Biscayne Tragedy

By Clevis O. Laverty

The Coconut Grove suburb of Miami sprawled lazily and unconcernedly in the heat of the blistering forenoon. Dozing fitfully, smugly sat6isfied with its orderly streets, proud of the neatly trimmed lawns surrounding its many-colored stucco homes, the community prepared to ride out the heat of the day with as little exertion as possible. Doors were closed and shutters were fastened in a futile attempt to manacle and contain the coolness of the previous night. Dogs stretched out in what little shade a coconut palm offered, moving disgustedly from time to time as the sun chased the shadows around the gnarled trees. It was too hot to do anything, and it was too hot for anything to happen.

The raucous explosion of the klaxon on the Dinner Key seaplane terminal assaulted, ravaged, and dispelled the peace of Coconut Grove. Dogs leaped into the air and kiyied down the streets. Inertia was shattered as housewives and children from one end of the Grove to the other froze in the midst of the intense heat. . .terrified. An airplane had crashed. Which one was it? What was the flight number? Who was on it? If the telephone rings, I’ll die.

Three-fourths of the families in this quiet little community were connected with THE AIRLINE. Pilots, flight radio officers. Flight engineers, and ground crews kept these many-colored houses orderly and trimmed the green lawns that went around them.

Gnawing, aching fear made the rounds, swiftly and silently from one house to another. Like some huge bacteria, it split, multiplied, passed through closed doors and shuttered windows to lodge in living rooms, kitchens, and bedrooms. . .and there it grew.

Mrs. Thomson dropped the match and clutched her throat as she was lighting the oven to prepare the noon meal, and then she dropped in a heap on the kitchen floor as the telephone rang. Mrs. Sawyer shut off the vacuum cleaner in the living room of her boarding house, dropped her ample body into a nearby rocking chair and began fanning a sudden burst of perspiration. She had seven of her boys out on flights. . .somewhere. Although Lucy Caldwell‘s baby was not due for another month, she was still in bed. She hadn’t felt well earlier in the morning. Now the fear grew and threatened to suffocate her. Pains coursed through her body; fear squeezed her heart into a tiny pulsating knot. Trying desperately to reach the telephone, she cried out and blacked out. And the fear continued to grow, and it encompassed whole houses. . whole blocks. . .the whole community.

A red and white ambulance with siren blasting shrieked and wailed its way through the orderly streets that had suddenly erupted with horrified, staring people. They stared at a heavy thread of ominous black smoke that curled and twisted and spiraled over the roofs of the many-colored houses, its lower end pointing at a spot in Biscayne Bay. As in a nightmare, they of the ambulance sped toward the seaplane terminal and the tragedy that awaited. . .or hadn’t awaited.

Pushing, shoving, and urging its way through the tight knots of the curious, the thrill-hungry, the worried, and the others who didn’t know why they were there, the ambulance found its way onto the loading ramp that jutted into the bay. Across the bay, a motor launch, treading its way among the buoys, sped toward the long ramp. Silhouetting the ramp, a small two-motored Duck burned angrily with black-centered flames. Then like a giant firecracker it exploded in all directions.

When the launch neared the ramp, a near-naked diver stood up on the bow, coiling a line and readying himself to heave it to eagerly waiting hands.

He yelled across the rapidly narrowing expanse of smooth water, “We’ve got one of ‘em,. . .still alive, I think. Is the doc there?”

“Right here, Son,” a gray-haired man answered, and then added, “don’t bump into the pilings.”

The launch hove to, easily and expertly, below the ramp. White-clad men passed a stretcher down to the singed and panting men who loaded their charge onto it and passed him quickly and gently into the hands of the ambulance crew. The doctor knelt his lanky form beside the torn and battered body, remnants of a uniform sticking to it here and there; a bloody hand held grimly onto a white uniform cap. Blood bubbled and frothed from an unrecognizable face while Doctor Wilson inspected the grotesque gash that laid bare the pelvis, revealed the ribs, and ended under a pair of earphones that still clung to the neck. Doctor Wilson stared at the neck. What an absurd angle for a neck. He shook his head in sorrow and in defeat. . .the bubbling and frothing ceased. Life ran out of the struggling, tortured body, ran down between the planks of the ramp, and dripped back into the bay from which it had been temporarily rescued.


