Chapter 2: Destiny Redux

The Jenny circled lazily out over the bean fields and touched down on the dirt of the fairground. It rolled across the grass toward the beaten-up card table, where I was lining up our next mark. Oscar jazzed the engine and did a fancy rudder turn, which parked the bird in a cloud of dust. It was terrific showmanship. A dollar a ride was an exorbitant price for the Depression. So, we had to get the rubes’ attention.

I put the step-ladder next to the rear cockpit and the passenger crawled out. He looked shaken. That was typical for the first time. Oscar clambered out of the front cockpit, jumped briskly off the wing and tossed me the helmet. He was my dad, late forties, with a weathered face, tall and lanky, a toothpick permanently lodged in the corner of his mouth.

There wasn’t much work in the 1930s, everybody scrabbled for what they could get. Mom caught pneumonia, struggling to put food on the table. We didn’t have the money for medicine. Dad tried to peddle his old biplane. But mother died before he could get it sold.

After that, it was just us Lambert boys; pa and me. The two of us went town-to-town, fairground-to-fairground. Dad’d taught me to fly when I was eleven and he said I was a better pilot than he ever was. That was debatable since he’d been an ace in the war. Of course, he was flying a Spad S.XIII back then.

He had come home a local hero, handsome and dashing, like the cartoon character Smilin’ Jack, married his hometown sweetie and used his vet’s bonus to buy a little dairy farm in Wisconsin. He’d grown up on an Arkansas pig farm. But he wanted out of that State after he’d seen Paree. He said he’d do anything but raise pigs in the shitty Arkansas summer.

He couldn’t stay out of the air. So, he bought himself a surplus JN4-D trainer. They were practically giving them away back in 1919. Pa was lucky. His Jenny had the better Hiso-eight, instead of the OX-5. Since the OX-5 had the scary habit of conking out at two-thousand feet.

The twenties were happy times. A lot of enthusiasm and optimism. Those were the days. It all came crashing down in 1929. I was ten years old. We lost the farm and mom died and all we had left was the fucking airplane. You could make a living barnstorming and that’s when we became airborne hobos.

For four-bits, we’d take the local yokels up for a half hour. We lived in rooming houses or camped out under the wing on hot summer nights. We saw a lot of the Country. We were relatively happy. We had each other and there was food on the table, most of the time.

Dad did aerobatics, while I did wing walking. Most modern parents wouldn’t put their fourteen-year-old kid out on a Jenny’s wing; with no safety apparatus except a rope around their waist. But it was the middle of the Depression. People did what they had to do to survive. And believe me, walking for a few seconds on a wing moving at forty miles an hour sure beat standing for half a day in a bread line. Plus, I was a teenager. You never think about dying.

My daring-do DID make me popular with the ladies. I was taller than most, big, blond and sturdy. So, I looked a lot older than my age. It was nothing but flirting and experimentation in my early years. Then I reached adulthood. The farm wives helped me figure out the rest. Dad had his own fan club, only older.

Don’t judge us until you’ve lived it. It was the Depression. We were all broke. There wasn’t any place to go, nothing to do. Everybody was desperate. You grabbed whatever fun you could, and fucking was free. Still, we were careful to avoid gun toting husbands when we came around the following year.

Consequently, there I was, standing in the heat of an eighty degree fall day in Los Angeles. We’d been hopping west looking for events and we’d finally made it all the way to the Los Angeles County Produce Festival. That was our normal yearly pattern. We’d hit every fair between Eau Claire, and LA. Then we’d winter in the California sun and then do it all over again.

Pa and I traded off the flying duty. The Jenny’s normal flight time was a little more than two hours. That’s before you had to land and refuel. But after an hour of wrestling with Miss Jenny you’d be ready to hand her over to somebody else. She was a very demanding lady. Early morning was the best time to travel, before the heat sent the thermals up. Those big wings grabbed every upward current. So, it was like bobbing on a life raft after that.

The festival ground was near the Lockheed works and even though America was still officially neutral, that place was gearing up for the upcoming war. The Depression was over as far as the LA area was concerned. The action around the plant was twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and the workers were flush. So, we’d made a bundle giving rides.

