There was a pair of switches on the dashboard marked simply “On” and “Off.” Harald guessed they must operate the twin magnetos. He put them on.
Harald stood at the front and grasped one of the blades of the propeller. He pulled it down. It was very stiff, and he had to put all his strength into moving it. When finally it turned, it gave a sharp click, then stopped.
He turned it again. This time it moved more easily. It clicked again.
The third time, he gave it a vigorous heave, hoping the engine would fire.
Nothing happened.
He tried again. The propeller moved easily, and clicked each time, but the engine remained silent and still.
Karen came in. “Won’t it start?” she said.
He looked at her in surprise. He had not expected to see her again today. He was elated, but replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Too early to say-I’ve only just begun.”
She seemed contrite. “I’m sorry I stormed off.”
This was a new aspect of her. He would have guessed she was too proud to apologize. “That’s all right,” he said.
“It was just the thought of the cat eating the baby mice. I couldn’t stand it. I know it’s foolish to think about mice when men like Poul are losing their lives.”
That was how Harald saw it, but he did not say so. “Pinetop’s gone now, anyway.”
“I’m not surprised the engine won’t start,” she said, reverting to practical problems-just as he did when embarrassed, he thought. “It hasn’t been turned over for at least three years.”
“It might be a fuel problem. Over a couple of winters, water must have condensed in the tank. But oil floats, so the fuel will lie on top. We might be able to drain off the water.” He consulted the manual again.
“We should turn off the switches, for safety,” Karen said. “I’ll do it.”
Harald learned from the manual that there was a panel on the underside of the fuselage that gave access to the fuel drain plug. He took a screwdriver from the tool rack then lay on the floor and wriggled under the aircraft to unscrew the panel. Karen lay beside him and he handed her the screws. She smelled good, a mixture of warm skin and shampoo.
When the panel came off, Karen handed him an adjustable wrench. The drain plug was awkwardly placed, being slightly to one side of the access hole. This was the kind of fault that made Harald long to be in charge, so that he could force lazy designers to do things properly. When his hand was in the gap, he could no longer see the drain plug, so he had to work blind.
He turned the plug slowly but, when it opened, he was startled by the sudden spurt of freezing liquid onto his hand. He withdrew his hand quickly, banging his numbed fingers on the edge of the access hole and, to his intense irritation, he dropped the plug.
With dismay he heard it roll down the fuselage. Fuel poured from the drain. He and Karen quickly wriggled out of the way of the gush. Then there was nothing they could do except watch until the system was empty and the church reeked of petroleum.
Harald cursed Captain de Havilland and the careless British engineers who had designed the aircraft. “Now we’ve got no fuel,” he said bitterly.
“We could syphon some out of the Rolls-Royce,” Karen suggested.
“That’s not airplane fuel.”
“The Hornet Moth runs on car petrol.”
“Does it? I didn’t realize that.” Harald perked up again. “Right. Let’s see if we can get that drain plug back.” He guessed the plug had rolled until it stopped against a cross member. He put his arm into the hole, but could not reach far enough. Karen got a wire brush from the workbench and retrieved it with that. Harald replaced the plug in the drain.
Next they had to take fuel from the car. Harald found a funnel and a clean bucket, while Karen used a pair of heavy pliers to cut a length off a garden hose. They pulled the cover off the Rolls-Royce. Karen undid the fuel cap and fed the hose into the tank.
Harald said, “Shall I do that?”
“No,” she said. “My turn.”
He guessed she wanted to prove she could do dirty work, especially after the mice incident, so he stood back and watched.
Karen put the end of the hose between her lips and sucked. When the petrol came into her mouth she quickly directed the hose into the bucket, while at the same time grimacing and spitting. Harald watched the grotesque expressions on her face. Miraculously, she was no less beautiful when screwing up her eyes and pursing her lips. She caught his gaze and said, “What are you staring at?”
He laughed and said, “You, of course-you’re so pretty when you’re spitting.” He realized immediately that he had revealed more of his feelings than he wanted to, and he waited for a sharp retort, but she just laughed.
He had only said she was pretty, of course. That was not news to her. But he had said it affectionately, and girls always noticed tones of voice, especially when you did not want them to. If she had been annoyed, she would have shown it with a disapproving look or an impatient toss of her head. But, on the contrary, she had seemed pleased-almost, he thought, as if she were glad he was fond of her.
He felt he had crossed a bridge.
The bucket filled up and the hose ran dry. They had emptied the tank of the car. There was only a gallon or so of petrol in the bucket, Harald guessed, but it was plenty for testing the engine. He had no idea where they would get enough fuel to cross the North Sea.
Harald carried the bucket over to the Hornet Moth. He flipped open the access cover and pulled the petrol cap. It had a hook to fix it to the lip of the filler neck. Karen held the funnel while Harald poured the fuel into the tank.
“I don’t know where we’re going to get any more,” Karen said. “We certainly can’t buy it.”
“How much do we need?”
“The tank takes thirty-five gallons. But that’s another problem. The Hornet Moth’s range is six hundred miles- in ideal conditions.”
“And it’s about that distance to Britain.”
“So if conditions are less than perfect-for example, if we have head winds, which is not unlikely. .”
“We’ll come down in the sea.”
“Exactly.”
“One problem at a time,” said Harald. “We haven’t started the engine yet.”
Karen knew what to do. “I’ll flood the carburetor,” she said.
Harald turned on the fuel.
Karen worked the priming mechanism until fuel dribbled on the floor, then called, “Mags on.”
Harald switched on the magnetos and checked that the throttle was still at the just-open position.
Karen grasped the propeller and pulled it down. Again there was a sharp click. “Hear that?” she said.
“Yes.”
“It’s the impulse starter. That’s how you know it’s working, by the click.” She swung the propeller a second time, then a third. Finally she gave it a mighty heave and stepped smartly back.
The engine gave a shocking bark which echoed around the church, then it died.
Harald cheered.
Karen said, “What are you so pleased about?”
“It fired! There can’t be much wrong.”
“It didn’t start, though.”
“It will, it will. Try again.”
She swung the propeller again, but with the same result. The only change was that Karen’s cheeks became attractively flushed with the effort.
After a third try, Harald turned the switches off. “The fuel is flowing freely now,” he said. “It sounds to me as if the problem is with the ignition. We need some tools.”
“There’s a tool kit.” Karen reached into the cabin and lifted a cushion to reveal a large locker under the seat.
