World War II Thriller Collection (128 page)

He returned to the aircraft. He might as well try to start the engine. If Karen backed out, he would find another pilot, he told himself.

The instructions were in the manual.

Chock the wheels and put handbrake hard on.

He could not find the chocks, but he dragged two boxes of junk across the floor and pushed them hard up against the wheels. He located the handbrake lever in the left-hand door and checked that it was fully engaged. Pinetop was sitting on the seat, licking his paws, wearing a sated look. “The lady thinks you're disgusting,” Harald told him. The cat looked disdainful and hopped out of the cabin.

Turn on petrol (control in cabin).

He opened the door and leaned into the cabin. It was small enough for him to reach the controls without climbing in. The fuel gauge was partly hidden between the two seat backs. Next to it was a knob in a slot. He moved it from “Off” to “On.”

Flood carburetor by actuating the lever on either side of the engine pumps. Flow of petrol through the jet is then caused by operating the tickler of the carburetor.

The left cowling was still open, and he immediately spotted the two fuel pumps, each with a small lever sticking out. The carburetor tickler was harder to identify, but he eventually guessed it was a ring pull with a spring-back mechanism. He pulled the ring and worked one of the levers up and down. He had no way of telling whether what he was doing was having any effect. For all he knew, the tank might be dry.

He felt dejected now that Karen had gone. Why was he so clumsy with
her? He was desperately keen to be friendly and charming and do whatever it took to please her, but he could not figure out what she wanted. Why could girls not be more like engines?

Put throttle in “shut” position, or nearly so.

He hated manuals that could not make up their minds. Should the throttle be closed, or slightly open? He found the control, a lever in the cabin just forward of the left door. Thinking back to his flight in a Tiger Moth two weeks ago, he recalled that Poul Kirke had set the throttle at about half an inch from the “Off” end. The Hornet Moth ought to be similar. It had an engraved scale graduated from one to ten, where the Tiger Moth had nothing. Guessing, Harald set the throttle at one.

Put switches in “On” position.

There was a pair of switches on the dashboard marked simply “On” and “Off.” Harald guessed they must operate the twin magnetos. He put them on.

Swing airscrew.

Harald stood at the front and grasped one of the blades of the propeller. He pulled it down. It was very stiff, and he had to put all his strength into moving it. When finally it turned, it gave a sharp click, then stopped.

He turned it again. This time it moved more easily. It clicked again.

The third time, he gave it a vigorous heave, hoping the engine would fire.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. The propeller moved easily, and clicked each time, but the engine remained silent and still.

Karen came in. “Won't it start?” she said.

He looked at her in surprise. He had not expected to see her again today. He was elated, but replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Too early to say—I've only just begun.”

She seemed contrite. “I'm sorry I stormed off.”

This was a new aspect of her. He would have guessed she was too proud to apologize. “That's all right,” he said.

“It was just the thought of the cat eating the baby mice. I couldn't
stand it. I know it's foolish to think about mice when men like Poul are losing their lives.”

That was how Harald saw it, but he did not say so. “Pinetop's gone now, anyway.”

“I'm not surprised the engine won't start,” she said, reverting to practical problems—just as he did when embarrassed, he thought. “It hasn't been turned over for at least three years.”

“It might be a fuel problem. Over a couple of winters, water must have condensed in the tank. But oil floats, so the fuel will lie on top. We might be able to drain off the water.” He consulted the manual again.

“We should turn off the switches, for safety,” Karen said. “I'll do it.”

Harald learned from the manual that there was a panel on the underside of the fuselage that gave access to the fuel drain plug. He took a screwdriver from the tool rack then lay on the floor and wriggled under the aircraft to unscrew the panel. Karen lay beside him and he handed her the screws. She smelled good, a mixture of warm skin and shampoo.

When the panel came off, Karen handed him an adjustable wrench. The drain plug was awkwardly placed, being slightly to one side of the access hole. This was the kind of fault that made Harald long to be in charge, so that he could force lazy designers to do things properly. When his hand was in the gap, he could no longer see the drain plug, so he had to work blind.

He turned the plug slowly but, when it opened, he was startled by the sudden spurt of freezing liquid onto his hand. He withdrew his hand quickly, banging his numbed fingers on the edge of the access hole and, to his intense irritation, he dropped the plug.

With dismay he heard it roll down the fuselage. Fuel poured from the drain. He and Karen quickly wriggled out of the way of the gush. Then there was nothing they could do except watch until the system was empty and the church reeked of petroleum.

Harald cursed Captain de Havilland and the careless British engineers who had designed the aircraft. “Now we've got no fuel,” he said bitterly.

“We could syphon some out of the Rolls-Royce,” Karen suggested.

“That's not airplane fuel.”

“The Hornet Moth runs on car petrol.”

“Does it? I didn't realize that.” Harald perked up again. “Right. Let's see if we can get that drain plug back.” He guessed the plug had rolled until it stopped against a cross member. He put his arm into the hole, but could not reach far enough. Karen got a wire brush from the workbench and retrieved it with that. Harald replaced the plug in the drain.

Next they had to take fuel from the car. Harald found a funnel and a clean bucket, while Karen used a pair of heavy pliers to cut a length off a garden hose. They pulled the cover off the Rolls-Royce. Karen undid the fuel cap and fed the hose into the tank.

Harald said, “Shall I do that?”

“No,” she said. “My turn.”

