Glory Boys by Harry Bingham Page A

hooted his way into something like quietness. They talked a little about Egge’s plans for the Air Mail Service, before Abe brought up the subject he’d come to discuss.
    ‘Say, Carl, you ever thought of opening up an international route?’
    ‘Hoo! Boy! Do you ever come up with some queer ideas! International? I should say not.’
    ‘It’s the next step.’
    ‘Yeah, but you ever been to Canada?’ Egge leaned forward and whispered confidentially. ‘It’s kinda snowy.’ He leaned back. ‘That’s difficult flying, Captain. Heck, they’re only letters.’
    ‘Cuba.’
    ‘Cuba? Coo-ba?’
    ‘It’s only ninety miles off the coast. In time, you could push the service on into the islands.’
    ‘Cooo-ba? Habana, Coooooo-ba? Could be. Neat idea. Don’t know how much mail there is.’
    ‘I’d fly the route. Carry passengers. Take a little cargo. I just need the mail to get me started.’
    ‘Heck, Rockwell, there’s other routes I might be able to find for you. Not Cuba though.’
    Abe shook his head. He couldn’t say so, but it was Cuba that interested him, nowhere else. When he’d followed those two green-painted launches south from Marion, they’d headed down the Florida coast, skipping Bahama, Bimini and Andros, and made straight for the Puerto del Ingles, a little harbour a mile or two west of Havana. He’d continued to watch. In one single week he’d counted fifteen launches running south from Marion to Havana – and that meant the same number returning under cover of night. Fifteen launches, a hundred cases of booze on each, and a raw profit of thirty or forty bucks the case-load. Carry that on for fifty weeks a year, and there was a million-dollar racket running right under Gibson Hennessey’s nose.
    ‘Cuba would be a good start. You’d have your first international route right there.’
    ‘No. No authority. Looks likely Congress will put airmail routes up for tender some time soon. But domestic ones. Boston–New York. Chicago–St Louis. That kind of thing. International? Who knows?’
    ‘You don’t get things if you don’t push for them, Carl.’
    ‘No, siree, you don’t. And don’t get me wrong. I think it’s a good idea. You know me. I’d like all letters to go by plane. Stony Brook, North Dakota – whoosh!’ His hand soared off the desk, like an airplane in take-off. ‘Muddy Creek, South Dakota – whoosh!’ His hand landed again, nose first, very fast. ‘Your letter, ma’am. US Post Office at your service.’ He saluted. ‘Congress. It’s Congress is the problem. Those guys can’t think beyond costs. Look.’ He held up his hands, wrist to wrist, in the shape of a cross and waggled them. ‘My hands are tied. Sorry, pal. We got smart people in this country, only you know our problem? We got the government we got.’
    ‘Cost? That’s the problem?’
    ‘Just a wee little bitty of an itty-bitty problem.’
    Abe struggled with himself again. The temptation to quit was always there, never fading. If Egge denied him a route, then Abe could maybe give up on his plans with an easy conscience… But with Abe, the black dog Conscience never lay quiet for long.
    ‘I’ll do it for free,’ he said, in a low voice.
    ‘Beg pardon? For free?’
    ‘It’s the validation I want, not the revenue. I figure I’ll get business more easily if people see Uncle Sam is happy to ride with me.’
    Egge nodded solemnly. For all his fooling, he was a smart man, with an inflexible determination to build the US Air Mail Service. His nods grew slower and deeper.
    ‘For free? A daily service?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Egge thought for a moment, then grinned. ‘ Correos del Estados Unidos. Sounds good, huh?’

18
    Willard sat down. Powell left the room. The door closed. Nothing moved.
    Then one of the young men broke the stillness by standing up. He was below medium height, with dark curly hair, quick eyes and a look of amusement.
    ‘“When I said that, Thornton, you were not my employee”,’ he