The person next in line looked nervous, like he was afraid to put his life in the hands of a twenty-one-year-old kid. I’ll admit, I wasn’t a Life magazine picture of a pilot. I was in bib overalls clod-hoppers and a sweated-out pair of long johns. But I could make the Jenny dance on the end of a string. I put on the leather helmet and goggles, jumped up on the wing and said jovially, “Come on, sport. You can’t live forever.” He turned and ran. But he left his dollar.

I said teasingly, “Anybody else?” A musical English voice said, “Can I fly it?” I said, “Sure pet, as long as you have a buck. Just let me get it off the ground first.”

That was my attempt at humor. I knew my little friend would be begging me to take over as soon as I handed her the controls. The aircraft industry was in its infancy when Jenny was built. There’re no fancy trim tabs to give it stability. So, there’s no natural return to straight-and-level flight. As a result, keeping Miss Jenny on an even keel was a demanding physical struggle.

I nearly fell off the wing when the disembodied female voice stepped out of the crowd. I had fucked them all; the long and the short and the tall. Yet, the instant I laid eyes on this woman it was like cupid shot me with an arrow out of blue-heaven. I was a barnstorming airplane bum, with no formal education. I hadn’t had a real home in nine years. But I wanted to marry this girl right there on the spot, and I knew that I’d sacrifice anything to make that happen.

That unexpected onset of painful yeaning was disturbing. The odd part was that I DIDN’T want to fuck her. Instead, I felt an instant and deep connection. It was an inexplicable buzz, like a spiritual longing. It was like we’d been lovers forever and I was instantly jealous of every other man she’d ever known. If that was kismet, then so be it. I never wanted to let this woman go. It was a terrifying feeling.

I suppose the attraction made sense in some respects. She was knockout gorgeous; super-thick chestnut hair cut in one of those jaunty bobs that all of the smart young ladies wore. That mop of hair framed her perfectly proportioned heart shaped face. She had high cheekbones, a lovely, slightly snubbed patrician nose, wide mouth and very full lips. But her crowning glory was the most incredible pair of blue eyes. She was small, perhaps five two, with a lovely dusky complexion. The contrast with her eyes was striking.

I instantaneously knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her light would be the navigation beacon I would follow for the rest of my life. I also knew that was an utterly ridiculous thought, since this woman was a TOTAL STRANGER.

She was beautiful and there I was gaping like an idiot. An embarrassingly long period of time passed while we gazed at each other. She was standing with one hand over her mouth and the other pressed against her delectably heaving bosom, looking just as poleaxed as I felt. Finally, she shook her head like a dog drying itself off and said spiritedly, “So do I get that ride or not.”

She walked briskly toward the plane, ample chest still heaving with emotion. I tossed her the helmet and goggles. She handed me a dollar. I usually have to show our customers how to put the gear on. She slipped it on like most women would don a hat. Then she jumped catlike onto the wing and began to slither into the front cockpit, which is where the pilot normally sits.

She bumped a firm round hip on me, just to get me out of the way. That caused me to spring something inappropriate in my overalls. She said, “I’m paying for it buster. So, I’m up front.” I was pretty sure we’d both fall through the wing fabric if I stood there a moment longer. So, I hastily hopped off and climbed the ladder to the rear cockpit. I said, “I’ll get us up, and you can take it from there.” She looked back at me with a merry smile.

I switched on the magnetos, and Oscar spun the prop. The old Hispano-Suiza turned over, coughed and sprang to life in a cloud of blue smoke. I taxied us out on the grass. There wasn’t a runway to speak of. I just aimed at the part of the horizon that didn’t include any trees.

The Jenny’s built like a kite. But it’s underpowered and heavy. Hence, even though the wings were trying to generate lift, the thing bumped along for quite a while before it ambled off the ground. The crazy woman up front was laughing gleefully as that happened.

We got to a few thousand feet and headed southwest, out toward the Pacific. I could see the Hollywood Bowl and the new observatory at Griffith Park below.

Off to the northeast, behind us, was the Lockheed facility, the one that made the Electra; the same airplane that Amelia Earhart flew. Burbank itself was a former sheep ranch and you could still see the open space. But the grazing land was rapidly being covered by new buildings.

I reached forward and tapped on the turtle back. My beautiful little passenger turned. I made a gesture that she should take the controls. I was smiling patronizingly. If she wanted to be an aviatrix, now was the time to prove it.

