A tiny gray dot wobbled into the corner of her gaze. She gasped, and it was gone.

She blinked again. There it was! Like somebody poked a hole in the sky with a needle, except it was moving, it grew larger and took shape.

“She’s in trouble,” said Mrs. Rofrano.

“What? How do you know?”

“Clear the field!” somebody called out, and the crowd turned and scattered, even Mr. Rofrano, who ran toward one of the sheds, followed by the other men. Irene tagged after them. She stopped in the doorway of the shed as the men pulled on the yoke of the fire engine inside.

“Get the door!” yelled Mr. Rofrano.

Irene grasped the door and pulled with all her strength, so it slid all the way open, and the men yanked and yelled at each other and pulled the engine into the sunshine. Now Irene could hear the airplane, humming and sputtering. The fire engine had an enormous tank, and all four men leaned desperately into the yoke as they hauled it down the field, parallel to the wide avenue of beaten grass that formed the landing strip. Irene lifted her skirt and ran to follow them. Her scarf fell free from her hair. She ripped it off and balled it in her hand, in case they needed a bandage or a tourniquet. The noise of the Papillon grew louder. Irene stopped and cast into the sky, where the airplane skimmed downward at a strange angle, sort of sideways, while the wings tilted back and forth.

“It’s the rudder!” somebody shouted.

The fire engine rolled to a stop, halfway down the field, and everybody just stood there watching, because there was nothing to be done, was there? This drama was about the pilot and the plane, the wind and the ground, and everybody else was just a spectator. Irene clenched her fists and her breath. She smelled the burning oil, the fear. In later years, she wished she could remember the way the airplane came in, the hundred tiny maneuvers made by the pilot to compensate for the rudder’s failings, but now, her flying career still before her, she didn’t know a thing about rudders and maneuvers, in her ignorance she didn’t notice any of it. She stood in awe, watching the hairy descent, the swoops and skids of battle, the crump of impact, the dust, the men running, Mr. Rofrano in front of them all.

Hanalei, Hawai’i

October 1947

We’ve all got a thing that terrifies us. I saw a lot of airplanes crash during the war, and I encountered the aftermath countless times more, and still I never did get used to the sight or sound of some machine smashing into the ground.