with crated wings. A small group of coolies, all brown skin, ribs and blue rags under broad bamboo hats, squatted near them with a set of greasy cards marked as dominoes, shouting and laughing and gesticulating. They were watched by a small huddle of children, chattering like magpies, and two or three women who appeared to be washing the caked grime from a baby’s face with a cloth they were dipping into a teapot.
Ira was staring with interest at the aeroplanes. They were ageing rapidly and looked, in fact, as though they had one foot in the grave, but an acute sense of delighted nostalgia caught him as he gazed at them. One of them was a German Albatros, a good scout machine in its day with its hundred-and-sixty-horse-power Mercedes engine, fast and manoeuvrable even if with a reputation for being heavy on the controls. The second machine, he saw at once from the flanged rudders and elevators and the lifting surface between the wheels, was one of Anthony Fokker’s designs, and a D7 if he wasn’t mistaken--a machine so good with its big B.M.W. engine, every German factory in production in 1918 had been turned over to them. There had been a time in France when his heart would have stopped to see either of them approaching him in the air.
As the car came to a halt, a European in breeches and boots and a tweed jacket came forward to meet them. He was tall, heavily built and good-looking, with thick black hair, a flushed red face and red eyeballs like boiled marbles to match. Ira noticed immediately that his hands shook and caught the scent of whisky.
‘Sweet Sufferin’ J.,’ he said at once to Kowalski in an Irish accent you could cut with a knife. ‘Look at the importance of him! Riding in a car! And here we are a week now, and divil a bloody mechanic anywhere in sight! ‘
The American gestured at Ira. They’ve arrived,’ he said dryly. Together with another aeroplane. This is Ira Penaluna.’ The tall man turned slowly to stare at Ira. His eyes were unfriendly at first but then the anger melted into curiosity. ‘ “By Pol, Tre and Pen ye shall know the Cornishmen,” ‘ he quoted. ‘There was a kid called Penaluna in France. A broth of a boy in the air. There can’t be two with a name as daft as that.’
Ira smiled. ‘Same bloke. Should I know you?’
The Irishman shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Not in the same class. Pat Fagan’s the name. Padraic O’Faolain Fenoughty Fagan, if you’re wantin’ the lot. The man who fought the monkey in the dustbin.’
He was still staring at Ira, his hostile manner slowly vanishing, and beyond him, Ira saw a woman, also dressed in breeches but wearing a yellow shirt and a leather coat, appear from the hut and vanish into one of the tents.
‘Holy Mother of Mary,’ Fagan went on ruefully. ‘No wonder they said “no” when I offered to run this little circus. It might just as well have been Rickenbacker or Billy Bishop who turned up. What brought you out to this hole?’
‘Flying. What brought you?’
Fagan gave a hoot of laughter and flicked his hand in an expansive gesture. ‘Poverty. Not bein’ able to face twenty-five years of nose-to-the-grindstone and well-done-thou-good-and-faithful. Too many ex-pilots trying to make a livin’ back home. Take your pick. They’re all true. Too much eye-on-the-ball in England. Seemed easier to go to South Africa.’ He gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Sure, though, in South Africa, there weren’t enough people. It didn’t pay. We went bust.’
‘The planes yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you get ‘em?’
Fagan gave a broad grin that seemed full of malicious triumph. ‘Inherited ‘em,’ he said.
There was something in his manner that seemed to preclude further questions and Ira tried a new tack.
‘What about the other pilot?’ he asked.
Fagan grinned, held up a portentous hand and disappeared into the crowd. Kowalski stared after him, frowning.
‘You’ll need to keep a sharp eye on our friend
Ira was staring with interest at the aeroplanes. They were ageing rapidly and looked, in fact, as though they had one foot in the grave, but an acute sense of delighted nostalgia caught him as he gazed at them. One of them was a German Albatros, a good scout machine in its day with its hundred-and-sixty-horse-power Mercedes engine, fast and manoeuvrable even if with a reputation for being heavy on the controls. The second machine, he saw at once from the flanged rudders and elevators and the lifting surface between the wheels, was one of Anthony Fokker’s designs, and a D7 if he wasn’t mistaken--a machine so good with its big B.M.W. engine, every German factory in production in 1918 had been turned over to them. There had been a time in France when his heart would have stopped to see either of them approaching him in the air.
As the car came to a halt, a European in breeches and boots and a tweed jacket came forward to meet them. He was tall, heavily built and good-looking, with thick black hair, a flushed red face and red eyeballs like boiled marbles to match. Ira noticed immediately that his hands shook and caught the scent of whisky.
‘Sweet Sufferin’ J.,’ he said at once to Kowalski in an Irish accent you could cut with a knife. ‘Look at the importance of him! Riding in a car! And here we are a week now, and divil a bloody mechanic anywhere in sight! ‘
The American gestured at Ira. They’ve arrived,’ he said dryly. Together with another aeroplane. This is Ira Penaluna.’ The tall man turned slowly to stare at Ira. His eyes were unfriendly at first but then the anger melted into curiosity. ‘ “By Pol, Tre and Pen ye shall know the Cornishmen,” ‘ he quoted. ‘There was a kid called Penaluna in France. A broth of a boy in the air. There can’t be two with a name as daft as that.’
Ira smiled. ‘Same bloke. Should I know you?’
The Irishman shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Not in the same class. Pat Fagan’s the name. Padraic O’Faolain Fenoughty Fagan, if you’re wantin’ the lot. The man who fought the monkey in the dustbin.’
He was still staring at Ira, his hostile manner slowly vanishing, and beyond him, Ira saw a woman, also dressed in breeches but wearing a yellow shirt and a leather coat, appear from the hut and vanish into one of the tents.
‘Holy Mother of Mary,’ Fagan went on ruefully. ‘No wonder they said “no” when I offered to run this little circus. It might just as well have been Rickenbacker or Billy Bishop who turned up. What brought you out to this hole?’
‘Flying. What brought you?’
Fagan gave a hoot of laughter and flicked his hand in an expansive gesture. ‘Poverty. Not bein’ able to face twenty-five years of nose-to-the-grindstone and well-done-thou-good-and-faithful. Too many ex-pilots trying to make a livin’ back home. Take your pick. They’re all true. Too much eye-on-the-ball in England. Seemed easier to go to South Africa.’ He gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Sure, though, in South Africa, there weren’t enough people. It didn’t pay. We went bust.’
‘The planes yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you get ‘em?’
Fagan gave a broad grin that seemed full of malicious triumph. ‘Inherited ‘em,’ he said.
There was something in his manner that seemed to preclude further questions and Ira tried a new tack.
‘What about the other pilot?’ he asked.
Fagan grinned, held up a portentous hand and disappeared into the crowd. Kowalski stared after him, frowning.
‘You’ll need to keep a sharp eye on our friend
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