2

Sparky Hamilton’s body, muscular and soaked with perspiration, twisted, turned, and then awakened. . .almost. Ugh. . .what a head. Where the hell had he picked that up? It couldn’t belong to him.

Swirling through the haze, a procession of indistinct faces of smirking bartenders, tip-hungry taxi drivers, and frowsy amateur prostitutes leered and jeered at him while he tried to recollect the source of the big head. It was no use, but he must have had a helluva good time. . .he couldn’t remember a thing.

He was still for a moment. What in the devil did he have in his mouth? He pried it open with both hands and searched. Only a tongue? It felt and tasted like a bird cage, wires, cage, droppings, and all. . .yeah even the bird, complete with feathers.

He steadied himself to open his eyes. . .managed one of them. It was like looking through a dirty keyhole. He aimed it at the clock that stared back accusingly at him from its perch on the dresser. What an odd procession of numbers, dancing and leaping about. . .finally. . .six o’clock; it would be two hours before Sloppy Joe’s opened. Two hours before he could get a little of the hair-of-the-dog that had bitten him. Still, it might take two hours to get there. Might take all day if he didn’t start responding pretty soon. All day? Good Lord! He had a flight at ten-fifteen. A lousy test hop at that. . .better try to get up.

He tried to lift his head. . .ooh! better start from the other end. . .might be less painful. Moses, but his feet were heavy! He sure must have gotten an awful load. He strained and groaned, and with a superhuman effort, he threw one foot over the side of the bed. BANG! . . .it crashed to the floor. He tossed the other one out of bed. . . BANG! . . .it, too, crashed to the floor. Well, at least he had two of them, but they must have shattered to have made all that racket. He forced himself to a sitting position; he leaned over and stared down at the offending feet. God! He still had his shoes on? No wonder his wife had left him. . .he wanted to leave, too.

He stood up.

When the room settled back down on an even keel, he staggered uncertainly into the bathroom and lurched under the shower. That was strange. Only his hair was getting wet. Still, he supposed, it might work better if he took off his clothes.

By seven Hamilton felt that he was a reasonable facsimile of a human being, and he would probably live to take a lot more showers with his clothes on.

“Send a cab over to the Calhoun Apartment House,” he mumbled into the telephone. “Yeah, I’ll be waiting outside for him. . .I want to get to Sloppy Joe’s on North Avenue. . .Oh, you know where it is. . .you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

He hung up, went outside, and sat down on the steps to wait for the taxi. I wonder, he thought, why in hell they think they need a radio operator on a Duck that isn’t even going to leave the bay area.

3

The alarm clock in the little room off the second-floor porch at Ma Sawyer’s boarding house went into action and nudged Sully Andersen until he awakened and throttled it back to quietness. Sully didn’t always wake up with a smile, but this morning was different. The night before came back to him with startling clarity, and he enjoyed every minute of it. He had always pictured himself as a big hulking Dane. . .sure, everyone liked him. . .they like dogs, too, but he had never anticipated that life could become so full of promise. It was incredible that Jennie Holm would even consider a date with him. . .yet, there it was. Minute by minute, the previous night was crystal clear.

He had picked her up at seven and even that had been different from the first time he had taken her out. Then, he remembered, he had almost been afraid to help her into the car for fear that those hands of his, hands that could straighten out a horseshoe, would break her like a china doll. He had discovered a lot of things. Yes, she was dainty and petite, but she wasn’t fragile; anyway, he didn’t seem to have much strength when she was near.

Dinner at the Pelican Club had been almost like a movie scenario: friendly atmosphere, waiters in dinner jackets, and the chicken. . .perfect. Soft music floated through the dining room and blended with the paintings of restful scenes on the walls. And there he was sitting in that paradise with the most beautiful girl in the world.

