Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 8

* * *

Saturday, November 3, 1945
9:25 a.m.
Le Bourget Airport
Paris

 

Focus.

 

"Here you are, gentlemen," from the cheerful Embassy driver. "Wait just a moment, and we'll get your luggage sorted." He opened his door, climbed out, and went around to the trunk.

The surroundings, as I got out of the car, were helping me stay focused, helping me keep my stray thoughts locked away.

It was an airfield. Ships parked every which way on the tarmac, in the wan November light. Off out of sight somewhere, the familiar sounds of aircraft engines starting, aircraft engines running up, one after another … 

Out of long habit, I scanned the runways, and automatically noticed the direction of the wind sock. Then I looked up, gauging the weather, and checking the traffic pattern.

"Mister Grey — ? And party?" from a blue-uniformed figure. Then he noticed me, and snapped to attention, and saluted. I stood to attention and saluted him back, a little absently.

"Yes." Mister Grey — Ian — had climbed out himself now, and was looking around; somewhat apprehensively, I thought. MacLaughlin followed him.

"Glad to 'ave you with us, sir. Sirs. Right this way, if you please — ?"

 

Of course, not all of it was familiar.

 

The ship we were being led to was a C-47, a Douglas Skytrain, about as quintessentially American a sight as any aircraft can be.

But this wasn't really a C-47; it was an RAF ship, and that meant it was called a Dakota, not a Skytrain. It was painted in RAF colors, with big RAF roundels, and three big identification letters marking each side. And the corporal who was leading us to the open cargo doors was dressed in a blue uniform, and sounded like someone raised in London's East End.

Or so I thought, anyway.

 

"'Ere you go, sirs. Step right on up an' in. Mind your 'eads, please."

 

More of the weird, through-the-looking-glass feeling.

The interior of the ship was like every C-47 I'd ever flown in. Sloping floor; windows, with round gunport-holes in the center, stoppered with plexiglass plugs. Two benches of bare-bones, backless aluminum bucket seats, facing each other across the cargo deck …

Which, on this ship, was not empty. A group of crates of different sizes, some of them large, was clustered forward, heavily lashed to the tie-downs built into the deck.

"Well … " from Mister Grey, a little uncertainly. He made to settle into one of the bucket seats farthest aft — 

"No," from me; gently, and I remembered to smile. "They'll want us up there." I shrugged, and motioned with my head. "It's about the center of gravity."

"Oh," from Mister Grey, still looking uncertain, and not very happy. "Oh, very well."

 

Stay focused.

 

We settled into our seats, on the starboard side, opposite the cargo; MacLaughlin on my left, Mister Grey on my right. I fastened my seat belt, this odd, civilian-style seat belt without a quick release latch, and settled my overcoat on my lap, for later. It would be a cold flight, I knew.

I checked my watch. Still more than ten minutes to ten o'clock.

Our corporal climbed up into the cabin, holding a clipboard. He took a look at where we were sitting, and then a closer look at my uniform. He met my eyes, and ducked his head, slightly, in acknowledgement.

"Thank'ee, Cap'n."

I smiled back at him.

"If you don't mind me asking, what's the weather look like? Any problems today — ?"

"Steady 'igh clouds all the way to Berlin, sir, they're thinkin'. Might be some ground fog once we get there, might not. The Lieutenant'll know more, sir," he went on, pronouncing it as Lef-tenant. He made a careful note on the loading form on his clipboard, signed it, and started back down the slope of the cabin. "We'll be closing up, now, sirs. Engines will be starting in just a few minutes."

"Thanks," from me.

A part of me ticked off one worry, and put it away. Weather is uncontrollable; I'd been afraid we'd be delayed, or grounded, or prevented from getting to Berlin, anyway. Well, I'd been as afraid as I allowed myself to get, while trying to stay focused on this job, this, this — 

This task. This trip. I will not think of this as a mission, I told myself. I will not. I'm done with missions, for good and all.

