It was very different from my previous stint in Hollywood. Then I had plenty of time for lolling about swimming pools, drinking in speakeasies and sleeping late between silk sheets in congenial company. Now it was work, work, work. I was away from the Encino house for a week at a time and Blue and Terri were away a lot too. Blue taught Terri to fly which took up some time and she was at us constantly to get her work in the film. No dice. Hughes was mad but not that mad. People were flying crazy at the time, women included. It was a few years before Amelia Earhart really hit the headlines but she was already well known and cross-country air races featuring women pilots were popular novelty attractions. If it had got out that a woman was working on Hell's Angels, every joystick-happy aviatrix in America would have headed for the spot.

  So I was on my own a good deal in Oakland and Encino but often so tired that I didn't miss the fast life. I'm not saying I didn't hit the whorehouses and bars from time to time, I did, but I was wary of meeting up with Fairbanks and some of the others from the old days. I did some drinking with Ben Lyon, who liked to raise hell once in a while. He did some of his own flying in the film so we had that in common.

  Looking back, there were plenty of good times but I remember Hollywood nightlife at the time as full of pitfalls and dangers. Like the night I went drinking with Lyon and his friend, Gary Cooper, at the Coconut Grove. Cooper, who was starting to go places in the silents, was good company, especially when he had a few drinks inside him. He seemed to attract lively people to him in those days. He certainly attracted Clara Bow (but then who didn't, if he had the right equipment and inclination which Coop did by all accounts). This night was in honour of someone's birthday, I forget who, maybe Mack Sennett. Carole Lombard was there without the 'e' on her name – she added that later, after she got beyond doing Sennett comedies. Some other people from the Sennett gang were in the party, including Billy Bevan.

  Bevan wore a brush moustache on screen and looked entirely different without it. I was on guard the second he spoke.

  'Gid'day,' he said, 'they tell me you're an Australian.'

  'That's right.'

  'So'm I. William Bevan Harris. Born in Orange, New South. How about you?'

  'Ah, Sydney.'

  'Don't seem too sure, mate.'

  He was laying it on thickly. There were a few Australians in Hollywood but they all adopted American accents pretty quickly, or, like me, used a sort of modified English voice for reasons of status. I made the mistake of laying that on too thickly just then.

  'Awfully good to meet you,' I said. 'I say, Ben . . .'

  'What didya do in the war?'

  'I beg your pardon.'

  'Shirker, eh? Thought so.'

  'You little pipsqueak. I'll . . .'

  'Whoa, Billy!' This was Carole Lombard screaming as Bevan jumped into her lap pretending to be afraid of me. Of course I'm left there looking stupid and desperately in need of a funny line.

  'I can see you're an Australian, Billy,' I said. 'You jump like a kangaroo.'

  Well, you mightn't think much of it, but it drew a laugh and got me out of a tight spot. I was constantly on edge, you see, about being recognised as 'Beverly Hills' Browning, or William Hughes (the name I'd served and deserted under) or Tony Grace, the South African photographer. If you've carried the same name through all of your life, good luck to you – you don't know what security and peace of mind you've had.

  Cooper had been watching me while this was going on and after my moment of awkwardness had passed he shook off the blonde who was trying to tear his arm from its socket and sat down next to me.

  'You ever do any shootin', Dick?' he drawled. This was a long speech for Coop.

  'Yes, I have. Why d'you ask, Coop?'

  'Thought you might've. You got the eyes. Kinda steady. Shoot men?'

  I'd recovered from the fright Bevan had given me and could assemble a plausible and half-true story in my mind. 'In the war, yeah. I was a sniper.'

  'Too young for the war. How's it feel? To shoot men?'

  We had a lot of liquor and a long talk on the subject. Because of the liquor I can't recall the talk, but I told Cooper about the stillness of mind and body you needed to shoot straight and the ways of talking yourself into the shot. He must have listened because, many years later, when I saw him in Sergeant York, I could see him putting my tips into his performance. I had some dealings with Cooper, not all of them pleasant, like when we were making The Plainsman for His Majesty de Mille, but that's another story.

  After the crowd had thinned and I was looking around for someone to have a last drink with, a guy came mincing towards me. He swayed from the hips down as though he was dancing except there was no music playing.

