Stolen Away

I had a clear view of my two pilots, despite my rear seat, and I noticed, after a while, Lindbergh turning the controls over to Breckinridge. That was almost a relief, as of the two colonels, Breckinridge struck me as the staid one—no stunt-flying from him.

But almost immediately we began to lose altitude.

The fucking ship was sinking like a stone!

“Slim!” Breckinridge said, trying not to panic. “I’m trying to pull up, but…”

Lindbergh reached over and took the wheel momentarily, got it back on an even keel, and returned the controls to Breckinridge. Lindy was smiling, faintly. Breckinridge swallowed, his expression baffled.

I, of course, had died of a heart attack long before.

Not long after, Breckinridge shouted again. “I’m trying to turn right, and it’s turning left! What in hell is wrong….”

Lindbergh again took the controls and banked the plane to the right, without problem.

Breckinridge was looking carefully at his friend. Then he slowly began to smile. “You rascal.”

Rascal?

And Lindbergh began to laugh. I’d never heard him laugh, not like that.

Breckinridge was grinning. “You crossed the wires on this crate, when you looked it over….”

Lindbergh’s laughter filled the cabin, drowning out even the drone of the twin engines. He was like a college boy watching a frat-house friend open a door and get drenched by a bucket of water. Irey looked back at me, whiter than his shirt. Condon seemed to be praying.

Lindbergh reached beneath the control panel on Breckinridge’s side, laughing softly as he did, and made some adjustments and said, “I got you, Henry. I got you.”

“You rogue. You rascal.”

“You fucker!” I said.

Lindbergh looked back, startled, then embarrassed, “Didn’t mean to scare you, Nate. I just like to put one over on Henry now and then.”

“Keep in mind I didn’t bring a change of underwear, okay?”

“Okay,” Lindy called back to me, shyly smiling. “Sorry. Forgot this was your first time up.”

I supposed the reemergence of Slim’s notorious practical-joker side was a good thing. But I couldn’t work up much enthusiasm about it. I shut my eyes. Actually slept a little.

Irey’s voice woke me, as he called back to me: “We’re getting there.”

I looked out the window at a blemish on the blue mirror below.

“That’s Cuttyhunk Island,” Irey said, turning toward me. “First of the Elizabeth Island group.”

The plane swooped low and my stomach did a flip.

Nonetheless I kept my eyes on the window where I saw half a dozen specks turn into trim Coast Guard cutters; a Navy man-of-war steamed into view, as well. Lindbergh throttled down, dropping us near a few boats bobbing gently at anchor near the shore. Soon we were flying so low we were almost skimming the sea; then the twin engines would gather volume as Lindy would pull us up, swinging wide, turning to again swoop low.

I got used to it; I did get used to it. And I never again, as long as I lived, felt uneasy in an airplane—after all, I had survived “hedgehopping” with a daredevil stunt-pilot, as we played tag with the tips of swaying masts.

For better than six hours, we roared over and swooped down near dozens of boats, fishing boats and pleasure craft alike, never seeing Cemetery John’s “small boad.”

Around noon, Lindbergh turned away from the search area and the seaplane roared steadily ahead for a while and then swooped down again, and out the window I saw the sea, churning whitely as we settled down in Buzzard’s Bay. We taxied to Cuttyhunk Island, and I was eager to place my feet on the relatively solid, dry land that was the bouncy wooden dock.

A swarm of reporters awaited. They called questions out to all of us, trotting along beside us as Lindbergh walked stoically forward; they badgered him, trying to find out who Condon was, who Irey and I were, Lindy never acknowledging their presence with even a glance.

“Now, now, boys,” Breckinridge said, waving them off. “Please leave us alone. We’ve nothing to tell you.”

They backed off long enough for us to have a quiet lunch at the old Cuttyhunk Hotel. Condon chowed down; I was able to eat a little. Breckinridge and Irey had modest appetites. Lindbergh, his face pale and his eyes dead, ate nothing; when any of us asked him a question, he’d grunt a monosyllabic nonresponse.

After lunch we went back to the Sikorsky and the afternoon was a replay of the morning, minus the joking: in silence, Lindy swept the sea off southern Massachusetts. No boat resembled the “boad” Nelly. We looked out the windows mutely, our eyes burning from looking.

Night began to settle in on us.

“Something’s gone wrong,” Lindbergh finally admitted. “Maybe the Coast Guard activity spooked them.”

Breckinridge, in the copilot’s chair, cleared his throat and said, “There seems little point going on with the search, for the time being.”

Lindbergh answered him by making one last swing through the Sound at near sea level; then the plane picked up altitude, leveling out, and turned homeward, to the southeast.