Steve didn’t want to be there. He hoped Phil wouldn’t stay long. Phil’s mother was in the kitchen, helping with the platters of food that had been sent to the house, all wrapped in golden cellophane and tied with curly ribbon. Sandwiches, baskets of fruits, coffee cakes lined up in a row, like at a bakery. Surprisingly, Steve found himself hungry. He helped himself to a Sloppy Joe, potato salad, a pickle, then went back for more. He stuffed himself on coffee cake, slices of cantaloupe and pineapple, a couple of chocolate candies.
He wandered through the house, stopping to look at a tinted photo of Kathy on the piano, her bright eyes looking directly at him. Happy New Year, Steve. He would kiss that photo if no one were watching. Those sweet, warm lips, cold now, buried in the ground. Except he wasn’t sure how much of a body was left to bury. Maybe just that arm with the charm bracelet. Her uncle had identified her by that bracelet, a high school graduation present from her parents. Jeez. He had to shake off these thoughts before he made himself puke. He could already feel the Sloppy Joe trying to decide whether to stay down or come back up.
Elizabeth Daily Post
SECRETARY PATTERSON TO LIE IN STATE
JAN. 24 (UPI)—The body of former Secretary of War Robert P. Patterson, who died Tuesday in a plane crash, will lie in state today in the 107th Regiment Armory at 66th Street and Park Avenue in New York. He once served in the regiment.
The body will be taken to Washington tomorrow for burial at Arlington Cemetery, with full military honors. President Truman and other high government officials will attend funeral services at the National Cathedral there.
Mrs. Patterson Writes a Note
In her Park Avenue apartment, Margaret Patterson, wife of the former Secretary of War, sat at the small French desk in her bedroom and started a note to Laura Barnes, widow of the pilot of the plane, inviting her and her children to spend a day in the country with her family. But she wasn’t able to finish. Instead, she put the note in her desk drawer, closed her pen, took off her reading glasses and sipped the brandy she’d poured for herself. She didn’t blame Captain Timothy Barnes for the loss of her husband. She believed he’d done everything he could to get that plane to Newark Airport. She blamed the weather.
Her thoughts went to Captain Barnes’s young widow and those two little girls who probably wouldn’t even remember their father. At least her children were older. They’d have their memories. And so would she. Not that memories were enough—they didn’t keep you warm on a cold winter’s night. They couldn’t hold you when you were frightened or sad. But they were better than nothing. She was a professional wife. She would go on because that’s what he would want. Maybe in the spring she’d send the note, inviting Laura and the girls to spend a day at their farm upstate.
Elizabeth Daily Post
THE LAST THREE MINUTES
By Henry Ammerman
JAN. 24—At 3:41 p.m. the American Airlines Convair had been circling for 10 minutes, waiting for another transport to land at Newark Airport. With the runway now clear, the tower told the pilot he was free to descend to 1,500 feet, instructing him to listen to radar advisories to aid his instrument approach in the rainy, foggy weather. “Roger,” replied the Convair.
Five and a half miles out, the pilot was informed, “Coming up on glide path but you’re 900 feet to the left of course.”
At four and a half miles out he was “Nearing the course now, you’re 400 feet left.”
By four miles out, “You’re on course now. The Elizabeth Court House is one mile ahead of you.” He was coming over the center of town.
At three and a half miles out, the radar controller issued a warning. “You’re drifting 900 feet to the right of course and you’re a half mile from the Court House.”
Four or 5 seconds later, the reassuring orange blip disappeared from the radar scope.
“American 6780, this is Newark radar. We’ve lost your target, sir.” There was no reply.
“American 6780, this is Newark radio. Do you hear?” Again there was no reply.
As the tower anxiously tried to make contact on other frequencies, calls came in from both the Newark Evening News and the Daily Post. A plane had crashed in Elizabeth.
Now they understood. There would be no reply.
Interviews
LAURA BARNES AGREED to talk with Henry Ammerman. “You know when you marry a pilot, it could happen,” she told him. “You know, but you never expect it. He had so much experience. He was so smart and he always kept his head, never angry or quick-tempered, and on a milk run, of all things. I blame Newark Airport. Something has to be done about that airport before it happens again.” She was red-eyed but composed, Henry wrote. He didn’t tell her that her husband’s wrists had both been broken from trying to hold the controls steady.
“Was it true what you wrote in the paper about the last three minutes?” Laura asked.
“As far as I can tell.”
Days later Laura had a miscarriage, brought on by stress, the doctor said. The house down the shore was put up for sale. Laura never wanted to see it again. She mourned her lost baby but not the way she mourned Tim. She would never love anyone the way she loved him.
Henry requested a meeting with the pilot’s mother. He was told by her remaining son that she was prostrate with grief and could not be reached.
Sometimes Henry hated his job.