But Rhys isn't, a part of my mind replied. And I felt hollow, all over again — 

 

Focus.

 

"Captain — ?" from Mister Grey.

"Yes?"

That settled it. We might be 'Ian' and 'Jack' in private conversation, going forward; but this was business, so it would be Captain Van Doern and Mister Grey for the duration. The duration of this … trip.

"Am I correct in thinking that we'll be largely unable to talk, once we're airborne — ?"

I looked a little more closely at him, after he said it. His complexion was undeniably pale.

"I'm afraid that's true, sir. It will be quite loud in here, once the engines start up." And it would be, astonishingly loud; I was used to flying with a leather helmet, and heavy earphones. The flight over from England had seemed almost deafening, to me. C-47s have no cabin insulation.

"Then perhaps I should give you this now." He pulled a long, sturdy manila envelope from his inside overcoat pocket, and handed it to me. It looked very much like the envelope my leave papers had come in. "You might want to review the contents; we can answer any questions you have, either now or once we reach Berlin."

I blinked at him, once; then I took the envelope, undid the string fastening the flap, and opened it. I pulled out the contents, and read them over quickly, once; and then I went back, and read them more slowly — 

Slam! from one of the two-sided cargo doors, to our left.

I looked up, first at Mister Grey, than a glance at Mister MacLaughlin, then back to Mister Grey.

"These aren't … real — ?"

What I held in my hands, on handsome bond paper embossed at the top with a miniature version of the British Royal Arms, was a set of letters credentialing one John Jay Philip Bradford Van Doern, Captain, United States Army Air Forces, as a Special Liaison to representatives of the British Foreign Office, in Paris. They were back-dated to the beginning of my leave.

They even had my serial number right. How they knew that, I couldn't even guess.

Mister Grey twitched an eyebrow.

"Of course not," he said. "But the Ambassador's signature is quite genuine. He apparently enjoys taking part in these little deceptions, quite a bit." A corner of his mouth turned up.

A pause, then another Slam!, and the sounds of the cargo doors being latched shut from the outside.

"It isn't very much," Mister Grey continued, apologetically, and in a lower voice. "I'm afraid they won't pass muster with any kind of examination by your own people, in particular. But it was the best we could do, on such short notice. And they might get you … us … past a checkpoint, or two, should we run into them."

I glanced sideways at him.

"And I assume you and Mister MacLaughlin are traveling as … members of your Foreign Office — ?" I asked it, dryly.

Mister Grey's mouth crooked up into a slight dimple. "Well, it did seem like the appropriate thing to do."

"That is, in fact, my established cover in Berlin," from MacLaughlin. "It might prove to be of some help."

"I see." I looked back down at my credentials, and then carefully re-folded them lengthwise, and slid them back into the manilla envelope. "Thank you, sir, sirs. Very much." I said it quietly. I meant it.

"Of course you realize, it might be best not to have those papers found on you, should you encounter a serious interrogation from your own side. Do, please, feel perfectly free to slip them back to one of us, should the need arise — ? The better part of valour, after all." He said it lightly, but I sensed the seriousness of the message underneath.

No kidding, I thought. I'd be court-martialed for sure. I didn't even want to think what might happen to me.

"Thank you, sir." I folded the envelope carefully, and stowed it in my pocket alongside my I.D. and my leave papers.

Mister MacLaughlin cleared his throat.

"As it happens, I have a very small contribution of my own to make." He sounded slightly odd; as if he were embarrassed — ? He produced a small, cheaply-printed paper booklet, bound with staples, and handed it to me.

I glanced at it. The cover read, 'A Pocket Guide to Germany'. I blinked at it, and opened the cover.

MacLaughlin cleared his throat, again.

"This is issued by your War Department, to your own occupation forces in Germany," he went on. "Every man jack of them. You'd be expected to have read this." He paused, for a moment. "I just happened to be traveling with it," he went on, a little apologetically.