I knew she’d panic as soon as I took my hand off the stick. The Jenny lurched when I handed it over, like I knew it would. But she calmly steadied it.

She flew on the same course for several seconds. Then she jammed the throttle full-on and started an inside loop. The JN-4D was never designed to loop. It doesn’t even have seatbelts. The Jenny complained. I complained. The Hisso sounded like it was coming off the airframe.

We rose anti-clockwise until we got close to one o’clock inverted. I was making garbled choking sounds and gripping the coaming, trying not to fall out. At which point, my crazy little friend snapped into a perfectly executed Immelmann. I abruptly dropped back into my seat, to find that we were headed northeast, on the reciprocal, 300 feet higher than before

I had just gotten my heart back in my chest, when the little vixen half rolled and dropped into a split-s, I was back to dangling upside down screaming like a little girl. When she finished that maneuver, we were on the same heading at the same altitude and the same speed as we’d originally been on.

My mystery girl turned around, beautiful face lit up like a kid at Christmas and mouthed, “Isn’t this fun??!!” I promised myself to never be so smug again.

We landed and bumped along. The mystery woman climbed out of the cockpit even before the plane stopped rolling, looking energized. She leapt to the ground and whipped off her helmet. Her thick chestnut mop made her look like a mischievous little girl. I felt like I’d just taken a ride on the Coney Island Cyclone.

Oscar came over with the chocks. He’d seen what had transpired and he lit into me the moment the engine stopped. I couldn’t hear him at first, over the cracking and popping of the cooling exhaust pipes. But his voice started getting clearer the minute things died down, “What’s the matter with you!! Are you trying to scare our customers to death?”

My mystery woman tittered and said, “That was me, not him. And I think it was the other way around.” Oscar stopped and looked at her, amazed.

He said, “So you mean that fancy flying, was you?” Then he added scratching his head, “I probably should have known. He doesn’t usually act like Eddie Rickenbacker.” She grinned impishly and said, “Anna Gregory, at your service.” That was how I met the love of my life.

It was starting to get dark. The crowds had gone home, and Pa was securing the Jenny for the night. The winds came up in the evening. So, we had to tie it down. And since we were camped under the wing it was also our house. That didn’t mean we were destitute. It was just that our nomadic life-style didn’t lend itself to tangible places, or fancy hotels and it was actually quite pleasant camped out under the stars. Plus, it never rains in LA.

Anna was looking at me, still puzzled. I said trying to sound casual, “I know this sounds crazy. But I’m feeling the thing that the French call deja-vu. It’s like we’ve been here before.”

She looked amazed, like I was the guy from the film that Bogart’s wife was just in; “The Mind Reader.” She said, without her normal swagger, “I don’t get it either. I feel exactly the same way. But there’s no possibility we could have met. I’ve never been in this country before.”

I said jokingly, “Maybe I knew you in another life. I’ll bet what goes around comes around.” Anna threw back her head and laughed loudly. She said, “Where’ve I heard that line before?” It was just me being silly. Still, I couldn’t shake the sense that I had loved this woman since King Tut was a pup.

She looked at me, eyes shining and said, “Do you wanna grab a burger or something? I feel the need to explore this further. I hope you feel the same way.”

I certainly did. I didn’t have a car, or much else to speak of. But Anna had a neat little cream-colored Model A convertible. So, she drove us down US 101 to Ptomaine Tommy’s which was the joint back then.

Pa and I’d made a lot of dough and burgers were only two bits. So, I was the big spender. We were eyeing each other hungrily; and it didn’t have anything to do with the burger and malt sitting in front of us.

The wordless gazing was getting super-hot. So, I tried a detour, just to cool myself down. I said, “What turned you into an ace?” She laughed ironically. She knew what I was doing. I think she felt the same way because her explanation was a little long-winded.

She said, “I grew up next to Bicester Airfield in Oxfordshire and I’ve been fascinated by flying since as far back as I can remember. Daddy finally bought me a joy-ride when I was eleven. That did it. I was hooked, I got my pilot’s license at sixteen and then flew for fun until the war.”

Then she stopped and looked at me like I might not have heard about the current dust-up in Europe, “You DO know there’s a war going on over there. It started last year.”

