Trophy for Eagles (68 page)

The next day, the atmosphere thawed in the dingy flight shack. Torres helped him get fitted in a beautiful Russian-issue leather flying suit, then took him into a classroom where a cockpit from a wrecked aircraft was propped up by rough boards.

"This is from a Polikarpov I-15. We call it the Chato, because of its flat nose. I'm going to show you what all the buttons and gauges
mean."

That afternoon, Bandfield had his first flight in the gullwing Russian biplane fighter. Painted a dull dark green, with red wing-tips, it handled like a Boeing P-12, but was forty miles an hour
faster. To his surprise, it was powered by an American-built Wright
Cyclone engine. In the next week, he flew twelve hours in the Chato, including some practice gunnery.

The instructors liked him because he was proficient, unlike the
typical Spanish student. The Loyalist government was trying to lure more native pilots into service, and the carnage was devastating. In the week he was checking out, the Spaniards lost three pilots on the
base and one at sea during gunnery practice. One had ripped his
wings off, pulling out of a high-speed dive too close to the ground.
Two others were lost when a Chato landed on top of a Caudron, a
falcon raping a duck. The man at sea had become target-fixated and
flew single-mindedly into the water. The Spanish instructor pilots were furious and frustrated. There were too few Spanish pilots already, and the Russians were assuming a preponderant role that
would give them power at the peace table. The losses shrouded the
field with gloom.

Torres called Bandy in. "You've passed your checks. I'm recommending you to the Escuadrilla de Chatos at Las Alcazares.
You will be flying with American and Spanish pilots. Your com
mander is Andrei Lacalle. Serve him well. He is one of the loyal ones; almost all of the other officer pilots joined Franco. And
remember, if you weren't flying for him, you'd have to fly for some
bastard of a Russian."

Bandy received word to report to the Air Ministry in Valencia before going to Las Alcazares. When he got there, an American
dead ringer for Charlie Chase was waiting. He introduced himself as
Harold Lowe and made small talk until they got back to his hotel room.

"Henry Caldwell sent me, Bandy. He said everything is fine at home, and gave me these." He handed Bandy a packet of letters from Patty.

"Read them later. She's doing just fine, has even been flying once."

He saw the look on Bandy's face and hastened to add, "I haven't been reading your letters. Caldwell just passed the news along."

Bandfield nodded, and Lowe said, "I'll be your contact here. The Spanish have accepted me as the advance party for a group of Red
Cross volunteers forming in New York."

"Why would they believe that?"

"I don't think they do. My impression is the Loyalists are trying to
do anything to ingratiate themselves with the United States, and if we send a few spies over they expect it. They hate being so dependent on the Russians. That's probably why you're being sent to
Lacalle's squadron—they hope it will have the same effect on public
opinion as the Lafayette Escadrille did in the World War."

"How did you know I was going there? I just found out myself."

"You have to hand it to the British. They've had an intelligence
network in Spain since Wellington, and probably have a contact in
the Air Ministry itself. And they have a pretty good radio intercept
service working. We don't need to know how they do it as long as
they share it. Anyway, Henry will be glad that you're going to Lacalle, but he really wants to get you in a Russian unit if he can.
And he wants you to try to get into the I-16 as soon as possible. It
surprised the hell out of everybody."

"I haven't seen one. Torres says they're tricky devils, but fast, almost five hundred kilometers an hour."

"Look, we'll try to work a transfer if there's any way we can. In the
meantime, you do the best you can in Lacalle's group, and see if there's any way you can volunteer to fly with a Russian unit. They tend to keep to themselves, so it may not be possible."

Bandy shrugged his shoulders. "Say, if I get lucky and shoot somebody down, do I get to keep the thousand dollars?"

"I don't know. Never thought about it. But knowing the good old
Army, probably not. Let's wait till it happens."

"How long do I have to stay here?"

"Henry says they'll bring you back as soon as you think you know
enough about the I-16, or get to fly with the Russians, or preferably both. But he also told me to tell you to be ready to leave instantly."

Lowe had popped his hand in his fist for emphasis, a laughable
gesture for a man who appeared about as pugnacious as a parakeet.

"We have to assume the Russians know about your status, and are
just accepting it. You have to be prepared for a change in attitude at
any time. If they decided to, they might execute you on the spot."

"Jesus, great. Now you tell me."

"In any event, if I tell you to go, or if you become suspicious
yourself, just go. Take an airplane and go to France, or Portugal, or
fly out to sea and land by a neutral ship."

"I'm not sure a captain's pay is worth this. I'm not cut out to be a
spy, and from now on everything I don't understand will worry the
hell out of me. What kind of place is this?"

"We're all in the same boat. I've been surprised myself at the amount of espionage and counterintelligence going on. Spain is a
war bazaar, a coming attraction. All the people are getting killed just
so Europe can practice for the next world war."

Lowe looked around the shabby room, and inclined his head for Bandy to lean over.

"This may be of interest to you. Bruno Hafner has been identified
as commanding a fighter unit for the Condor Legion. He's in the Madrid area right now. You may just run into him."

"Are you sure?" Bandfield was galvanized by the prospect, almost
too good to be true.

"The radio-intercept teams have it pretty well nailed down. I
know you have a special interest in Colonel Hafner. I'll keep you
posted."