  'Can I buy you a drink?'

  He was wearing a white, double-breasted suit and smelt of toilet water. Fifteen years later in Hollywood I spent a bit of time with Raymond Chandler who seemed to be fascinated by the faggots around town. I remember telling him about this one and remarking that the weight of his gold bracelet might have explained his limp wrist. Chandler laughed and said he could use that, I don't know whether he did. Point is, the Coconut Grove, like most of the nightspots, was no place for a presentable man without a female companion.

  I brushed the guy off and drove home to Encino. On the way I made a mental list of the girls I could've taken with me that night. It was a pretty long list but I knew why I hadn't called any of them. I wanted Terri.

  But Terri was away on business in Texas, trying to negotiate a deal whereby Aussie Air could supply aviation fuel to the aircraft in the film and maybe to the soon-to-be Los Angeles Airport that everybody was talking about. Blue was in Chicago winding up some unfinished business there.

  I put myself to sleep with a bottle that night and for the next couple of nights. In the day I wandered around some of the studios vaguely thinking about more congenial movie work – the kind that involved lounging around in silk pyjamas and cuddling up with Gloria Swanson. The Keystone lot was a madhouse, of course: they'd be filming three or four different stories at the one time inside, and outside, with the cars whizzing around and ladders collapsing – it was quite risky to walk around without a crash helmet. All the shooting sets were noisy, physical sorts of places compared to the smooth, purring sets of today. I saw a fight break out between some bit players on the set of Dream of Love, where Joan Crawford was in a clinch with someone, and they went on filming as if nothing had happened.

  Moving around Hollywood, I kept an eye open for the cops and bootleggers and IWW men I'd run into previously, but I had no problems. It was such a changeable place – people got rich and poor overnight, fat and thin, moved away, came back and changed their names. This applied to all sorts of people – Gloria Swanson was Gloria Mae at one time, and the Europeans changed their names more often than they changed their suits. Madmen like Von Stroheim (for whom I did a day's work, all dolled up in knee britches and periwig, as an extra on Queen Kelly, before they took him off it) dropped in 'Vons' and extra handles as it suited them. People were not what they seemed.

  It was about this time that I took up photography again. My good old Leica was in some locker in Vancouver as the confiscated property of the gunrunner, Richard Browning. I bought another Leica, an updated one with extra knobs and switches which I never learned to use properly. I took some shots of Hollywood's places of interest and I must dig them out and take a look at them. They're fifty years old, some of 'em – might be worth some money. [A bundle of photographs enclosed in an envelope on which 1928-9 is scrawled were found with the tapes. Browning's photography lacks distinction; he seems to have had difficulty with focus and in keeping his hand steady. Most of the pictures are of Hollywood watering holes like the Garden of Allah, the Beachcombers, the Cinebar etc. There are a few snapshots of prominent players, such as Marion Davies and Dolores Del Rio, but they have a hurried appearance as if Browning scarcely had time, let alone permission, to take the picture. One picture shows a tall man with light-coloured hair brushed back, wearing a leather flying jacket. He has his arm around a woman with curly fair hair. This may be a photograph of Blue Tait and Terri Driver but, unlike the other photographs, this one does not have Browning's scrawled identification on the back. Ed.]

  In fact, I was filling in time as things went quiet on the movie and I waited to see how the business would develop. All that changed, however, when I got back to the house one night after a bit of a party at Alma Rubens' place on Hollywood Boulevard. I remember it clearly even though I was a bit stewed: it was dawn and the sun was just coming up over the trees. We had a nice garden with flowerbeds and a hammock strung between two trees. I thought of taking a nap in the hammock but I could see the sunlight glinting on a whole pile of empty bottles that lay in it and I didn't want to deal with bottles just then. I'd picked up the mail from the box out front and I sat down on the porch at back to look at it. I was hoping for a postcard from Terri in Texas.

  Instead there were bills and a couple of sealed envelopes. One was from the Hell's Angels production office telling me that I should report to the Valley tomorrow for the shooting of an important scene, something involving a lot of planes and a major stunt. That was okay with me. I was sick of hanging around Hollywood. Maybe Blue would be back and and in any case it would be worth money.

