What If “Wrong Way Corrigan” Had a Nagging Wife and a Little Less Nerve? (An Original Short Story)

Taking an event from history and giving it an entirely different outcome is a fun way to build your creativity muscle as a writer. In this piece I took a story that was once well known but the years have began to obscure and gave it a completely different ending.

This is the story of Douglas “Wrong Way” Corrigan who, in the late 1930's, claimed to fly East to Ireland by mistake instead of West to California as his flight plan indicated. I hope you enjoy it!

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What If “Wrong Way Corrigan” Had a Nagging Wife and a Little Less Nerve?

The morning of July 17th, 1938 dawned like many others at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn, New York. It was unseasonably cool for mid-July and the sun was playing hide and seek amongst clouds and a thick layer of fog that settled close to the ground. The birds chirped melodiously and people were rushing about, making their way to church.

Douglas Corrigan had been up before the sun having barely gotten a wink of sleep. All he could do the long night before was lay in his old army cot next to his plane in the aircraft hangar, staring up at the ceiling while he methodically went over his plan. He dreamed up an entire list of excuses as to why he had flown the wrong way to Ireland instead of back home to California: a broken compass needle; bad sense of direction; and poor light in the cabin were the best he could concoct.

Now was the time, Corrigan couldn’t wait any longer. He put on his pilot’s jumpsuit and set foot out of the hangar door. It was utterly impossible for him to wipe the mischievous grin from his face when he saw the sky. The blessed fog.

This was it, the day that all his training had prepared him for. For years the government had denied giving him clearance for his lifelong dream, a transatlantic flight, and he had lost hope that they ever would.

After multiple attempts to be one of the first to fly across the Atlantic and countless miles of governmental red tape the appearance of the blessed fog was not only the perfect excuse but was an affirmation that, this time, even the gods were on his side. He took a long drink of his strong black coffee, winked affectionately at his heavily modified OX5 Robin monoplane parked on the runway and said, “There’s nothin’ they can do to stop us this time, girl.”

Corrigan had taken his first flight many years earlier when he was a mere lad of eighteen. Eagerly arriving with $2.50 in hand, he was taken for a short flight over the city of Los Angeles in an old Curtiss biplane. He had been hooked ever since. Douglas had taken many aircraft mechanics jobs over the years and even worked on the crew that built Lindy’s famous plane, “The Spirit of St. Louis”.

Ever since baring witness to that famous transatlantic flight in 1927 he had vowed to someday make his own symbolic journey to the emerald land of his ancestors, beloved Ireland.

In the distance Corrigan saw a man of slight stature quickly approaching him. His was toting a clipboard and trying his best to keep the wind from snatching his tattered fedora.

“Good Morning Mr. Corrigan.” said the thin man as he squinted over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “The name is Jones, Edward Jones and I’ll be the one seeing you off today.”

Corrigan took the last drink of his coffee, nodding his head, “Good mornin’ to you, Mr. Jones.”

“Hmm. It says here that you’re flying non-stop to California today. Unfortunately, it seems we have a little bit of a problem here Mr. Corrigan.”

Douglas got a lump in his throat as his heart began to beat like a drum in his chest. “Umm, what do you mean Mr. Jones?”
Jones fought with the wind to steady the checklist on his clipboard as he walked around the plane, “You see, because of this here fog rolling in, you can take off any direction but West. As you know, plane loaded with enough fuel to fly cross-country isn’t the easiest to maneuver. Are you confident that you turn ‘er around quickly enough to clear those buildings if you take off in another direction?”

Corrigan took a deep breath and felt as though he had dodged a bullet. He calmed himself as best he could. “I’ve been flyin’ her for years Mr. Jones. You have my word that I‘ll be extra careful.”

These preflight inspections had always been a nightmare for Corrigan. His plane was a patchwork of pieces and parts that were never intended to work together. Inspection approval was always a crapshoot and oftentimes only depended upon the mood of the inspector.

Corrigan sensed the growing disapproval of Mr. Jones by the scowl on his face while he inspected the left wing of the Robin. He knew the inspection had reached a pivotal moment. Douglas reached into the pocket of his blue jumpsuit and pulled out one of his cigars. He decided to sacrifice one of the three that he planned on smoking during his post-flight celebration.

“There’s nothing like a fine Cuban cigar to make this harsh world seem like a more civilized place.” Douglas said as he tucked the cigar into the breast pocket of Jones’ threadbare sports jacket.

The gesture seemed to have the desired effect. The look on Jones’ face changed instantly. He grinned as he touched the lead of a stubby pencil to his tongue and marked off the last box on his checklist.

With a twinkle in his eye Mr. Jones said, “Why thank you sir, it appears that everything is in order here. You’re all cleared for takeoff! Bon voyage Mr. Corrigan.”

If Mr. Jones had any indication of what Corrigan was up to he either sympathized or possibly couldn’t care less. He removed the cigar from his breast pocket and sniffed it slowly then put it in his mouth.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” he said as he struck a match, shielded the struggling flame from the breeze, and puffed a few mouthfuls of pungent smoke. “This telegram came in for you early this morning. I could help but notice it’s from your wife back in California.”

Mr. Jones handed Douglas the thin strip of paper, shook his hand and walked back to his office in the dark back corner of a quonset hut.

Corrigan beamed as he opened that hatch of the OX5 Robin and climbed inside. After firing up the aircraft’s mighty propellers he absent mindedly unfurled the strip of paper, let it drape open across his knee, and read it aloud, “Douglas Corrigan. Stop. I’m warning you, don’t even think of doing what I think you’re about to do. Stop. P.S. Bring home bread and milk. Stop.”

A grimace appeared on his face as he crumpled up the strip of paper and furiously threw it over his shoulder to the littered floor of the cabin.

The plane taxied quickly down the runway and the wheels at last broke free from gravity’s grip. Corrigan expertly cleared the tops of the buildings with plenty of room to spare, just as he had promised.

As the plane reached the safety of cruising altitude the weight of the moment came crashing in on Douglas. This time everything was in his favor except for one thing. It was an important thing and the greatest turbulence he had ever encountered in the sky would pale in comparison to the maelstrom he would suffer through at home if he flew to Ireland.

With his head hanging low, Corrigan turned his plane westward and flew home to California to live out the rest of his days in relative obscurity, forever to be known merely as Douglas instead of “Wrong Way” Corrigan.

(all gifs sourced from Giphy.com)

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