Ordinarily, Bandfield let the world spin to a halt while he read Patty's letters. This time he put them aside unread, thinking about the satisfaction he would have in nailing Hafner's ass in combat. Hell, he would pay the Spaniards $1,000 just for a shot at Hafner.
There were so many things to get even for. He had been prepared to execute him in cold blood in the States, if he had caught him. Now, if he shot him down here, it would be revenge sauced in patriotism,
a tasty dish, cold or hot.

It might be an even fight for a change. Hafner had a lot more combat experience; Bandfield remembered too well the debacle in Peru. But he had a hole card, a big wild ace. The Russian planes Were superior to the Heinkels the Germans were flying. It would more than even things out. He would fight him, he would shoot him down, and end this ten-year-long battle.

When he turned to Patty's letters, they surprised him. After the usual expressions of love and concern, as well as the usual stern reproval for having left without telling her, she went into her own fall from faith. There was no hint of apology; she simply said that
she was going to make the "big flight"—she avoided using Amelia's
name, referring to her as "my friend." She was already training "her
friend" intensively to teach her the techniques of taking off in a heavily loaded twin-engine airplane. "Her friend" had some sort of mental block, and they had reached an agreement that while she
would always get in the left seat and taxi out from whatever terminal
they were flying from, Patty would make all the heavyweight takeoffs. It was just as he had figured—Patty was going to do the work, and Amelia was going to get the credit.

Bandfield stared at the wall. What on earth had they got them
selves into? They were as much in love as any two people he'd ever
seen or heard of, and they seemed to spend half their time building obstacles to being together. Then the thought of Hafner hit him, the
sweet prospect of revenge like hot wine in his mouth. There had to be some justice in the world. Maybe this would be worth it. And things would be different when he got back.

*

Guadalajara, Spain/March 12, 1937

Bilious gray clouds had spewed rain for four days, turning the front
into a sucking sea of

brown mud and compounding the protracted depression engulfing Bandy. They were grounded, locked into the grimy field boundaries. Without the anodyne of flying, the Spanish
war was more impossible than ever. Not even the rattling purr of El Rojo was comforting. The orange cat, ears tattered and skin flecked
with lesions, had so far survived both the war and the hungry peasants. Bandfield had befriended him by picking out the solid
pellets of fat from the sausage and feeding them to the cat. El Rojo never permitted Bandy to pet him, but always turned up in the room
after Bandfield had gone to sleep, matching purr for snore.

After a breakfast of coffee and bread, Bandfield slumped in the
operations room, listening to a scratchy radio playing a Russian station, convinced that Caldwell had forgotten his existence.

Absolutely nothing was going well. He hadn't heard from Patty in
three weeks. There had been further news of Hafner from other sources. The German had six or seven victories now, and was apparently commanding a special unit. In contrast, Bandfield had flown in six combats without scoring and had almost been shot
down twice. Captain Lacalle had given him two serious dressings-
down, one public, and a more scathing one in private. He hadn't quite accused him of cowardice, but the inference was there if Bandy wished to take it.

Lacalle was wrong. Bandy had no doubts about his own courage.
Twice he could have killed. He had the pretty Italian Fiat biplane fighters in his sights, at close range, and didn't shoot. Killing
someone besides Hafner in a futile war like this was simply murder.

At the beginning of the month, he'd hoped he'd get some insight into the insanity thanks to some unexpected idle time when an
extreme shortage of gasoline had forced a general squadron stand-
down. He had gone out into the countryside to try to talk with the people, to see if he could understand how they could fight so well with so little.

He was appalled. He had not expected to find a happy country
side, but there was no song in Spain, no joy among the children, no
casual look of happy indifference. Instead, there was universal guilt
and fear, and an uncanny, pervasive impression of bitter sin, a
feeling he'd never encountered before. The sins weren't of the flesh,
not drunks in bars nor whores sitting in doorways; instead, there
were the sins of torment, of ugly, unrequited hatred. Most people
would not talk to him about anything political, as if they feared what
he would do with their opinions. For the most part, the endemic
bitterness had nothing to do with the Loyalists or the rebels. Instead, it was a deep, dolorous, fratricidal resentment of the landowners and
the aristocracy. There was a curious division of feeling about the church. Even the most avowed communists spoke in terms of God and blessings, using all the usual Catholic turns of speech. He had talked to one quiet man—he gave his name only as Pablo—for an hour, asking him about the land, and the church, and what the
outcome of the war would be. Pablo was reasonable and intelligent;
he felt the Loyalists would win, but that it would take years, and
when it was over the country would be forever impoverished. Only a
few minutes later, Bandy was told that Pablo had killed at least four
priests in cold blood, stabbing them to death in the street without warning, deliberately denying them the chance to cry out a last act of contrition. He had sworn to do the same to as many more as he came across.

On a tip from Harold Lowe, he had searched out Bob Merriman in Muricia. A captain in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, Merriman was recovering in the hospital. Bandy brought him a bottle of wine
and was surprised to find his pretty wife, Marion, with him. Merri
man had been wounded in the left arm and shoulder while leading
untrained infantry in a pointless attack. Yet Merriman was boyishly
enthusiastic about the cause, about the war. Bandfield had looked to
him for guidance, for reason, and found only a sophomoric idealism that had nothing to do with Spaniards killing Spaniards. He talked to him about Pablo and the priests he had killed, and
Merriman just shrugged it aside as a picaresque anomaly suitable for
Spain.