed.

“I can’t count to a hundred,” Merle sighed.

“I’ll count for you,” Betty offered. “That’s nineteen, twenty…”

In a short while Merle had reached the required number of turns. Betty smiled at him. “I’ll help you with your numbers!”

“That would be great, Betty!”

Otto reached around and held the prop. “I got it, Merle. Now you guys stand back. We’re about to fly!”

He held the tiny aircraft over his head, pushing it forward and letting go of the propeller with one smooth motion. The miniature climbed in a long straight line, rising above the grass of the backfield, making a thin whir against the noise of the school at recess.

It rose to an altitude of perhaps 100 feet, a speck against the blue October sky. The prop stopped and the plane glided down in large lazy circles. The smaller boys took off in a herd toward the airplane, which touched down in the grass and nosed over.

Betty clapped her hands with delight. “Careful, guys!” shouted Otto. “Don’t run over it.”

One of the smallest boys—Otto thought his name was Johann—reached the plane first. He stooped down and carefully picked it up and then walked slowly back, the other boys grouped around him. He handed it gingerly to Otto.

“Can we do another flight?” Merle asked.

“Sure—” Otto started, but just then the bell rang to end recess.

The smaller boys ran off to join their class lines, shouting, “Thanks, Otto! Thanks!”

Betty laughed lightly and she and Otto started walking toward the school. “You are so kind to those younger boys, Otto. I think that’s great.”

“They like airplanes, too. I’ve thought of starting a club, but I need a sponsor. I know Miss Smith wouldn’t sponsor us.”

“My father might. His bank helps all kinds of people, even since that awful crash a couple of years ago.”

Otto shook his head. “It has to be someone from the school. Thanks, though, Betty.” The students started moving toward the school door, the boys dusting themselves off, the girls running their fingers through their hair. Betty and Otto stood.

“Otto?”

“Yes?”

“Promise me you’ll stay as sweet as you are now.”

“I’ll try, Betty, I’ll try.”

And they walked together into the school.

Otto knew something was going on at the abandoned farm adjacent to theirs. On early spring mornings he could hear the sound of hammers drifting over the pastures. He wondered if someone was fixing up the old house and barn to start farming again. He wanted to go see what was happening but, as usual, he was tied to the round of chores necessary to keep a dairy herd of a hundred going. He sighed and lifted his bucket of feed, moving along the trough where the cattle stood expectantly. As much as he disliked farming, he had to admit that he liked the big, warm black and white Holsteins with their gentle eyes and huge tongues.

One hot Friday, his parents went to town as they habitually did, leaving him and Mata alone to do as they wished. She took her dolls out and set them up to have a tea party. Otto retrieved his Christmas bicycle from the shed. “I’m going to see what’s going on next door,” he called to Mata who, concentrating on arranging the tea cups, waved without looking up.

Otto pedaled down the dirt road from their farm to the recently paved main road. It wasn’t far to the next farm, and as he came to where the Taverner farm had been, he saw carpenters working on some large wooden frames. Over in the fields a man on a tractor was dragging a huge heavy-looking roller, flattening the grass and compacting the soil. Otto’s heart leaped when he realized he was seeing the construction of an airport, right next to where he lived!

He rolled up to a large man holding a large piece of paper. “Excuse me, sir,” he ventured, “What are you building?”

The big man looked at him sideways. “It’s going to be an airport, son. The Pioneer Lake Airport. We’ll be done next month, and then you’ll see some planes coming in. Are you from around here?”

“Yessir, I live the next farm over.”

The man grunted and unrolled the paper, which Otto saw had the plans for a hangar and an office for the field.

Otto stayed for a couple of hours, sitting in the shade of a tree, watching the four carpenters clamber over the wooden frame, swiftly nailing the boards together with quick circling strokes. With the sun going down, he knew he had to get back. The carpenters gathered their tools and climbed into a pickup which had materialized, taking them off down the road. Otto pedaled quickly home, arriving minutes before his parents did.

He found Mata alone in her bedroom, reading one of those silly mysteries about a girl detective that she liked so much.

“Well, what did you find out?” she asked.

“They’re building an airport!”

She put down her book. “How exciting for you! Are there any airplanes there?”

Otto shook his head. “No, not yet. They’re constructing the hangar and an office.”

“Will big airplanes use it?” Otto had showed her articles about the Ford Trimotor and its use to transport passengers.

“No, just small airplanes. It will be what’s called a “Fixed-Base Operation” or an FBO. I wonder if I can get a job there.”