Trophy for Eagles (35 page)

Her expression changed from concern to anger as she continued,
"I want it to be different for you! No matter what I do, the press doesn't care. That damn Amelia Earhart gets all the publicity."

It was as close as Patty had ever seen Charlotte come to crying.
She knew what the problem was—Amelia Earhart had just returned
from her solo flight across the Atlantic, and you couldn't pick up a magazine or go to the newsreels without seeing her.

"She's just an appealing figure, Charlotte. She looks like Lind
bergh, and someone knows how to get publicity for her. Bruno is
content as long as the Air Corps is pleased by your flying. Maybe you ought to get a press agent."

Charlotte had recovered. "Well, maybe. There's one thing more,
though, a
quid pro quo
for flying. I want you to start assuming more
responsibility in managing the business. You've avoided it long enough. I want you to start putting in a forty-hour week at the plant."

Patty jumped up and kissed her; she wanted the work more than
the flying.

*

New York City/July 2, 1932

The French consul in New York had arranged for a reception for Stephan and Patty at the Wings Club, and most of the aviation
notables in town attended, including Charlotte's
bete noire,
Amelia
Earhart. When they met in the receiving line, Amelia was very gracious, and Charlotte almost snubbed her. Nevertheless, when
the receiving line ended, Amelia came to Patty and gently tugged at
her elbow.

"Can we go somewhere and talk for a moment?"
Flushed with pleasure, Patty walked with her down the hall to the
library. Earhart closed the doors behind them, and they sat at a
huge walnut table layered with aviation magazines from around the
world.

They sat for a moment, each studying the other. Amelia's voice was low and vibrant, entirely different from the scratchy high-
pitched tones of the newsreels. Not so tall as she appeared in her photos, she projected an aura of vulnerable authority, as if she were cast as the Saint Joan of flying for women, and was not comfortable
in the role. Yet underneath her apparent fragility a resilient inner
strength was apparent. A thousand questions occurred to Patty, but
the first one came from Amelia.

"Would you like a cigarette?"

"No, but please have one if you wish."

"I'm glad you don't smoke. I don't either, despite the Lucky Strike ads. I take the money from them, but I never say I smoke. I hate it."

Amelia gave a little shudder, then moved her chair closer to
Patty. The most famous woman aviator in the world kicked off her
shoes and curled her feet up beneath her. "I understand that you learned to fly in France?"

"Yes, my instructor taught me to fly, then I persuaded him to marry me."

Earhart smiled, relaxing. As she let her guard down, her face softened, and the set smile that she provided photographers on cue turned into an intimate grin that said, "I like you, and I hope you like me."

"Your instructor was lucky. What made you want to fly?"

Patty realized that an interview was in process.

"It's in the family. My father was a pilot in France during the war.
He was an ace, but he was killed in combat. My mother flies, and
oddly enough, my stepfather is also a pilot from the war. The
German side. I guess it was inevitable for me to want to follow in all
those footsteps."

"My spies tell me that you are an expert instrument pilot."

"I'm not sure I would say that, but my husband has given me almost one hundred hours of instruction in a Caudron cabin plane. I hope I've learned a little."

Earhart pursed her lips, obviously hesitant.

"This is a little difficult for me. For one thing, I've heard that
your mother doesn't like me—I don't know why. For another, we've
just met. But I want to ask a favor of you."

"Don't worry about Mother; she's larger than life, and I'm sure if you got to know each other you'd be friends. And if I can help, I will."

Again, there was a moment of silence. "I've been asked to go to Detroit for the introduction of a new Hudson car. I'm to be 'mistress
of ceremonies.' I hate that term; it sounds as if I were going to service the entire audience."

Patty smiled.

"The car is going to be called the Terraplane, so they've invited
some aviation figures to be present. Believe it or not, Orville Wright
will be there, and that's the main reason I'm going. How could I refuse if he is willing?"

Patty was still unable to see how she could help.

"I've borrowed a new airplane to make the trip, a four-place cabin
Waco with a Continental engine. It's really quite beautiful."

She paused, and then blurted, "It also has a complete set of flight
instruments. I'd like you to go with me and give me some instruction on instrument flying."

Patty sat up. What a compliment! Stephan would be pleased, and
Charlotte absolutely furious!

"I'm honored, but aren't there many pilots who are better qualified than I am?"

"Not better, perhaps, but there are others, all men. I'm frightened
of male instructors. I learned to fly from Neeta Snook, and even
though I've flown with many men pilots, some of the best, it's hard
for me to learn from them. That's why I do the cigarette advertisements—I use the money to train women instructors, and to
teach other women to fly. I'm tired of flying being strictly a man's
game."

Patty nodded vigorously. "I think men find sex in flying. I'm not
talking about groping around in a cockpit. There's just some mixture of death and sex in flying that appeals to them."

"You're right. I know just what you mean. To men a plane is like a good bed partner. Women get a more spiritual lift from flying." She paused. "Not that there is anything wrong with a good bed partner."

Patty laughed, and Amelia went on. "You know, most instructors
either try to make a girl student pilot sick or they pinch her bottom,
or both."

"My mother pinches back; I think that's why she's been so successful."

"There's the same sort of difference with clothes. Why men pilots
feel they have to dress up like businessmen, with coats and ties, I'll
never know."

"You always look wonderful."