Now that was downright insulting. I was a flying bum. But I read a lot and I wasn’t THAT stupid. Still, her next revelation shocked me. It turned out that she was a military pilot. She wasn’t exactly flying the Dawn Patrol. But she was part of the British Air Transport Auxiliary.

The Brits had started using women to free up male pilots for combat. The girls ferried all sorts of aircraft from factories to active service squadrons and that’s why my new-found lifelong love was in LA. She was there to master the intricacies of the Lockheed Hudson.

The Hudson was developed from the Electra airframe. But it sported two Pratt & Whitney R-1830 Twin Wasps, which made it a major handful for any pilot, particularly a slip of a girl. So, Anna and Lockheed were working on methods specially designed for female pilots.

I’d seen a Hudson the day before, while I was up with a customer. I said, “Was that you?” She smiled eagerly and said, “Probably, we’re the only people flying the A-28 in this area.”

I just sat there, mouth hanging open, staring at her with unconcealed desire. I couldn’t get over how much I wanted this woman. She was gorgeous and she was a much more qualified pilot than I was. It was daunting to be so pathetically needy. But there was this unmistakable chemistry that kept encouraging me. I felt like we were destined to be together.

Naturally, the gods laughed. We were huddled in a booth next to the window, heads together like lovers. When I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and a guy sat down next to Anna. He put his arm around her, hugged her, and said cheerfully, “Hey Babe, where’ve you been. I’ve been looking all over for you.” The look of panic in Anna’s eyes was matchless.

He was a good-looking guy, black hair in that slicked back style that was just coming into popularity. He had a striking pair of grey eyes that made me think there was a lot of Irish in his family tree. He had one of those pencil mustaches that Clark Gable made all the rage and a cupid bow mouth, that I’m sure the girls would call kissable. He was sitting down, so it was hard to tell how tall he was. But he looked small and compact, like most good pilots.

I knew he was a pilot because his stylish leather flight jacket had a Lockheed logo and the name O’Leary embossed on it. It was eighty degrees inside the diner, and he was strutting around like he was Lindbergh over Paris. But certain kinds of fellows always have to flaunt themselves. At least he wasn’t dressed in bib overalls and a union suit like me.

He stretched his hand across the table and said, “Bill O’Leary, I’m Anna’s boyfriend.” I could see that particular thunderbolt coming. So, I didn’t react. But the anguish in Anna’s eyes went up more than a few notches.

I took his hand and said, “Tom Lambert, Anna went up with me today in my JN-4.” O’Leary laughed and said, “Not many of them around anymore. What are you, a barnstormer?”

I smiled, although I was dying inside, and said, “Guilty as charged. My pa and I go around the Country giving rides. We’ve been doing it since we lost the farm back in ‘30. Haven’t really had a home since then. But you know how it is.”

He clearly didn’t. He looked at me like I was some kind of Okie and said, “You really oughta get a job. I can get you a foot in the door at Lockheed. We’ve got lots of jobs at the plant.” I didn’t like his tone. But I said, friendly-like, “We’re doing alright as long as the Jenny holds up and I’d miss being in the air. What do you do there, assembly line work?” That was intentional.

Maybe he’d seen how Anna and I were interacting. Because, he gave me a look like he was marking his turf and said, “Test-pilot at Lockheed. The A-28’s a beast and I’ve been helping Anna here, learn the ropes. That’s how we got together.” Anna had gone from wary to wretched. She said in a strangled tone, “Now Bill, it’s only been a month. It’s not like we’re married.”

O’Leary chuckled and said patronizingly, “We will be.” Then he turned to me and said, in a just-between-us-guys fashion, “Anna’s one hot little number if you get my drift, ain’t you sweetie?” That statement dripped with carnal innuendo. How subtle. Mr O’Leary was teetering between getting his ass kicked and me saying, “Well I gotta get back.” I chose the civil route. strictly for Anna’s sake. But it was a close call.

My heart was breaking as I rose and said, only to her, “Maybe in the next life kiddo.” She looked like she was going to cry. She said a little too loudly, “NO WAIT, I have to give you a ride back.” I said, “Don’t worry about it. I can stick out my thumb. There’s lots of traffic on 101 this time of the evening.” I had my pride.

Before she could say anything else, I turned and walked slowly out in the direction of the road. I tried to make my saunter through the dusty parking-lot look casual. But it felt like I’d left half my soul back there in that booth.