  The other was a plain envelope with a San Francisco postmark. I didn't know a soul in San Francisco; well, a few girls perhaps, but I doubted that any of them could write. The envelope was addressed to Aussie Air: the sheet of paper inside contained a brief message. Short enough for me to remember it word for word all these years later. It read:

  Richard Browning Esq.,

  Encino,

  California, USA.

  Dear Sir,

  I would be glad if you would contact me at the address given below as soon as possible after Friday next. You will learn things that vitally concern you.

  The note was signed 'Rupert P. MacKnight'.

  22

  That was one of the worst nights of my life – comparable to the one I spent in the dormitory at Dudleigh Grammar while the headmaster decided whether to prosecute me for fraud or simply expel me. It was as bad as the night in 1917 in France when I communed with the rats and lice in the trenches while I made up my mind to desert. The very name MacKnight struck terror. My wife, Elizabeth, could put me in gaol or get me deported from America. Worse, she might want me to live with her again.

  I dreamt of suffocating under that mountain of white flesh and I woke up yelling. Then I dreamt of her father, he was a dried-up stick of a man in the dream, ranting about drink and tobacco and refusing me both as I crawled on my hands and knees across bare boards, pleading with him. Each time I woke up I smoked furiously and had a drink, so I was in a bad state by morning.

  Somehow, I steadied myself enough to report for work. I drank a gallon of black coffee and took some pills Blue had left around the house. 'Shooters', he called them. The coffee and 'shooters' didn't get rid of my anxiety, but they did let me switch my thoughts from the ghastly MacKnights to the dreadful Hughes which was a profitable focus at least.

  I realised afterwards that I must have averaged close to seventy miles an hour on the drive to the airfield. I wasn't late, it was just the 'shooters'. The place was crowded with men and cars and planes. Hughes was there, strutting around in plus-fours, half a head taller than anyone else and with that distant, mad look in his eyes. I barged into the middle of the pilots' group wearing full flying gear and feeling, probably for the first time in my life, full of courage and resolution. Without a single constructive idea in my head, I felt I could handle the MacKnights and Hughes and anyone else who happened along. I even felt I could bed Terri.

  'What's going on, chaps?' I bellowed. 'Any fun?'

  'You could call it that if you was crazy,' Roscoe Turner said grimly. 'See the Gotha over there?'

  I looked across the field in the direction he indicated. 'That's not a Gotha. That's a Sikorsky.'

  'You know it and I know it,' Turner growled, 'but they don't know it in Iowa. It's supposed to be a Gotha. See the Kraut markings?'

  I nodded.

  'Idea is we shoot up the Gotha, she crashes and burns and the Huns are kaput. Got it?'

  'Sounds all right,' I said. I lit a cigarette with a rock steady hand.

  'Yeah. Except she spins, crashes and burns.'

  'Christ!' I knew it could be done by a good pilot; he'd have to kick the big bomber into a spin and get out quick. Not much room for error.

  'It's a cinch,' one of the pilots said. I looked at him and for a moment almost believed he was right. Al Wilson was one of the most experienced stunt flyers on the film. He could do anything with a plane, the way a cowboy can with a horse. 'It's no problem, I tell you. It's the other job I wouldn't fancy.'

  As I say, I was feeling brave, but when Wilson said something was hard it was time to listen, not start sticking your hand in the air. Turner picked up a chalkboard and looked at it. Then he shook his head. 'He'll have to do it some other way. Ain't nobody going to try that.'

  I couldn't help it, those damn pills. What?' I said.

  Wilson took a plug of tobacco from his flying suit and bit off a chunk. 'Someone's got to lie in the fuselage near the rear and let off the smoke pots. He'll have to jump about the same time as me. Want to try it, Kelly?'

  I'll never know whether I would have agreed or not. My teeth rattle when I think of it. I believe I had my mouth open to speak but one of the grease monkeys, Phil Jones, got in before me.

  'I'll do it!' he said excitedly. 'On one condition.'

  'You're crazy, Phil. You can't . . .' Wilson almost swallowed his chew.

  'What's the condition?' Turner said quietly. 'Have to tell you, Mr Hughes don't care too much for conditions.'