The refreshing drive afterward had taken them down Biscayne Boulevard; he inhaled the memory of the flower-scented air. He could still see the moon skipping from wave to wave as they crossed the Causeway and cruised up Collins Avenue to Miami Beach, where they sat under a royal palm, talked, and watched the moon hand like a cradle over the Atlantic.

That was strange. . .that moon hanging there like a cradle, but a lot of things had been strange. He had always been tongue-tied whenever he got within hog calling distance of a pretty girl, and last night he had talked and talked and talked.

He had plans, and he told her about them; she was interested, too. The more he talked, the more she seemed a part of those plans. . .finally, she was the plan. When he had asked her to marry him, she had said, “Yes,” without any hesitation at all. Amazing! H sat bolt upright, perspiration streamed off him and his mouth flopped open: he had forgotten to kiss her.

4

Andersen cast a quick glance at the clock. Five o’clock. He’d better get a move on. Reserve duty today, and the first flight took off at six thirty. This was one day he sure hoped everyone would show up. Nevertheless, he shaved, showered, packed a week’s supply of clothing in his suitcase, and carefully put on hi well-tailored blue uniform with its gold buttons and the gold radio officer’s wing on the breast pocket.

Grabbing his suitcase, flight board, and telegraph key, he stepped out into the clammy Miami dawn, commenting aloud to no one in particular.

“It’s sure goin’ to be a hot. . .” Whatever was going to be hot stuck in his mouth as he stepped on a roller skate lurking on the top step and pitched headlong into the shrubbery below. As he wildly swung his arms and thrashed his legs to free himself from the clinging branches, Ma Sawyer appeared in the doorway.


“It’s going to be a whole lot hotter than you think, if you don’t get your clumsy carcass out of my gardenia hedge.”

“Guess, I musta tripped, Ma. I’ll fix it for you when I get back tonight.”

“Aw, git along with you. And mind you, don’t be late for lunch. Say, don’t you want any breakfast?”

“I’ll get coffee an’ at the base. I’m due there in five minutes. I’m awful sorry about your hedge, I’ll…”

M Sawyer had disappeared back into the house.

As Sully walked into the lobby at Dinner Key, he stopped and hungrily looked about him. He always got a thrill when he stepped in here, a bit of pride at being a part of all this. A big globe turned in the center; that was how big THE AIRLINE was: global. He swelled with pride. Maybe it was corny, but that was the way he felt.

This morning a few passengers were milling around waiting for the flight announcements. Some were trying to pick out the route they would travel on the huge globe; a few were looking at the bronze safety award THE AIRLINE had been awarded the year before. Some were looking at the realistic painting of the Flying Clipper Ships that covered the airlanes of the world, and some were just milling.

Andersen turned left down the corridor and stopped in front of the flight schedule board. Swiftly he scanned the list of flights for the day. If one of these radio officers didn’t show up, he had to take the flight. The last time he had been on reserve, he had wound up in Rio on a two-week trip with two clean shirts and one change of underwear. It sure was a full board, must be they were trying to get all of the airplanes at one end of the line or something.

Ah, good, he noted, Gould had already checked in for the Rio flight. He had plenty of time for breakfast. First, he’d make a quick check of possible destinations: two flights to Nassau, two to Havana, one to Merida, one to Barranquilla, and one to Cristobal. All before ten o’clock.

Hey, what’s this at en-fifteen. . .a test hop for CAA inspection in a Duck. Boy oh boy, Brother Hamilton had better show up for that one. Dirty shame to have to have a uniform cleaned for a thirty-minute hop in a Duck.

What else was there? Not too bad, a couple more Nassaus and Havanas in the afternoon and a navigation training flight after dark. Probably spend a humdrum day in the Radio Shack, might as well get some coffee.

“Hi, Sully, buy you a coffee?”

“Hi, Joe, ‘sall right by me, but I want a whole breakfast. I’m starving.”

“Hi, Sully, you gotta Rio trip?”

“No, Slim, just on reserve.”

As the morning marched on, the terminal filled and emptied. Amid apparent confusion of teeming passengers, visitors, and sightseers, flights were arranged, departures made, and the business of THE AIRLINE moved in orderly, unhurried efficiency.