"I'm more familiar with Germany than I ever wanted to be," I said; dryly. I thought about my Stalag, and the guards with the Schmeissers, and the men we'd lost at the end; then I pushed the thought away.

"Quite. Still, you might find this … informative. Particularly with respect to your fellow countrymen's actions and attitudes, in Berlin."

It was a broad hint, and I blinked at it.

"Thank you, sir. I'll look at it when we're airborne."

A rumble that might have been agreement, from him.

*

In due time, motion outside the ship caught my eye. The prop on the starboard engine was being pulled through by hand, in the classic way, to clear the oil that had collected in the bottom cylinders; one blade, two blades, three … Two members of the ground crew were standing by with fire extinguishers, looking cold and bored.

The motion of the prop ceased, and the crew that had been pulling the prop appeared, standing well out in front of the ship. A high whine, then, instantly recognizable as the starter spooling up; then the moment when it meshed, and the prop started moving, slowly …

The engine caught almost immediately in a thunder of cylinders firing, blue smoke pouring from the exhaust; the prop spinning faster and faster, before settling into the familiar blur. The racket was tremendous.

I was impressed. It was clearly a well-maintained engine, and a well-maintained ship. The slight, irrational apprehension I'd had, about flying with someone other than the U.S. Air Force, vanished.

We could hear the process repeated with the port engine. The din redoubled. The entire ship trembled and vibrated slightly, like a living thing. As many times as I'd flown in my life, this moment never ceased to give me a thrill.

I turned to smile at Mister Grey … and found him, eyes firmly shut, hands locked on the bottom edge of his bucket seat. And then, as I looked at him, one eye opened just slightly, and met mine; and a corner of his mouth turned up in a slight, rueful, self-aware smile …

Before his eyes were firmly shut, again.

* * *

As I've said before, it is easiest for me to focus, when I'm actually flying a ship; as pilot, as co-pilot, it doesn't really matter, there is a job to be done, and I do it, well.

It is less easy for me when I'm a passenger.

Truth to tell, I do not much like being a passenger on a large ship like a C-47.

The view, for one thing, is extremely limited; I'd grown accustomed, over the years, to being able to see forward, to the horizon, the weather, any landmarks, any other ships in the vicinity … I felt a little, well, blind, sitting back with the passengers.

Then, too, I missed having the instruments right in front of me. For my entire flying career, cockpit instruments had been part of my life, sometimes scaring me, mostly reassuring me, but always, always giving me vital information … I felt blind without them, too.

 

In the end, as much as I love to be in the air, and always will, I do not so much like being up, without having something to do.

 

The rush of takeoff. The glorious feeling, as our wheels left the ground.

The sensations of being aloft. The increasingly-rarified quality of the air; the familiar feelings in the pit of my stomach, as our Dakota banked, and then steadied on its course east.

As our ship started the long pull up to cruising altitude, I sighed, and opened Mister MacLaughlin's 'Pocket Guide to Germany', and began reading.

That did not go well.

Within the first two pages, I started laughing out loud. A little later, I just blinked in astonishment … and then, I began getting angrier and angrier.

The thing was a joke. Oh, there were some nuggets of good advice; but on the whole it was shot through with propaganda, wild inaccuracies, and some of the worst stereotypes imaginable … and some truly wretched writing.

I was fairly sure Mister MacLaughlin had carried the thing with him as a conversation-piece, purely for its comic value; which explained his mild embarrassment when he'd handed it to me.

I finished the thing, and sighed, all over again; and then I leaned back for a moment, surrounded by the din, and the vibration, and the increasing cold as we climbed …

 

Focus.

 

Well, with nothing more to do or be done until we landed, I gave myself permission to let my mind wander a little; just a little. But I stayed on the subject, of focusing, of concentrating — and on Rhys, of course.

I went back in my mind to the first time he'd really seen me focused, and disciplined, the way I'd learned how to be.

