Date: May 24, 1936
Location: Curtiss Airfield, near Buffalo, New York
The boy was tall for fifteen, with a long neck and restless hands. He wore a cheap leather cap two sizes too big, and a pair of secondhand goggles that slipped down the bridge of his nose every time he grinned—which was often. Louis Hartmann had never seen so many airplanes in one place in his life.
Curtiss Airfield buzzed with life. Biplanes lined the far fences like nesting birds, silver monoplanes idled in rows on the tarmac, and banners snapped in the wind above crowds of boys, mechanics, and men with brass pins on their lapels. The May sun gleamed off every surface, and the sky above was electric blue.
“Don’t run,” his Uncle Ray said, for the third time. “It ain’t a footrace.”
Louis didn’t answer. He was already ten paces ahead, weaving between vendors and gawking at a stubby pursuit plane with its nose cowled open like a fish gasping for air. A mechanic wiped grease from his brow and noticed the boy.
“Want to climb in?”
Louis’s eyes went wide. “Can I?”
“Sure. You break it, you buy it.”
Louis scrambled into the cockpit, his knees knocking against the metal frame. The seat was cracked canvas, the stick greasy and firm in his palm. Dials stared back at him—altimeter, tachometer, fuel gauge. He didn’t know what half of them did.
Uncle Ray caught up. “Don’t touch anything, Lou.”
“I’m not!”
“You’re touching the stick.”
“That doesn’t count.”
Ray sighed. He was a machinist at the Ford plant in Buffalo, and not much for crowds, but his sister had begged him to take the boy somewhere that didn’t smell like gasoline and worry.
“Five minutes,” he told the mechanic.
The man nodded and turned to chat with a tall veteran in a VFW cap. Louis leaned forward and imagined the engine growling to life. His voice was low when he said, “They fly like thunder.”
The mechanic heard. “That one? She shakes like a jalopy above four thousand feet. But she’ll turn on a dime.”
Across the field, smoke trails curled overhead. An announcer’s voice boomed from a tinny speaker: “And next up, folks, the Curtiss stunt team, flying their brand-new Hawk seventy-fives!”
Louis jumped out of the cockpit, landed with a thump, and bolted toward the grandstand, Ray trailing behind like a tired balloon.
They squeezed onto a bench beside a wiry man with a cane across his lap and a teenage girl who looked unimpressed by everything. The man turned.
“You like planes?” he asked Louis.
“I love them.”
“Then you’re sitting in the right spot,” he said, tapping his cane. “Name’s Roscoe Freeman. Flew Salmsons with the 12th Aero. This is my daughter, Marla. She thinks airplanes are noisy, wasteful, and ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say ridiculous,” she muttered. “I said theatrical.”
Roscoe laughed. “Which is true. But also true of fireworks and operas, and we still put on those.”
Louis liked Roscoe instantly. He had one eye that squinted more than the other and smelled faintly of linseed oil. His daughter had a book in her lap and was doing a good job not looking at Louis.
“You from Buffalo?” Roscoe asked.
“Chicago,” Louis said. “Just visiting. But one day I want to fly.”
Ray, finally seated, leaned forward. “He wants to build ‘em, too.”
Louis nodded. “Engines, wiring, all of it. I got a box at home full of scrap. Built a motor once from an old vacuum cleaner and a record player.”
Roscoe whistled. “That’ll make a mess of jazz.”
And then the Hawks roared in.
Three planes cut across the sky like silver knives. They looped and rolled, banking tight in formation before splitting apart and diving toward the horizon. The engines howled, echoed by the gasps of children and the low whistles of men who knew what speed meant.
Louis leaned forward on the rail, mouth open.
The Hawks climbed again, formed a wedge, and streaked upward in a burst of white smoke. At the apex, they peeled off one by one like falling leaves—controlled, precise, beautiful.
Ray clapped once.
Marla rolled her eyes, but Louis saw her watching.
Roscoe tapped his cane against the wood. “Fifteen years ago, we flew canvas and wood with engines that choked in the rain. Now they’ve got aluminum birds and engines that don’t blink at five thousand feet.”
“It’s the future,” Louis said.
Roscoe nodded. “Or the warning.”
Louis frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Roscoe said. “Just an old pilot talking.”
But Marla spoke up.
“He means it’s not a circus trick anymore,” she said. “Planes aren’t just stunts. They’re armies. They’re power.”
Ray looked away. “Girl’s not wrong.”
The announcer’s voice returned, listing the specs of the Hawk—top speed, rate of climb, armament.
Louis barely heard it. He was still watching the sky.
After the show, they wandered the hangars, poking through displays. Ray bought Louis a small model of a monoplane, its propeller painted red. Marla found a pamphlet about aircraft radios and tucked it into her book.
Roscoe hobbled slowly, pausing now and then to catch his breath. “When I was your age,” he told Louis, “I didn’t believe anything could fly. Thought it was all photography tricks.”
Louis smiled. “And now?”
Roscoe looked at the planes. “Now I believe too much can.”
As the sun dipped lower, Ray checked his watch. “We should go, Lou.”
Louis hesitated.
Marla spoke. “There’s a train tomorrow morning. Comes through the main yard.”
Roscoe raised an eyebrow. “You inviting him to miss his ride home?”
Louis laughed. “I won’t. But I’ll come back.”
“To fly?” she asked.
“To fix.”
She nodded. “Someone has to.”
They walked back to the road as the sky turned orange. Louis held the model plane in one hand, his fingers curled gently around the wings.
Uncle Ray didn’t say much on the ride back. But when they got in the truck, he turned the key and said, “That thing where they split and dove? That was something.” Louis nodded. “One day I’ll do it.”