I heard a noise. It was 1AM and I was lying under a piece of canvas that was draped over the Jenny’s right wing. I was still wide awake, unsuccessfully trying to convince myself that Anna was merely a passing fancy.

Pa was snoring like a buffalo. So, I knew it wasn’t him. I grabbed my handy flashlight and baseball bat and rolled out from under the wing ready to give whoever it was a deluxe beating.

We had some maintenance to do and we didn’t want to be disturbed by the hustle and bustle of the fair. So, we’d wheeled the Jenny over next to the tree line. Highway 101 runs past on the other side of the woods and whoever was creeping up on us had parked there, on the shoulder. That was suspicious.

The moonlight made him easy to track. I hid behind a tree, waiting to jump out and give him the scare of his life. Then, as the figure passed, I shined the light in his eyes and said in a warning tone, “Stop right where you are.”

The figure gave a startled yelp and I dropped the flashlight. It was Anna!! We were both stunned. I walked two paces to her. She was hyperventilating. I said concerned, “What are you doing out here at this hour?” I know. It was an idiotic question. But she’d shocked me as much as I’d shaken her. She said plaintively, “Don’t leave me.” That was an even bigger shock.

I said earnestly, “I thought you’d promised yourself to O’Leary.” She said bitterly, “Bill had no right to say those things. So, I told him to take a long walk on a short pier.” Then she grinned impishly and added, “He’s been a jerk since the day we met. He just wishes he’d gotten past first base with me. But we’ve been together in the same cockpit for the past month and he thinks he owns me.”

I looked into her face in the silvery moonlight. Her gorgeous eyes were a cocktail of love and uncertainty. Then, she threw her arms around my neck, and raised her beautiful face for a steamy kiss. I kissed her back like we had been doing this for three or four millennia. I knew exactly how to hold her hard little body, her lips felt like coming home.

She was making needy moans as I lowered her onto the soft grass by the side of the path. I’d fucked women everywhere from haylofts to three thousand feet in the air. Some were quick fumbles. Some lasted days at a time. None of them came close to the bewildering sense of convergence that I felt as we began our dance of love.

It was partly the alien emotions. There were sentiments bouncing around in my skull that I’d never experienced; a feeling of empathy, compassion, tenderness, and a very profound perception of intimacy. I cared about this woman, how she felt, what she thought. Her happiness was my happiness. Then, there was the novelty of making love to a partner rather than simply getting my ashes hauled. We had a future. I could sense that.

We were both naked by that point. I’d started out in nothing but my long-johns anyhow, and my unlaced clodhoppers, which I had hastily donned while I was grabbing the flashlight. Anna frantically shed her clothing as she lay back in the high grass.

The body that the moonlight revealed was sensational. It was the perfect female paradox, small but powerful, soft and hard. Her waist was tiny, but her breasts were full and broad. Her hips were wide and fruitful, yet lithe and nubile. Her legs were long and superbly shaped. But she was only a couple of inches over five feet tall.

There was no doubt that I had worshiped this body in many settings. I knew exactly what to do. She gave a little gasp as I entered her. I remembered that she wasn’t vocal during sex. But she was wildly passionate. Her hands slapped loudly on my back as she enfolded me with both her arms and her legs.

Then I made sweet love to her. She squeaked and yipped and moaned throughout the act; pounding back at me with the same ardent fervor. Her lovely face had an expression of blind ecstasy, eyes screwed shut, mouth wide open in an extreme “O”, panting noisily.

Finally, the inevitable hit and we both experienced the age-old euphoria. But this time there was an entirely new dimension to it, and it was a lot more than simple biology. I wasn’t getting my rocks off, like with all the farm girls. I was tying my past and future to another person.

Humans have no mating season. Sex is a natural selection imperative for us. It drives a male and a female to one purpose, offspring. And evolution provides ample incentive to mate frequently; in the form of an endorphin rush that is no less potent than a narcotic. Still, if propagation is the Darwinian purpose, then sex’s indispensable social aim is to cement a family unit. That’s why the right kind of sex creates a connection between two people; and it is that bond that separates love from fucking. Anybody who has ever experienced the difference understands what I’m talking about. It’s the feeling of absolute connection. Whatever hurts them hurts you. You want to safeguard each other at all costs.