I went back to the day I'd taken Rhys up in an airplane. To the first time I'd flown us both, with him as a passenger, and me as the pilot. When we were both just eighteen years old.

* * *

"C'mon … you can help with the pre-flight inspection!" I grinned at him, hugely. I had never loved him more, than at that moment.

"All right." His answer was light, and easy, and he smiled back at me.

 

He wasn't fooling either one of us.

 

We left the car without bothering to put the top up, and strolled across the warm, green grass towards the hanger, where the ship was waiting. It was a beautiful, warm day in June of '39, at the little strip in Quincy that we flew from, with the Harvard Flying Club — 

'We' meaning, me, and the other students in the Club. Rhys wasn't one of us. Fiercely as he loved me, and loves me still, he did not love flying.

Particularly in a small airplane, as I'd grown to realize.

Well, they don't come any smaller than a Piper Cub; a Piper Cub Special, J3C-65, to be exact. There it was, waiting for us, mustard-yellow, on the grass in front of the hangar.

"'Morning, Mick!" I called out, cheerfully. Mick Hanlon was the club's manager, flight instructor, and resident mechanic, and he and I had grown very close. He was like an older brother to me; blond, good-humored, about thirty, with an open, smiling face.

"'Morning, Jack. I just rolled her out for you." He looked up at the sky, all around — it's something every good pilot does, automatically, without thinking — and then he looked back down at us, and smiled. "Nobody else is flying today, not yet, at least. You'll have the pattern to yourselves. Good morning, Rhys."

"Good morning, sir." This, just a little more soberly. I tried not to grin at it.

"C'mon," from me, again. I went into the hangar and retrieved the clipboard with the checklist on it, the pencil attached to it on its string; then I took Rhys back out into the sunlight, to where the ship rested, and began the whole, familiar process …

 

I wouldn't say that Rhys was afraid of flying, that day.

Not exactly, anyway.

Maybe, 'concerned' would be a better word. Or, 'apprehensive'.

Some of that concern may have been because of his pilot.

Rhys and I love each other, completely, deeply, unconditionally … but.

Rhys knows me, better than anyone else in the world; as I know him. He has seen me at my very best, and even I have to admit, that my very best is pretty damn good — 

But he has also seen me at my very worst, when I am despondent, flailing, my mind going every which way at once, unable to concentrate …

'A little apprehensive,' I thought. That's the right word.

 

" … and, here. We double-check for any sediment, or any signs of water." I pulled the fuel strainer out of the engine, and showed him how to examine it, and the bowl underneath.

The strainer was clear, of course. We buy only the best grade aviation gas. And besides, I'd actually done the whole checklist, and more, last night before Mick and I pushed the Cub into the hangar. But you run the checklist before flying anyway, it's just something you do — 

And it doesn't hurt that checking the fuel strainer is impressive as hell to non-pilots. It's reassuringly technical.

"Next," I said, closing everything up, latching the cowling and wiping my hands on the rag I'd brought, "we have a look at the prop … "

 

Rhys followed along intently, saying very little; his face relaxed and impassive, his posture easy.

I was still trying not to grin.

All right. That was a little unfair. To the both of us.

 

The thing is, we were giving this experience to each other; as a gift.

 

For my part, I'd been dreaming of taking Rhys up with me since we were fourteen, and we'd talked about it, a lot. I wanted to share this big part of my life with him, to show him what it's really like, being up. The magic of flying, the beauty of it, the fun of flying … 

I still held some hope that Rhys would fall in love with flying, as I had. And so I wanted to give the whole experience to him, as a gift.

But not at any price. I would never want to make him uncomfortable. I would never, ever want him to do something for me, that he really did not want to do, or feared to do. Not ever.

 

We'd talked about that, too.

 

For Rhys' part, he wanted, no he insisted, that I take him up, take him flying, with me as pilot. He knew what flying was to me, and he really and truly wanted to share that part of my life, understand that part of my life … 

In spite of his concern. Or apprehension.

