Tempsford Taxi

By Kent Hugus

Sam learned to fly in 1913, shot down seven Germans in WW-I. Come peacetime, he flew odd intelligence jobs for the State Dept. Volunteering for WW-II, he flew missions into occupied France, landing in farmer's fields by the light of the moon to deliver spies and explosives. Along the way, he stole an ME-262, kidnapped a German general and found romance with a lady partisan he later married.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kent Hugus
• Release date: Jul 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301051267

Kent Hugus

Graduated Cal at Berkeley and have the sandals to prove it. Served as a Naval Aviator. Joined IBM as a software engineer, and then resigned to form my own software company. Sold that and retired to Park City, UT, until illness forced me down to sea level. I moved to Escondido, CA, and commenced writing novels. I am divorced, but have two sons, a daughter, and several grandchildren.

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Tempsford Taxi

Kent Hugus

Published by Kent Hugus at Smashwords

Copyright 2008 Kent Hugus.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

Daddy, I ‘m so glad you’re back, Anna Rose said. Bill has joined the Canadian Air Force and is on his way to England. I swore to him I wouldn’t tell you where he was, but I simply had to.

I was momentarily speechless. Hitler had rolled over Poland a few days before; as I traveled across the United States. Blitzkrieg, the Lightning War, had smashed into Belgium, landing troops on the roof of her only defensive fort, and giving no quarter.

I knew Great Britain would declare war immediately, so my son was not only gone, but had gone to war, and he really didn’t have to. As a reserve officer and pilot, the Army Air Force would have recalled him; he could have delayed combat at least until the United States entered the war.

He’ll be okay, Anna. I assured her. It’ll be a while before the shooting starts and maybe I can get him back through my connections.

I had just returned from France, where I had been trying to determine the status of an underground, if in fact there was one. Our Foreign Office felt that war was imminent and that the US would eventually be involved, so I was sent on what was called a fact—finding mission over there; although the facts sought were not too well defined.

Why was I chosen?

First of all, I had good command of the language; I was raised in a bilingual household by my grandmother, a first generation immigrant from France.

During the Great War, the First World War, I had driven ambulances for the French for a year before joining their air force. Even though I was already a pilot, I was required to complete their training syllabus before I could join a French squadron. After a year with Nieuport squadron N.63, I was made a member of the Lafayette Escadrille, a new squadron comprised of Americans flying for France. When the United Stated entered the conflict, the squadron was inducted into the US Air Service as the 103rd Pursuit Squadron. During that war, I had shot down over seven enemy aircraft,had been shot down myself and spent five months in prison camp before making good an escape across the Rhine and into Switzerland.

After the war, I was one of the fortunate few selected to join the Post Office’s new airmail operation. While surveying a route from New York to San Francisco, I saw many financial opportunities for utilization of aircraft, so I left the Post Office and founded a successful aviation oriented business in Cheyenne, Wyoming. My late wife, Mary Rose, was also a Cheyenne resident, the real reason I had chosen that small western town in the remote state of Wyoming as a site for my new business.

I have not regretted that decision to this day.

A banker I met in Rotary suggested that banks could reduce the float time on checks by contracting with me to collect checks from each town having a local bank. I had already contracted with the local newspaper to deliver their paper to these same towns, so a daily local flight combined those two chores and went a long way toward paying the bills. I also had a contract with the Postal Service for a daily mail run to Billings, Montana.

On several occasions, I delivered drill bitts to oil drilling sites owned by a fellow named Earl Summers. He had later hired me to deliver some priority cargo to Guatemala. I determined later that Earl had a history in intelligence at the State Department

Summers met me one afternoon as I completed the daily newspaper delivery and check collection flight, and wanted to know if I would make a delivery for him to Cuidad Hidalgo, Guatemala. I was taken aback by his choice of destination, but asked what the item to be delivered was.

About 450 pounds of critical oil drilling tools. I’ll pay a lot of money to get them there as soon as possible, he said.

Okay, I replied. But won’t I need something from the State Department, a permission from the Mexican government to fly across Mexico or some official piece of paper?

I’ll give you enough pocket money to handle the mordita, the ‘bite’. That’s what they call the bribe extracted by any Mexican official to do anything down there, he said. That’s all it takes. I’ll pay you $5000 for making the trip, plus $2000 to cover gas and bribes.

Let me think about it, I said.

I want the stuff delivered right away, he replied. Let me know by tomorrow if you can do it.

His immediacy should have given me a clue.

We left it at that while I sought out my wife Mary Rose at her workplace, the local library. She went to a huge atlas and quickly found the proper map. I saw that I could minimize my time to cross Mexico by fueling at McAllen, Texas, and then stopping for fuel only at Tampico and Veracruz in Mexico. My destination was then just across the border on Guatemala’s west coast.

