Trophy for Eagles Read Online Free PDF

surfaced. It was understandable. He was a wild card flying a slick airplane, and the record time he'd made across country, just under twenty hours, had superheated the competitive tension already searing the room. The other planes—a Bellanca, a Ryan, and a Fokker—were roughly equal to one another in performance, and the race could have been won by the first one off. The rotten spring weather that had kept them grounded was the only thing that had made it possible for him to compete. If it had broken even slightly in the last week, they would have leaped off on the flight to Paris, and he would never have left Salinas.
    Bandfield sat down again, balancing on the back legs of his chair, his head braced against the rough wall. He wished that Hadley could see him, meeting pilots they'd only read about. Shaking hands had hurt the raw red creases that split his knuckles into a map of pain. The only thing that would get hands clean was a corrosive mixture of gasoline and Spic and Span cleaner that removed the skin along with the grime and turned nailbrushes into medieval instruments of torture. He needed some Jergens or vaseline, but he knew he wouldn't get any, and that his knuckles would still be sore on the next takeoff. It was an occupational hazard to be ignored, like missed meals, lost laundry, and empty pockets. Still, the barren room seemed cozy compared to the interminable night flight from St. Louis. A sudden burst of warmth from the stove, seen rather than felt, helped him transform past fear into present pleasure. He blew his breath down into his plaid flannel shirt, recycling warmth back into his system, listening to the sharp staccato chatter of the men he was going to beat to Paris.
    The aviators were as different in backgrounds as in builds, alike only in their gut desire to hammer out a living in a profession in which it was easier to earn death than a dollar. Bandfield smiled as he tried to analyze their personalities. Though most had things in common—wrinkled clothes, no glasses, and quick reflexes—each man was unique, and each one somehow resembled the airplane he flew.
    Take good old Slim, whom he'd known only too well in flying school. Despite his serious, almost worried demeanor, Lindbergh was always playing wild practical jokes, from lacing a canteen with kerosene to putting itching powder in the first sergeant's shorts. But he was a professional pilot, shy despite an obvious competence. Lindbergh was a born leader, and definitely a contender to be first across. He could have been a success in anything—medicine, law, even following his father into politics—but he'd given his life totally to aviation. Like most of them, he was broke, in hock to his backers. He was tall, lean, and gawky, somehow handsome in spite of it, just like his airplane, the Spirit of St. Louis. Aesthetically, the silver Ryan's wing seemed too long for its stubby fuselage, and the windowless nose had a blind, salamander look to it. The landing gear was joined to the wings by a wild Erector Set of struts, yet it looked capable.
    Richard Byrd was entirely different, compact and contained, with a handsome face lit up by a smile he switched on and off like a light bulb. He viewed his real profession as exploration. Flying was only a tool that let him leapfrog over older, more famous competitors. Bandy had read endlessly about the Virginian, whose generosity with the hangar had made him a friend for life. Byrd was an enigma, adored by the public and yet treated with frosty reserve by those who should have known him best. A patrician, he'd chosen the equally elegant Fokker trimotor, a big airplane to suit a big ego, one he wouldn't fly but would command.
    Byrd had selected two crew members noted for their capabilities and frailties, neither one of them likely to accept orders easily. The first was tall, mustachioed Bert Acosta, a wild man irresistible to the ladies and a superb pilot—as long as the sky was blue. The other was the