He guessed she wanted to prove she could do dirty work, especially after the mice incident, so he stood back and watched.

Karen put the end of the hose between her lips and sucked. When the petrol came into her mouth she quickly directed the hose into the bucket, while at the same time grimacing and spitting. Harald watched the grotesque expressions on her face. Miraculously, she was no less beautiful when screwing up her eyes and pursing her lips. She caught his gaze and said, “What are you staring at?”

He laughed and said, “You, of course—you're so pretty when you're spitting.” He realized immediately that he had revealed more of his feelings than he wanted to, and he waited for a sharp retort, but she just laughed.

He had only said she was pretty, of course. That was not news to her. But he had said it affectionately, and girls always noticed tones of voice, especially when you did not want them to. If she had been annoyed, she would have shown it with a disapproving look or an impatient toss of her head. But, on the contrary, she had seemed pleased—almost, he thought, as if she were glad he was fond of her.

He felt he had crossed a bridge.

The bucket filled up and the hose ran dry. They had emptied the tank of the car. There was only a gallon or so of petrol in the bucket, Harald guessed, but it was plenty for testing the engine. He had no idea where they would get enough fuel to cross the North Sea.

Harald carried the bucket over to the Hornet Moth. He flipped open the access cover and pulled the petrol cap. It had a hook to fix it to the lip
of the filler neck. Karen held the funnel while Harald poured the fuel into the tank.

“I don't know where we're going to get any more,” Karen said. “We certainly can't buy it.”

“How much do we need?”

“The tank takes thirty-five gallons. But that's another problem. The Hornet Moth's range is six hundred miles—in ideal conditions.”

“And it's about that distance to Britain.”

“So if conditions are less than perfect—for example, if we have head winds, which is not unlikely . . .”

“We'll come down in the sea.”

“Exactly.”

“One problem at a time,” said Harald. “We haven't started the engine yet.”

Karen knew what to do. “I'll flood the carburetor,” she said.

Harald turned on the fuel.

Karen worked the priming mechanism until fuel dribbled on the floor, then called, “Mags on.”

Harald switched on the magnetos and checked that the throttle was still at the just-open position.

Karen grasped the propeller and pulled it down. Again there was a sharp click. “Hear that?” she said.

“Yes.”

“It's the impulse starter. That's how you know it's working, by the click.” She swung the propeller a second time, then a third. Finally she gave it a mighty heave and stepped smartly back.

The engine gave a shocking bark which echoed around the church, then it died.

Harald cheered.

Karen said, “What are you so pleased about?”

“It fired! There can't be much wrong.”

“It didn't start, though.”

“It will, it will. Try again.”

She swung the propeller again, but with the same result. The only change was that Karen's cheeks became attractively flushed with the effort.

After a third try, Harald turned the switches off. “The fuel is flowing freely now,” he said. “It sounds to me as if the problem is with the ignition. We need some tools.”

“There's a tool kit.” Karen reached into the cabin and lifted a cushion to reveal a large locker under the seat. She took out a canvas bag with leather straps.

Harald opened the bag and took out a wrench with a cylindrical head on a swiveling joint, designed to operate around corners. “A universal spark plug spanner,” he said. “Captain de Havilland did something right.”

There were four spark plugs on the right side of the engine. Harald removed one and examined it. There was oil on the points. Karen took a lace-edged handkerchief from the pocket of her shorts and wiped the plug clean. She found a feeler gauge in the tool kit and checked the gap. Then Harald replaced the plug. They repeated the process with the other three.

“There are four more on the other side,” Karen said.

Although the engine had only four cylinders, there were two magnetos, each operating its own set of spark plugs—a safety measure, Harald presumed. The left side plugs were harder to get at, behind two cooling baffles which first had to be removed.

When all the plugs had been checked, Harald removed the Bakelite caps over the contact breakers and checked the points. Finally, he removed the distributor cap from each magneto in turn, and wiped out the inside with Karen's handkerchief, which had now become a filthy rag.

“We've done all the obvious things,” he said. “If it doesn't start now, we've got serious trouble.”

Karen primed the engine again then turned the propeller slowly three times. Harald opened the cabin door and threw the magneto switches. Karen gave the propeller a final heave and stepped back.

The engine turned over, barked, and hesitated. Harald, standing by the door with his head in the cabin, pushed the throttle forward. The engine roared to life.

Harald whooped with triumph as the propeller turned, but he could hardly hear his own voice over the noise. The sound of the engine bounced off the church walls and made a deafening racket. He saw Pinetop's tail disappear though a window.

Karen came up to him, her hair blowing wildly in the slipstream from the propeller. In his exuberance, Harald hugged her. “We did it!” he yelled. She hugged him back, to his intense pleasure, then said something. He shook his head, to indicate that he could not hear her. She came delightfully close to him and spoke into his ear. He felt her lips brush his cheek. He could hardly think of anything except how easy it would be to kiss her now. “We should turn it off, before someone hears!” she shouted.

Harald remembered that this was not a game, and that the purpose of repairing the aircraft was to fly a dangerous secret mission. He put his head inside the cabin, moved the throttle back to the closed position, and switched off the magnetos. The engine stopped.

When the noise died away, the inside of the church should have been silent, but it was not. A strange sound came from outside. At first, Harald thought his ears were still registering the din of the engine, but gradually he realized it was something else. Still he could not credit what he heard, for it sounded like the tramp of marching feet.

Karen stared at him, bewilderment and fear showing on her face.