That was his gift to me.

And the fact was, we both knew this. We knew each other's minds. We're that close.

I knew about his, well, apprehension, and he knew I knew, and so on, and so on, like reflections in mirrors mounted on facing walls, going infinitely into the distance …

And I knew that he was gifting me this opportunity in spite of that, and he knew I knew, and so on, and so on …

We are a team.

 

" … there. The hinges are clean, and free, and the hinge pins are safetied, so they can't fall out or come loose." I checked that one off my checklist. "Now, we make sure the main landing gear bolts are safetied." I walked over to them and dropped down in a squat, and Rhys followed suit, and I showed him how we checked the bolts …

 

What made the whole situation just a little bit delicious, what made Rhys' … apprehension … just a little bit humorous, in the great scheme of things, was this ship. This Piper Cub. The second love of my life, after Rhys.

No; no. That wasn't fair. The Cub came after our friend Charles, of course, and my whole family, and Rhys' whole family. And I didn't even own it, it belonged to the Flying Club.

I still loved it.

It is a tremendously small, tremendously light ship. I can't help but think of it as a kind of extra-long tandem bicycle, with a large, generous wing on top, control surfaces in the back, and a small engine and gas tank tacked on up front. Just swap out the bicycle seats for real seats, the handlebars for control sticks, and then add some light framing, covered with doped fabric and Plexiglass …

All right. That might be stretching the analogy a little far.

Still.

The thing is, Piper Cubs are small, and very light, and very, very simple. And I knew every inch of this Cub. I knew the cable runs, the fuselage fittings, the bracing wires, the fuel tank — I'd helped drain it just last month, and then I'd taken out and flushed the gas lines, and I'd basically put everything back together under Mick's watchful eyes … 

I knew every screw, bolt, nut and grommet you can get to, without opening up the fabric; and for the 100-hour check on this Cub due next year, when the fabric did come off, I'd already arranged with Mick to be there and help check the struts and ribs of the wings.

Oh. And I washed the ship myself, very carefully, and I kept it polished.

And the truly delicious thing about the Piper Cub is, it is safe.

Mick says, flatly, that a Cub is the safest airplane in the sky, and I agree with him. It takes a real genius for idiocy to prang a Cub, and I was not that kind of idiot.

I mean, really. It lifts off at a whopping 39 miles per hour, indicated airspeed. It cruises at a little more than 70 miles per hour.

Rhys and I had gone faster than that in my car, before. More than once.

So if Rhys was just a little apprehensive about going up with me, I knew he was facing no real danger. Being up in a Cub is a little like floating; there's no real sensation of speed, you just feel … suspended … over the ground; slowly puttering along, watching the scenery gradually rolling by underneath you …

I was looking forward to showing that to Rhys. I was so looking forward to it.

*

"Ready — ?" from Mick, loudly, at the front of the ship.

"Ready!" I called it out clearly through the side window.

"Switches off."

I knew the ignition was switched off, but I reached up above my head to the key and made sure it was off anyway. Starting the engine was one of the few things that could be dangerous about the Cub, as would be true of any ship with a hand-pulled engine. Dangerous to Mick, that is.

"Switches off."

Mick pulled the prop through, twice; the engine made a 'pop-pop' sound. Then he stepped back.

"Ready — ?" again. It was a kind of ritual, a formal one. You don't skip any of the steps.

"Ready!"

"Switches on."

I reached up and turned the key all the way to the 'BOTH' position, which turned both magnetos on. Then I settled myself in my seat, and pressed down on the brakes.

"Switches on."

Over Rhys' shoulder — I was in the back seat, Rhys in front of me — I saw Mick take hold of the prop again. He braced himself, took a breath … then he pulled the prop down and around, with a kind of snap, in that way he has. I was getting better at it, with practice; but nobody does it like Mick.