The flight across Mexico appeared to be about 1000 miles; from Cheyenne to McAllen is another 1100 or so, all in all, about a 4200 mile round trip.

My wife Mary Rose was enthusiastic about Summers’ proposition.

It might open some doors to future business. The money he’s paying is more than enough, and God knows, we need it. Go ahead, she said.

Chapter 2

I met Earl the next morning and told him I would make the trip. He opened the trunk on his Buick, and we extracted three wooden crates totaling 550 pounds. We got them loaded into the cargo compartment of the DeHavilland DH—4, and I departed, making a stop in Amarillo for fuel, and then on to McAllen, where I filled my tanks, and then spent the night, sleeping on a hard wooden bench in the line shack.

I left before dawn, planning on a fuel stop at Tampico. The navigation was not that difficult, I simply followed the quite beautiful shoreline.

Upon landing at Tampico I was met at the fuel pump by a boy wearing a dirty uniform, and carrying a rusty Mauser rifle. He held out his hand and crooked a finger, my first experience with the mordida.

As I counted out five bucks, he crooked a finger for more, so I counted out another five, causing him to close his hand and give me a sort of half salute.

I fitted a chamois over the filler neck of my gas tank, and then watched very closely as another Mexican pumped the gas until I had a full tank.The chamois was covered with chips of rust.

I paid him the amount shown on the pump, but then he crooked his finger as the soldier had, and I finally counted out another ten bucks.

I went through much the same routine at Veracruz. So far, the mordida wasn’t all that much, and beat hell out of waiting for official paperwork. I wondered if each of the itchy palms encountered had to pass some of the mordida along to a superior? Probably.

Out of Veracruz I turned southwesterly, watched the land gradually give way to mountains, and, as I came over those mountains, I saw the Pacific Ocean. I then followed the coastline just past the city of Tapachula and knew I was now in Guatemala.

A ragged windsock marked an ill defined dirt airstrip. I flew low over the strip to make sure it was safe to land upon, and then came around again and landed. It was very near sunset, the adjacent jungle in dark, menacing shadows.

As I was about to abandon the delivery, a truck rolled out of the jungle and approached. One man jumped out and climbed up on my wing, leaning over and giving me the words that I expected. His companion was scanning the jungle, a rifle at the ready. This struck me as serious business for simple oil drilling parts.

The DeHavilland’s engine was idling as we opened the cargo hatch, extracted the crates and laid them on the bed of their ancient Ford truck. I watched in amazement as they pried off a lid and extracted one of ten Thompson Tommy guns. Thirty machine guns in all, not the oil rig parts I had expected. I hate to think what would have happened if I had been caught with them in Mexico, or even here in Guatemala.

The leader of the group was smiling as they closed the cases and drove away into the jungle. I waved goodbye and flew just over the border to Tapachula, where I slept under mosquito netting in the local hotel. I left at dawn for Veracruz after paying out another ten in bribes.

The only fuel I could buy was automotive, making my takeoff with a sputtering engine a chancy affair.

I did not relax until I reached San Antonio, where I drank a beer, ate my first ever plate of pinto beans and rice, and then slept most of the night, dreaming about rusty Mauser rifles prodding me in my back.

Mary Rose was really angry when I told her everything that had happened. Earl fed you a line about oil rig parts when he was really running guns. That could have gotten you killed, she said. Never trust that bastard again. Doesn’t he know you have a family here that needs you?

Now, now, honey, I soothed. It paid okay, but I’ll never carry guns again. Understand it, I’m in business and can’t turn down good money just because of one bad trip.

Needless to say, I backed Earl Summers into a corner the next time he came around. He apologized and said that because he made $1000 in gold for each tommy gun delivered, he could not turn down the opportunity. I told him that I would continue to haul for him, but I reserved the right inspect each box of the load. What with opportunities to haul booze or guns, I wondered how many pilots were earning big bucks at it. I felt the penalties for getting caught were simply too high.

Unbeknownst to me, I had established my bona fides with our State Department’s intelligence organization.

Chapter 3

The next day I delivered another Hughes drill bitt to Earl Summers oil drilling site north of Rock Springs, Wyoming. Servicing Earl’s needs cautiously after the tommy gun debacle, I wondered how he made that banana republic connection, and often thought he must have State Department connections or whatever.

Earl had mentioned that he wanted to start drilling operations down south. His two drilling operations in Wyoming, one north of Rock Springs and the other south of Wamsutter, must have been successful, because he drove a big Buick whiskey six and always seemed to have money.

I later