Periodically, Andersen noted the schedule board and checked off the operators as they signed in for their flights. At nine-forty-five he looked around in vain for Hamilton. Operators were supposed to check in a half hour before takeoff. He called Hamilton’s apartment, and there was no answer. . .must be on his way down.

At ten, he resigned himself to a test hop in the Duck and walked out to the ramp where the Duck was being serviced. Maybe the CAA inspector wouldn’t show up. . . oh, oh, there he was. That ruled out the hope of a cancellation. He squeezed himself down through the narrow hatch, checked the radio gear, and returned to the ramp. He had a big grease spot on his white flight cap already. What the heck would he look like by the time the flight was over? This operation called for coveralls. . .Damn Hamilton, anyway!

5

When the taxi pulled up in front of Sloppy Joe’s, Sparky Hamilton, resplendent in clean white coveralls and a white flight cap, emerged clutching a flight board under his arm. He groped his way through the barroom door, shuffled across the sawdust-covered floor, and flung a greeting at the people’s friend, who was busy polishing imaginary specks off the gleaming bar.


Waddayasay, Pete. Get one up. . .need a little of the hair of the dog.” He tossed his cap onto a nearby table and pounded the bar.

“Hiya, Sparky. Say you don’t waste any time. I just got the key out of the lock.” He paused his polishing and gave Hamilton the once over. He sure looked as though he needed a stiff one.

“D’yu want my business or doncha?”

“Oh sure, “ Pete soothed. “Just take a seat, but it seems like just a little while ago you and Flossie went out that door. Say, what happened to Flossie? No one has seen her since.” He opened a bottle and poured a shot.

“Was I here last night? Who the hell is Flossie?”

“Hey, boy, you’re in a bad way. . .here take this one neat. That’ll take off some of the fur.” He handed the shot to Hamilton.

“Say, Pete, let me know when it’s nine-thirty. I’ve got a heavy date.”

By nine-thirty, Hamilton not only had a little of the hair of the dog; he had the hide, too. Business at Sloppy Joe’s was practically at a standstill, but along about nine-thirty the night-beforers, the habituals, and the barflies put Pete to work, and the clock sneaked around to ten.

Hamilton was staring stupidly and unknowingly at the checkered table cloth when Pete shook him roughly.

“C’mon, Sparky, snap out of it. It’s ten o’clock.”

The bleariness slid off Hamilton’s face, and the veil lifted from his eyes; he was instantly awake and alert to the meaning of the words that had seeped into his fogged brain.

“This is a helluva time to tell me.” He glanced at his watch. “I can still make it, but I haven’t time to settle with you now; I’ll pay you tonight. Get me a cab, and get it fast!” He slapped his uniform cap on his head and grabbed his flight board.

“Okay! Okay! Waddaygot. . .a date with destiny?”

“Hell no, I’ve got a date with a Duck, a lousy stinking Duck.”

“Now, I know he’s crazy; he’s got a date with a Duck.”

The ride back to the terminal was frustratingly slow. Every traffic light in downtown Miami turned red, just for him, and every bus in the state of Florida seemed to be lined up on Biscayne Boulevard for a procession, just for him.

Hamilton bounded out of the taxi at dinner Key at exactly ten minutes past ten. He peered over at the ramp. Good, the Duck was still there. They hadn’t even started the engines yet, so he guessed there was still plenty of time. He had better get in and sign the schedule board; they were sticklers for that and wouldn’t hesitate to roast him but good if he slipped up. He erased Sully’s name, scrawled in his own, and ran down the corridor toward the ramp.

Hearing the engines whine and cough into life, he broke into a run and arrived at the ramp just in time……………………………..to watch the Duck taxi ungracefully out into the bay. Just his luck, they were going to warm up the engines while taxiing instead of at the ramp. Sully must be as sore as a boil, but what the hell, it wouldn’t hurt him. One more look at the rapidly receding Duck. . .he shrugged his shoulders and turned away. . .he could cry on Pete’s shoulder.