A couple of tentative, 'pop-pop' sounds from the engine; then the 'pop-pop' sounds came faster, and faster, and the engine roared to a kind of staccato-filled life. The smell of the exhaust, mixed with a little unburned gas, came through the open window. It was intoxicating. The cacophony was glorious. There is nothing that sounds quite like a light-aircraft engine.

I reached forward and squeezed Rhys' left shoulder, briefly. He put up his right hand to mine, and squeezed back.

Back to the routine of warming up the engine. The Cub has an air-cooled engine, in this case a Continental; I'd already told Rhys, about a quarter of flying the ship was about warming up the engine slowly and evenly, and another quarter was cooling it down the same way, even before landing. Or it seems that way, at least.

But first, came the testing. I cut out the left magneto, very briefly, and watched the RPM; it went down the expected amount. Then I turned the key back to the 'BOTH' position, waited a long moment, and cut out the right one; the same result. I turned both magnetos back on.

A spell of idling, then, as I watched the oil temperature slowly come up. I adjusted the throttle knob to my left, just a little, to advance the RPM; and then, finally, minutes later, we were ready.

"Chocks away!" I called out to Mick, although he couldn't possibly hear me; but I also waved through the open side window. He'd been looking for it; he ducked carefully around under the ship, avoiding the prop, and I saw him emerge a moment later with both wheel chocks dangling from their ropes. He waved, and said something, probably wishing us a good flight; and I waved back.

 

I took another breath. A surreal moment. After all this time, all these years, I was finally taking Rhys up.

 

I pushed the throttle knob forward, slowly, and the engine sounds grew; and then we were moving, trundling over the grass of the field, towards the end of the runway. I throttled back just a little. We kept rolling.

I watched everything, the instruments, the path directly in front of us — although the view forward with the tail down was a little limited — and, especially, I kept scanning the sky, just in case someone unexpectedly decided to enter the pattern and land.

I also watched Rhys, carefully. The back of his neck. The little bit of his face that I could see, as he turned to look from side to side.

The Cub has dual controls, meaning it can be flown from either tandem seat. I'd chosen to fly from the rear seat deliberately, so that I could keep my eyes on Rhys. Gauge his reactions; make sure he was all right.

Well, it wasn't that unusual, to fly from the rear seat; when you fly solo in a Cub, you have to fly from the rear seat; it's a question of the center of gravity of the ship, by flying in the rear seat you offset the weight of the engine. I'd logged much more flying time, in the rear seat than the front seat …

But that wasn't why I was doing it now.

We finally bumped our way across the tussocks to the end of the runway; I turned us to face into the wind, and pressed on the brakes.

 

This was it. The moment.

 

I slid up the flimsy Plexiglass window on my left side, most of the way; the engine noise barely lessened. I put my hand on Rhys' shoulder again, and I leaned all the way over, my mouth almost touching his left ear.

"Are you ready — ?" I called it, loud enough for him to hear.

His hand came up to cover mine, again, and squeezed reassuringly. Then he turned his face more than halfway around, to look at me sideways from behind his dark sunglasses, and he gave me a grin meant to be convincing — 

And my heart lurched, all over again. I was just filled with love for him, for this gift he was giving me.

One last squeeze to his shoulder; then back to business.

Another look around, as much of the sky and the field as I could see. Another check of the instruments; oil temperature, tachometer, everything normal.

I advanced the throttle, slowly, and let up on the brakes. The engine noise went up, and then up, and up again, to a full-throated, enveloping noise that I loved. We accelerated down the runway, bouncing on the grass, faster and faster, and I brought the tail up, and we went faster still — 

And then the ground just, fell away, beneath us.

The thing about a Cub, is that it wants to fly. It's got a large wing area, for the ship's weight and overall power. When a Cub takes off, it just seems to float up, gently, with no real sensation of being in an elevator going skyward. The ground just seems to fall away, slowly, and gently, as the engine buzzes reassuringly on.

