Glory Boys Read Free

. They already had enough film in the can to make a six-hour movie. But Willard was a realist. He’d seen the rushes. And they were bad. Badly done, badly shot, and dull. Deadly dull. The script had been hastily revised. Stunts had been shoved in in a desperate effort to lift the story. Willard had grown to loathe any mention of the budget.
    And now this. The Gallaudet stood in one corner of the roof, with the wind on its nose. They’d selected the plane for its low take-off speed, but even so, Willard guessed, they wouldn’t be fully airborne by the time they reached the edge. Would he have enough lift and forward speed to keep his tail clear as he left the roof? He didn’t know. If the tail caught, would it hook him downwards, or just give him a fright? He didn’t know, but felt sick thinking about it. In the past, he’d preferred to hand the tough stunts over to professional stuntmen, but his last two stuntmen had quit on him after rows over money. In any case, it was only flying wasn’t it?
    ‘OK. Ready?’
    The camera crew positioned themselves. The production guys fussed over the Gallaudet. Then Willard and O’Hara burst from the steel doorway onto the roof. Willard pointed dramatically at the Gallaudet, then the two actors raced across to it.
    O’Hara struck a pose by the rear cockpit, which meant, ‘No! Surely not!’ Willard stuck out his chin and looked darkly resolute. ‘But we have to!’ Willard stepped behind O’Hara to help her in. ‘Keep your hand away from my fucking ass,’ she said.
    The two actors clambered inside. It was the sort of move which Willard found difficult. He hated the idea of looking bad on camera but could never quite get the hang of making an ungainly move, such as swinging his leg over the cockpit rim, in a way that made him look good. He tutted with annoyance and said, ‘Again!’
    They got out and in again. Willard’s second attempt was worse than his first, and what’s more he grazed his hand in the process. Willard wanted to do it over, but was aware of O’Hara behind him, smoking like a steam train and swearing darkly in her native German.
    ‘That’ll do,’ he said, annoyed.
    The camera crew took a few shots of them in the cockpit. The wind rose. Willard knew he ought to cancel the shot and wait until conditions were better. But O’Hara was being wooed by United Artists – Douglas Fairbanks himself had lunched with her – and Willard knew it was only a matter of time before she quit. There was another, stronger flutter of wind. Ten knots gusting to twelve or thirteen. Wind was good because what mattered in take-off was wind speed, not ground speed. But too much wind was bad, because of the risk of the airplane being blown straight back into the side of the building. Willard’s sickness came back, stronger.
    The lead production guy said mildly, ‘Thornton, I think…’
    ‘Yes. Get her started. Jesus Christ!’
    The production crew swung the propeller. The engine roared into life. The propeller flashed into a blur. The cameramen positioned themselves. O’Hara stopped smoking and swearing, and flashed a dazzling smile at the cameras. Beneath the wheels, Willard could feel the wooden chocks being pulled away. The graze on his hand was red and angry. He hoped it wouldn’t show on film.
    He jammed the throttle forward. The pitch of the engine rose into a full roar. The little plane began to roll forwards. The edge of the building rushed towards them. The Gallaudet’s wheels reached the edge. Her tail was lifted, but the main gear was nowhere close to being airborne. She plunged sickeningly over the edge and was lost from sight.

3
    The wall at the end of the barn wasn’t solid, but built of vertical wooden slats to allow the entrance of light and air. The golden evening sunshine poured in and lay in bars across the floor. In the middle, amidst a debris of straw and spilled grain, the airplane sat. It looked oddly at home, like an obsolete piece of agricultural