"No, it's your mother who looks wonderful. I'm scrawny and not
very feminine-looking. She always looks like a movie star."

She patted Patty's hand. "How about it? Will you do me a favor?"

"You're on!"

Amelia, obviously delighted, leaned over and hugged her.

*

Detroit, Michigan/July 21, 1932

The breeze from Lake St. Clair was simply more heat-laden moisture and comforted no one. It was an hour until dinner, and Patty lay naked in bed, flapping a towel for comfort as the beaded moisture of her bath was slowly replaced by perspiration.

The trip up had been marvelous. The airplane was delightful, stable about all axes, and capable of an honest 100-mph cruise speed. Earhart deferred to Patty, letting her make most of the takeoffs and landings.

It took Amelia a little time to get used to the hood Stephan had made for Patty to use while learning to fly instruments. It was a simple strap-on device, looking much like an accountant's green visor, but it blocked out the view of everything but the instrument panel. It was the next best thing to actually flying in clouds.

Patty watched outside for other traffic, and gave Amelia course and altitude directions that let her practice turns, climbs, and descents. She particularly enjoyed dropping in on the airports at Pittsburgh and Cleveland, where Amelia caused an instant furor of activity. It was the first time Patty had been around a genuine celebrity, and she loved it.

At Detroit, they landed ironically enough at the Ford Airport at
Dearborn. With one last apologetic look at Patty, Amelia took on a
different persona. From the moment she swept from the biplane's tiny cabin door onto the lower wing, Amelia had been "on," plugging aviation, and introducing Patty as "the Lindbergh of the thirties."

Dinner at the Chapins' that evening made her think wistfully of
France again: it was overdone roast beef, overcooked string beans,
mashed potatoes, and overcooked gravy. There had been plenty of hard liquor available before the meal, but only iced tea with it. The
coffee was wonderful.

Whatever Chapin's faults in the gastronomy department, Patty could only admire his public relations skills. The next day the Terraplane was presented to the world from a shipping terminal
only four blocks north of the main Essex plant. While some dealers
and salesmen were given tours in the two thousand identical demonstrators that Chapin had assembled for a parade, the rest ate a huge lunch in gigantic tents spotted around the square.

The high point was the christening. A champagne bottle had been carefully etched with acid so that it would break without putting a dent in the sweeping chromium grille of the new car.
Amelia, in a high-necked dress that was drenched with sweat, gave
the grille a gentle tap, and high-test aviation gasoline poured out over the Terraplane. Orville Wright, after hours of sitting anonymously with his fedora clamped sternly around his ears and eyebrows, stood up and clapped. Patty wished her mother had been there, to see if she would have tried to seduce him.

She and Earhart got up early the next morning, and repeated the exchange of lessons on the way back to Long Island. On the approach into Roosevelt Field, Amelia pulled back on the throttle and yelled, "Patty, thank you so much. I've learned a lot. Please, let's keep in touch. I'm sure we can help each other in the future."

*

Laredo, Texas/July 24, 1932

American food had always puzzled Stephan, but this was absurd. He had suffered some terrible food on duty in Algiers, but one expected it there. He pushed away the plate of beans and rice. For one solid week he'd eaten nothing but goat, in stews, steaks, and roasts, and with only beer to drink. His system was beginning to stage a revolution.

The only thing positive was that no one would know he had been
to the sunbaked Texas town, as forsaken as a Foreign Legion
outpost. Patty's trip with Amelia Earhart had been a godsend. He had told her that he had to go to San Antonio, on assignment from the French air force, to see the American training establishment. He had spent one day there, and then had taken the lurching, gritty
train south to Laredo and the hardly antiseptic clinic of Dr. Ravenal
Drinkley.

Accustomed to European hospitals and spas, he was dismayed by
the rambling bunkhouse structure at the edge of the desert, broiling in the hundred-degree heat. Something had apparently been lost in the translation between what Drinkley was doing and what Stephan's own physician, Dr. Lissarague, had thought he was
doing. Lissarague had heard that Drinkley was a specialist in fertil
ity, when in fact most of the other patients were seeking potency.

But Drinkley, who inspired confidence despite his enormous bulk
and the fact that his white medical coat tended to be a display of
menus past, had assured Stephan that increased potency was just a
fortunate—and sought-after—by-product of a vast increase in fertil
ity. He quickly agreed to take the week-long regime.

He was the only European there; the clientele were from Califor
nia for the most part, and he thought that two or three of the older
men were incognito film stars. The rest were from South America,
primarily Argentina, but a few from Brazil.

All were apparently wealthy; one had to be. The course of treatment cost $1,000, payable in advance, and including the monotonously goat-laden meals. Stephan had dipped into a private account, and the expenditure for the treatment was going to interfere substantially with future dalliances.

The ghastly meals were derived from the treatment. Drinkley had
a secret process by which glands from goats were placed in a centrifuge; the resulting essence was then not only injected in the patients, but served in a revolting concoction that was taken four
times a day. The unfortunate goats from which the glands had come
appeared at every meal in some barely disguised state. Drinkley
made a virtue of the fact, claiming that the cooked-goat diet helped
the body adjust to the raw-goat injections.

Drinkley apparently dissolved his goat extract in some sort of beeswax emulsion; the twice-daily injections left large lumps that
took time to absorb. On the day he left, Stephan's legs looked as if he were trying to smuggle marbles out beneath his skin.