  'Condition is, he lets me fly.'

  'And pays you flying dough,' one of the pilots said.

  'Screw the money,' Jones snapped. 'I want to fly!'

  'It's your neck,' Turner said. 'I'll tell them. Reckon it'll be okay, Phil.'

  Jones wiped his greasy hands on his overall. 'Great. Where's the 'chutes, boys?'

  There were high, fluffy clouds overhead as the planes took off. I went up in an old Fokker bomber as co-pilot. The plane carried two cameras, mounted on the wing struts and operated by switches from inside the plane. Joe Boyd, the pilot, and I had separate seats in front and the cameraman was crammed into a back compartment with James Whale. Hughes was in an observation plane circling a hundred feet above the action.

  Still pilled-up and confident, I was getting set to enjoy the ride and the stunt when I heard the camera operator groan. The Fokker had a finely tuned engine and I could hear above its noise if I twisted myself around towards the back.

  'What's wrong? What? What?' Whale yelled.

  'Friggin' camera won't work.'

  'Whaddya mean won't work? Which? Which?'

  'The left.' He jiggled the switch on the end of its cable like a craps player about to throw. 'It's dead.'

  'Gimme that!' Whale grabbed the switch and worked it frantically. 'Oh, Christ,' he wailed. 'We need that angle. The whole thing is nothing without it. Nothing!' He looked at me. 'Can we signal to Wilson that we've got a fuck up? Need some time?'

  'I'll ask.' I turned, leaned forward and put the question to Boyd. He shook his head. 'Not anticipated. No signals.'

  Whale got the message without me having to relate it. His face darkened. 'What's your speciality – stunts?'

  'Just a co-pilot,' I said. I was wearing full flying gear as I've said, also a parachute which I liked to wear whenever I was around planes – even if I wasn't necessarily going up.

  'Know anything about cameras?'

  I was over-confident and unwary. I shrugged. 'A bit.'

  'You've got a parachute on. You could crawl out along the wing and fix it.'

  'What?'

  'It's got a manual switch. Look, it's not far. A few feet is all. And you've got a parachute.'

  I was alarmed but I wasn't taking him seriously. He couldn't mean it. 'I've never jumped,' I said. 'What about him?' I pointed to the cameraman.

  'Not me, buddy. I'm staying right here.'

  'What's going on?' Joe Boyd twisted around and I saw his bushy eyebrows go up under the goggles.

  'Camera won't work. Mr Whale wants me to crawl out and switch it on.'

  He craned his neck from the cockpit to inspect the left wing. 'Piece of cake,' he said. 'What's he offering?'

  'What? What?' Whale yelled.

  'Pilot wants to know what you'll pay him to go out there.'

  'A grand,' Whale said.

  Boyd squirmed in his seat and checked the straps on his chute. 'Hold 'er steady, Dick. Won't take a minute. Where's this switch?'

  'Right hand side,' the cameraman said shakily. 'Near the front. Goes down, no, up.'

  Boyd grinned. He was one of those lunatics who thought it was fun to do loops and formation flying. Some of the confidence began to drain from me. I shouldn't have gone up with him, I thought. Then the fear hit me. I saw everything so clear and sharp and my bones seemed to turn to jelly. If Boyd went out on the wing I'd be flying the plane without another pilot aboard, technically. It was something I'd had a horror of since the first time I took a stick. I felt the sweat break out all over me as I faced the choice – fly solo or crawl out on a wing hundreds of feet above the ground.

  'No, wait!' Three pairs of eyes were trained on me as I fought my internal battle. I felt the sensation of falling as I sat there, still buckled into my seat. It was awful, a sort of dropping away of everything and the patchwork of this bit of California rushing up to embrace me, to suck me into itself. Then I imagined myself flying the plane without someone else around to grab the controls. I knew I couldn't do it. I'd freeze, panic and crash the plane for sure. I couldn't explain and there was only one way to stop Boyd – I had to go out on the wing myself.

  'I'll go,' I yelled. 'Piece of cake!'

  'No need to shout, Dick,' Boyd said. 'Okay, if you want to. But make it snappy, looks like they're getting into place.'

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19