The odd part was that I didn’t need to think about any of this. A those feelings were just there. I knew that my love for this woman was, and always had been, innate. I also had the profound sense that our connection extended centuries into the past and eternally into the future. I don’t know why I was so convinced of that. It actually made no rational sense. But Anna and I were forever joined. She was staring at me with the same thoughtful look of recognition. I said awestruck and confused, “We’ve found each other.” She nodded, tears in her eyes.

Everything happened very quickly after that. Anna spent her days at Lockheed and Mr. O’Leary was nowhere to be seen. That was at her request. Lockheed was counting on a big British order. So, O’Leary’s disappearance wasn’t hard for them to arrange. Anna didn’t need to demand that for my benefit. I trusted her. But she said that she wanted to have no uncertainty about her commitment to me, no matter how far apart we were. That pledge helped me get through her departure back to England.

We spent every day just enjoying our time together. We didn’t do anything exciting or glamorous. Sometimes we’d drive down to the Santa Monica Pier, or the nearby beaches. She roomed with two women who worked at the Lockheed plant and I lived under a JN-4 wing. So, there wasn’t a lot of privacy and there definitely weren’t any long lingering weekends.

We didn’t need it. One of the things about finding the right person is basking in the sheer joy of their companionship. We DID have lots of passionate moments in out of the way places. Topanga canyon will never be the same to me. But we had a mere two weeks to enjoy our togetherness before the telegram arrived. It reminded both of us that there was a war going on and Anna had a duty.

I saw her off at the Southern Pacific’s Union Station. We both cried. I’ve always been a big happy-go-lucky galoot. So, perhaps you have some idea of how much that little display of unmanly emotion embarrassed me. She touched the window as the train began to pull out. I waved sadly. That might have been the end of our perfect romance. But we already had plans.

Anna was going back to England. But there was nothing stopping me from joining her except the government. America was trying to stay neutral. So, it was illegal for a U.S. citizen to enlist with a foreign power. Frankly though, who cares about silly details when the love of your life is over there? So, I answered an ad from an outfit that smuggled American flyers across the border to Canada. And it wasn’t a week later that a fellow tracked me down at my permanent abode, which was a tent pitched next to the Jenny.

He was a swank dude named Sweeny and he offered to help me get into the Royal Air Force via something called the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan. He had all the documents that I’d need and travel money to get me to a place called Ottawa, in Canada. They’d evaluate me there and if I was good enough, the next stop would be England and Anna.

Pa and I talked it over. I could tell the idea of my going to war was killing him. But he’d gone the same route when America got involved in 1917. So, he understood better than most. He even accompanied me down to the Union Station via our normal mode of transport, which was our right thumb. As I boarded the train he said, “My time over there made me into a man. I suspect it’ll do the same for you. Take care of yourself Tommy and be sure to write your old man once in a while.”

Impossible!! It almost looked like a tear in his eye. He added, “Don’t worry about me Tommy. I’m gonna get a job and live the life here.” He always did his best. He was a good Pa.

The journey across America was no big deal. At least, it wasn’t for a guy who had spent the past ten years flying over it. There were three other “volunteers” on the train. We played cards all the way to Ottawa. Red and Andy were flying buddies at Main Field in LA. They were both experienced pilots, like me, and eager to get in on the action. The third guy was maybe five feet tall. He was a pilot too, even if he had to sit on a phone book to do it. Naturally they called him, “Shorty.”

We parted company almost immediately upon arrival. That’s because the Canadians shanghaied me into being a flight instructor at Uplands Field. We didn’t keep logs. But I probably had five, or six thousand hours in the air and if you can fly a Jenny you can fly anything. So, their Avros and Stearmans were no challenge. I hated not being able to transition on to Anna. But orders were orders and I was in the army now.

Getting raw recruits from places like Winnipeg and Calgary up to speed as pilots was another matter entirely. Still, my time at Uplands did give me an opportunity to get checked out on the Hurricane. That was my own special experience. The Jenny had a ninety-horsepower Hispano-Suiza engine and cruised at seventy-five miles an hour. The Hurricane had a twelve-hundred horsepower Rolls-Merlin and it cruised at over three-hundred. But the eight .303 machine guns were still its best feature. I spent every spare minute enjoying the freedom that little fighter gave me.