Trophy for Eagles by Walter J. Boyne Read Free Book Online Page A

couldn't, they would figure out something just as good."
    Talking amiably, they walked over to where the Spirit of St. Louis was sitting, its tail on a trolley, waiting to have the compass swung.
    Bandfield immediately liked the Ryan. The finish was superb, with the cowling and spinner sparkling with machine-turned knurling. The intersections of the struts were all taped and streamlined, and the forest of fuel lines was neatly laid out. "How come you forgot the windscreen, Slim? It must be tough to land this thing and not see out the front."
    Lindbergh stretched, accustomed to being asked about the Ryan's unusual cockpit arrangement. There was no windscreen, no for ward visibility at all, the pilot's usual position being replaced by a huge gas tank. "We did that on purpose, believe it or not. I don't want to be between the engine and the gas tank if I crash. The visibility's not so bad. You can't see out of the front of most airplanes on takeoff anyway, and on landings, I just make sort of a curving approach, and sideslip it in. When you're airborne, it doesn't matter much."
    He paused, grinned, and said, "Out over the Atlantic I don't expect to meet anybody coming in the opposite direction, anyway. Let me show you something."
    He opened the door and pointed. "I've even got a periscope, just like a U-boat."
    "That's the berries!" Bandfield was impressed. The Ryan would be difficult to beat.
    Lindbergh asked, "How does your ship fly?"
    "It's a little goosey. We didn't have time to build a trimmable stabilizer, so I have to fly it with pressure on the stick most of the time."
    "Just like the Spirit. That long wing and short fuselage make it unstable. Take your hand off the stick for even ten seconds, and the plane slips off into a spiral."
    "That's bad. If you fall asleep, you'll be in trouble."
    "No, that's good; I won't dare fall asleep."
    Bandfield laughed and then said, "You know, it's funny, I like everything about the Rocket, but it still makes me nervous to fly. I don't know what it is. It gives me the heebie-jeebies."
    Lindbergh picked up a rock and tossed it. "Closed cockpit."
    "What?"
    "Closed cockpit. You're used to having the wind and the rain blowing in on you. In a cabin plane all those signals are missing, and it makes you uneasy. It took me twenty hours before I got used to the Spirit."
    They walked down the field talking, running through the litany of people they'd lost track of, their muddy shoes squishing through the thin mat of matted grass.
    Lindbergh's look was somber. "You've really screwed up the odds here. Byrd and Balchen both had pretty long faces after they looked in your hangar this morning."
    Bandfield tugged at his arm, and they stopped to watch a crew pull Byrd's big trimotor backward up a high earthen ramp.
    "What are they doing, Slim?"
    "Fokker figures that a rolling start is equivalent to adding five hundred feet to the length of the field. They're going to tie the tail wheel to a post with ropes. Acosta is supposed to be the pilot for the takeoff, and when he gets all the engines revved up to max power, he'll signal Byrd, Byrd will signal the ground crew, and they'll cut the ropes with an ax."
    Bandfield shook his head wordlessly. It seemed very complex.
    "In theory, the airplane will pick up speed down the ramp and be airborne before using half the field. After Fonck's crash, everybody wants as much runway as he can get, any way he can get it."
    "I don't know, Slim. It looks like they're making a tough job tougher. How do you feel about going solo?"
    "I wouldn't have it any other way. Jesus, Byrd's taking a crew of four in the America with him. Hafner's got Rhoades for his Bel-lanca."
    He was silent for a moment, reluctant to say ill of anyone. "The problem is, nobody gets along with anybody. It's going to be tough enough flying for thirty or forty hours without fighting all the way."
    "I agree. Besides, all the big planes are crashing. Fonck smashed up, and Fokker turned the America over on