Poul Kirke took over the commentary from Arne. “I want you to look into the cockpit, one at a time,” he said. “Stand on the black walkway on the lower wing. Don’t step anywhere else or your foot will go through the fabric and you won’t be able to fly.”
Tik Duchwitz went first. Poul said: “On the left side you see a silver-colored throttle lever, which controls the speed of the engine, and lower down a green trim lever which applies a spring loading to the elevator control. If the trim is correctly set when cruising, the aircraft should fly level when you take your hand off the stick.”
Harald went last. He could not help being interested, despite his resentment of the smoothly arrogant way Poul had swept Karen Duchwitz off on her bicycle.
As he stepped down, Poul said, “So, what do you think, Harald?”
Harald shrugged. “It seems straightforward.”
“Then you can go first,” Poul said with a grin.
The others laughed, but Harald was pleased.
“Let’s all get kitted up,” Poul said.
They returned to the hangar and put on flying suits-step-in overalls that buttoned in front. Helmets and goggles were also given out. To Harald’s annoyance, Poul made a point of helping him.
“Last time we met was at Kirstenslot,” Poul said as he adjusted Harald’s goggles.
Harald nodded curtly, not wishing to be reminded. Still, he could not help wondering exactly what Poul’s relationship with Karen was. Were they just dating, or something more? Did she kiss him passionately and let him touch her body? Did they talk of getting married? Had they had sexual intercourse? He did not want to think about these things, but he could not help it.
When they were ready, the first five students returned to the field, each with a pilot. Harald would have liked to go up with his brother, but once again Poul chose Harald. It was almost as if he wanted to get to know Harald better.
An airman in oily overalls was refueling the aircraft, standing with one foot in a toehold in the fuselage. The tank was in the center of the upper wing where it passed above the front seat-a worrying position, Harald felt. Would he be able to forget the gallons of inflammable fluid over his head?
“First, the preflight inspection,” Poul said. He leaned into the cockpit. “We check that the magneto switches are off and the throttle is closed.” He looked at the wheels. “Chocks in place.” He kicked the tires and wiggled the ailerons. “You mentioned that you had worked on the new German base at Sande,” he said casually.
“Yes.”
“What sort of work?”
“Just general laboring-digging holes, mixing concrete, carrying bricks.”
Poul moved to the back of the aircraft and checked the movement of the elevators. “Did you find out what the place is for?”
“Not then, no. As soon as the basic construction work was done, the Danish workers were dismissed, and the Germans took over. But I’m pretty sure it’s a radio station of some kind.”
“I think you mentioned that last time. But how do you know?”
“I’ve seen the equipment.”
Poul looked at him sharply, and Harald realized this was no casual inquiry. “Is it visible from outside?”
“No. The place is fenced and guarded, and the radio equipment is screened by trees, except on the side facing the sea, and that part of the beach is off limits.”
“So how come you saw it?”
“I was in a hurry to get home, so I took a shortcut across the base.”
Poul crouched down behind the rudder and checked the tail skid shoe. “So,” he said, “what did you see?”
“A large aerial, the biggest I’ve ever come across, maybe twelve feet square, on a rotating base.”
The airman who had been refueling the aircraft interrupted the conversation. “Ready when you are, sir.”
Poul said to Harald, “Ready to fly?”
“Front or back?”
“The trainee always sits in the back.”
Harald climbed in. He had to stand on the bucket seat then ease himself down. The cockpit was narrow, and he wondered how fat pilots managed, then he realized there were no fat pilots.
Because of the nose-up angle at which the aircraft sat on the grass, he could see nothing in front of him but the clear blue sky. He had to lean out to one side to see the ground ahead.
He put his feet on the rudder pedals and his right hand on the control stick. Experimentally, he moved the stick from side to side and saw the ailerons move up and down at his command. With his left hand he touched the throttle and trim lever.
On the fuselage just outside his cockpit were two small knobs which he assumed were the twin magneto switches.
Poul leaned in to adjust Harald’s safety harness. “These aircraft were designed for training, so they have dual controls,” he said. “While I’m flying, rest your hands and feet lightly on the controls and feel how I’m moving them. I’ll tell you when to take over.”
“How will we talk?”
Poul pointed to a Y-shaped rubber pipe like a doctor’s stethoscope. “This works like the speaking tube on a ship.” He showed Harald how to fix the ends to earpieces in his flying helmet. The foot of the Y was plugged into an aluminum pipe which undoubtedly led to the front cockpit. Another tube with a mouthpiece was used for speaking.
Poul climbed into the front seat. A moment later Harald heard his voice through the speaking tube. “Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
The airman stood by at the left front of the aircraft, and a shouted dialogue ensued, with the airman asking questions and Poul answering.
“Ready to start, sir?”
“Ready to start.”
“Fuel on, switches off, throttle closed?”
“Fuel is on, switches are off, throttle is closed.”
Harald expected the airman to turn the propeller at that point, but instead he moved to the right side of the aircraft, opened the cowling panel in the fuselage, and fiddled with the engine-priming it, Harald assumed. Then he closed the panel and returned to the nose of the aircraft.
“Sucking in, sir,” he said, then he reached up and pulled the propeller blade down. He repeated the action three times, and Harald guessed this procedure drew fuel into the cylinders.
The airman reached over the lower wing and flicked the two little switches just outside Harald’s cockpit. “Throttle set?”
Harald felt the throttle lever move forward half an inch under his hand, then heard Poul say, “Throttle set.”
“Contact.”
Poul reached out and flicked the switches forward of his cockpit.
Once again the airman swung the propeller, this time stepping back smartly immediately afterward. The engine fired and the propeller turned. There was a roar, and the little aircraft trembled. Harald had a sudden vivid sense of how light and frail it was, and remembered with a sense of shock that it was made, not of metal, but of wood and linen. The vibration was not like that of a car or even a motorcycle, which felt solid and firmly grounded by comparison. This was more like climbing a young tree and feeling the wind shake its slender branches.
Harald heard Poul’s voice over the speaking tube. “We have to let the engine warm up. It takes a few minutes.”
Harald thought about Poul’s questions on the subject of the base at Sande. This was not idle curiosity, he felt sure. Poul had a purpose. He wanted to know the strategic importance of the base. Why? Was Poul part of some secret Resistance movement? What else could it be?
The engine note rose, and Poul reached out and turned the magneto switches off and on again in turn- performing yet another safety check, Harald assumed. Then the note declined to idling pitch, and at last Poul