I was grinning hugely, now. For so many different reasons.

I trimmed the ship for a long, gentle climb, and made the adjustments to the throttle. Check the instruments. Always keep your eyes circling, looking out for other ships, just in case.

I made a single circuit of the field's pattern, more to gain altitude close to home, than for any other reason. Then I left the pattern and made a gentle, gentle turn north; pointing us towards Cambridge, and the Harvard campus. I figured Rhys would like to see the school from the air.

I was right.

*

In the end, we spent almost two hours, on that first flight.

Everything went about as well as I could have possibly asked.

The day was gloriously beautiful, bright, with just a few clouds. We seemed to hover in the air, suspended, as the scenery flowed beneath us. First the roads and green fields south of Cambridge; then the Charles River, sparkling in the sun, and I banked gently left, to take us in a loop around the city …

All of my maneuvers were gentle that day, and I kept us lower than I might have done, otherwise. Sightseeing is better, a little closer to the ground, paradoxically.

 

And best of all, I'd watched Rhys … relax. I could see the tension ebbing out of him, by the set of his shoulders, by the way he held himself in his seat …

 

When we crossed the Charles, he started looking around him, more and more; looking down. I helped by tapping him on the shoulder and pointing, as we passed landmarks that I knew he'd recognize; and I got to watch his face in profile as he recognized them, and then he'd look back at me almost all the way around, grinning in delight behind his sunglasses.

And that did things to my heart. In several senses.

I'd given him those sunglasses, for just this occasion. They were real aviator's gear, not the politely-tinted lenses from some Madison Avenue boutique shop — 

I'd gotten them for him out of love, of course, but also as a practical necessity. It gets bright, up in the air.

What I hadn't anticipated, was how very beautiful he'd look, wearing them; the lenses were very dark, and they set off his face perfectly. He looked dashing, actually, and that squeezed my heart, a little. And I'd kept coming back to how I was going to celebrate this flight later that night, by having Rhys model them for me back in our rooms, while wearing nothing else, not a single stitch …

And then, each time, I'd put that thought away for later. Which I would not have been able to do very easily, if we were on the ground.

If I was teaching Rhys something, with this flight, — well. I was learning something, too.

*

It was getting on towards noon, when I turned us back towards our airfield in Quincy.

Across the Charles River again, then back south along the familiar landscapes, the green fields and woodlands and roads and railroad tracks …

I bled off altitude, slowly, gently, as we went. The puttering buzz of the engine became just slightly more muted; but it was still far too loud to have any sort of conversation with Rhys. The Cub had no intercom, no radio, of course; Cubs didn't even come standard with an electrical system, although ours had one for the sake of instrument panel lights. I wouldn't encounter an intercom until I joined the Air Force, two and a half years later …

At last, our field came into view. I scanned the sky very, very carefully; no-one was in the pattern, no ships were parked out on the grass.

 

One last hurdle for Rhys.

 

As I said, a Piper Cub wants to fly; it takes off easily, and stays in the air easily, and it maneuvers like a dream.

But as Mick had told me, there's another side to that virtue. As he put it, a Cub has to be persuaded to land. And landing a Cub properly might seem like a very slightly, well, alarming maneuver, to someone who didn't know what was going on …

 

I entered the pattern, even though we were the only ship in it; and we flew the rectangle around the field in the normal way. I checked to see that the field was clear, and I took careful notice of the wind sock, both for the wind direction, and force.

At last, I lined us up with the runway, headed into the wind, and I throttled back, smoothly; and then I throttled back, some more …

I reached up and squeezed Rhys' shoulder, reassuringly. His hand came up to squeeze mine, back.

The throttle adjustments were part of what made landing a little scary, for newcomers. Best practice in the Cub was to slowly lower, then raise, the RPMs during landing, over and over again; this is in order to gradually lower the engine temperature, which saves wear and tear. Air-cooled engines are sensitive to sudden changes in temperature.

But the process can sound alarming, to someone who wasn't expecting it.

I'd told Rhys all this. Of course. Now I'd see if he remembered it.

But if the engine sounds during landing could be alarming … that was as nothing, compared to the sights.

You see, the Cub has a comparatively large wing, and has no flaps. In order to get a Cub down, you need to essentially fly it down. And that means, at one point in the process, pointing the ship downwards. At what can seem like a fairly steep angle. You flare out a dozen feet above ground, or so, then float your way down the rest of the way … but the part before flaring out can seem disconcerting.

Rhys had told me after I'd soloed — he'd been there, to see it — that when I was coming down his heart had almost stopped. He'd thought I was in trouble, that I was going to crash.

He'd told this to me in bed that night; my arms around him, my front to his back. While I kissed and nuzzled the back of his neck, comforting him.

I'd told him the truth, then; that I'd made more landings in the Cub than I could count, that my idea of a fun afternoon was to go out to the field and practice touch-and-go landings for an hour or two. That I loved landings, and that — according to Mick — I was the best student in the Club at making landings.

I didn't add that Mick thought I was the best pilot in the Club, period. And that I knew he was right.

I'm not sure how reassured Rhys was, that night. I thought the memory was part of his concern, now.

And now Rhys was in the front seat of the ship. His view forward was not so much of the sky, but rather the green runway rushing up towards us at fifty-five miles per hour, or so.

Poor Rhys.

I made another throttle adjustment, forward, and then back — 

And then, at last, at just the right moment, I pulled back on the stick, gently, and the ship leveled out, and I steadied us, and everything was just perfect, and I cut the throttle almost all the way — 

And we floated down the last few feet, until the front wheels kissed the grass, and then we could feel them rolling over the tussocks, and I put the tail down — Mick doesn't believe in three-point-landings on grass fields, and neither do I, you never want to risk the tail wheel coming down first on grass — 

And we were down.

It was the best landing I'd made in a month. Maybe more.

*

I let the ship coast on the grass, for a bit, bleeding off speed, saving the brakes; then I turned us around, and began taxiing back to the hangar, advancing the throttle again to do it. Watching all the while for planes entering the pattern; making small s-turns, now and again, to look to see that the grass in front of us was clear.

Back at the hangar, I set the brakes; and of course I let the engine run on, in the prescribed fashion, for the time being.

I leaned forward one more time, my mouth close to Rhys' left ear.

"We need to leave this running for a few minutes, just to let the engine cool down," I said, loud enough for him to hear; and he nodded.

And then, because Mick was waiting on our right side, and couldn't possibly see … I kissed Rhys, gently and tenderly, on his left cheek; and then I waited a second, and I did it again.

This time Rhys's hand came up to his own shoulder, first; and I put my hand over his, and squeezed.

"Thank you," I said, into his ear. Meaning it, with all of my heart.

And then, just because I could, I licked his neck, right below his jawline; slowly, and wetly, and I grinned widely, and I felt him shiver, just a little.

His hand shifted to cover mine, and squeezed me, back.

* * *

So that is how I proved myself, to Rhys, back when we were just eighteen. Proved myself, in the air, and in other ways.

And that is how he proved himself, to me.

It was a tender and loving memory, and an important one, for the both of us … 

And reliving it had occupied my mind for minutes on end, as we droned along in the skies of this post-war, war-torn Europe. As we headed for Berlin, where Rhys was being held prisoner by Soviet intelligence forces, the same forces that had almost killed him in Shanghai eight years ago.

With no certain or even very good prospects of getting him back.

As I came back to myself, back to the present, I felt a sick lurch in the pit of my stomach, that had nothing at all to do with our flight. And my head started racing all over again, speculating, wondering, involuntarily going over the grim and terrifying possibilities in my mind's eye again, feeling them — 

 

I groaned to myself, silently; and I pressed the heels of my hands up against my closed eyes.

 

Focus.

 

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