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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/34589-0.txt b/34589-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b497772 --- /dev/null +++ b/34589-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4634 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Test Pilot, by Jimmy Collins + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Test Pilot + +Author: Jimmy Collins + +Release Date: December 8, 2010 [EBook #34589] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEST PILOT *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net + + + + + + + + + +TEST PILOT + +JIMMY COLLINS + +[Illustration] + +THE SUN DIAL PRESS + +Garden City — New York + +----- + + PRINTED AT THE _Country Life Press_, GARDEN CITY, N. Y., U. S. A. + + COPYRIGHT, 1935 + BY DELORES LACY COLLINS + + COPYRIGHT, 1935 + BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + +----- + + HAPPY LANDINGS + TO + + CAPTAIN JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON (_The News_) + GEORGE HORACE LORIMER (_Saturday Evening Post_) + J. DAVID STERN (_New York Post_) + + for permissions to reprint such parts of this book + as appeared serially in their newspapers + and periodicals. + + —THE PUBLISHERS. + +----- + +FOREWORD + + Jimmy Collins used periodically to try to change his name to Jim + Collins, but he never could make it stick. There was something + about him that made everybody call him Jimmy. He did sign his + wonderful article in the _Saturday Evening Post_ about dive + testing “Jim Collins,” but his friends kidded him so much about + wanting to be a “he-man” that he went back to Jimmy in his + articles for the New York _Daily News_. + + The article from the _Saturday Evening Post_, “Return to Earth,” + which is printed in this book, is the most extraordinary flying + story I have ever read, and as a newspaper and former magazine + editor I have read hundreds of them, from _The Red Knight of + Germany_ down. + + Jimmy wrote his own stuff—every word of it. Not one line has + been added to or taken from any of the stories that appeared in + the _Daily News_. If a story had any unkindness in it, or + reflected on any other pilot’s ability, Jimmy omitted or changed + the name of the person under reproach. + + Jimmy graduated from the army training schools of Brooks and + Kelly fields, in the same class as Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh. + Collins and Lindbergh were two of the four selected for the + pursuit group, which means they were considered to have the + greatest ability in their class. Jimmy afterwards became the + youngest instructor at Kelly Field. + + I was privileged to receive some instruction from Jimmy. He was + a fine teacher, making you know precisely what he wanted and + why. He told me promptly that I lacked coördination. He said, + “Every student lacks coördination, but you lack more of it than + any student I ever saw.” In driving a car, you can go forward or + backward, left or right. An airplane cannot go backward. It can + go forward, right, left, up, down. The coördination that Collins + kept talking about meant that when, for instance, you were going + up and to the right, you should do it in one perfect arc between + the two desired points, not in a wavering line that sometimes + bulged and sometimes flattened itself out. + + Pretty near any dub can be taught to fly some if he has patience + enough and can afford to pay for two or three times as much + instruction as the ordinary man gets. But nobody not born for it + can learn to fly like Collins. His rhythm and reflexes were like + a good orchestra. He was just a natural aviator. He had the + wings of an angel all right, and he was more at home, more + comfortable, more at peace with himself and the world in the air + than he was on the ground, where he sometimes thought himself to + be a misfit. + + Jimmy talked as well as he wrote, drank less than most aviators, + and that’s not so much, and smoked a considerable number of + cigarettes. + + Until the last couple of years, when the depression and his + trade had deepened the lines in his face, he might almost have + been called “pretty,” though it would have been better not to + say that to him. He had light wavy hair, blue eyes, fine white + teeth, smiled a good deal, and as far as his appearance went he + could have been a romantic hero in Hollywood. + + He was the most fearless man I ever knew. No, I take that back. + I have known other aviators whom I considered to be without + fear. Collins was as brave as any of them. Even at best, in + spite of what its adherents say, flying is not a particularly + safe business, and Collins chose the most dangerous branch of + it, that is, dive testing. “Return to Earth,” in this book, + explains that. He said he did it for the money, which was partly + true, but I don’t think entirely so. I think he liked to pull + the whiskers of death and see if he could get away with it. + Anyhow, he had made a resolution that the dive that killed him + should be his last one. Whether he would have kept that + resolution, I doubt. I think he liked the thrill of having + everybody on the field say, “Jimmy is dive testing a bomber this + afternoon.” + + The story, as told by McCory, the photographer, who had a desk + near to him, is that he said to Collins, “Jimmy, you are making + some money now out of your newspaper articles. Why don’t you + stop this test racket?” And Collins answered, “I will. I was + under contract to do twelve dives on this navy ship, and I have + done eleven. The next one is going to be my last.” Then he + paused, smiled his bright smile, and said, “At that, it might + be.” + + —JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON + +----- + +CONTENTS + + TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN + RETURN TO EARTH + COLLISION, ALMOST + HE HAD WHAT IT TOOK + DRY MOTOR + IMAGINATION + I SPIN IN + BUSINESS BEFORE FAME + EVERYTHING WRONG + A SHOWY STUNT + DEATH ON THE GRIDIRON + NOVICE NEAR DEATH + HUNGRY’S SHIP BURNED + BACK-SEAT PALS + WATCH YOUR STEP! + FLYER ENJOYS WORRY + WEATHER AND WHITHER + I SEE + WON ARGUMENT LOST + MONK HUNTER + COULDN’T TAKE IT + GOOD LUCK + WILL ROGERS IN THE AIR + HE NEVER KNEW + BONNY’S DREAM + COB-PIPE HAZARDS + WHOOPEE! + BUILDING THROUGH + MUCH! + CROSS-COUNTRY SNAPSHOTS + REMINISCENCE + MEXICAN WHOOPEE! + IT’S A TOUGH RACKET + ALMOST + RUN! RUN! RUN! + HIGH FIGHT + GESTURE AT REUNIONS + AS I SAW IT + WAS MY FACE RED! + CO-PILOT + ORCHIDS TO ME! + RECOVERY ACT + “A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME....” + “YES, SIR!” + MOONLIGHT AND SILVER + FIVE MILES UP + AËRIAL COMBAT + WINGS OVER AKRON + TEARS AND ACROBATICS + ACROSS THE CONTINENT + THE FLYER HIKES HOME + KILLED BY KINDNESS + THE FIRST CRACK-UP + A POOR PROPHET + TOO MUCH KNOWLEDGE + HIDDEN FAULTS + “DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY” + CONFESSION + GONE ARE THE DAYS + “LOOK WHO TAUGHT HER” + A FAULTY RESCUE + HELPING THE ARMY + APOLOGY + I AM DEAD + + + + +TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN + + +I am an American citizen. I was born in Warren, O., U. S. A., on April +25, 1904. I am the youngest of the three remaining children of a family +of seven. My paternal grandfather came to this country from Ireland. He +was a basket weaver by trade and a Protestant by religion. My father was +a bricklayer by trade. He died when I was five. My mother, whose people +hailed largely from Pennsylvania, scrubbed floors, took in washings, +sewed, baked, made handiwork and sold it, worked in restaurants, and so +managed, with the help of charity, relatives, and my older sister when +she got old enough to help, to send me to grammar school and through two +years of high school. Then she died. + +I was sixteen. My sister was unable to carry me further. I went to work +in the boot-and-shoe department of the Goodrich Rubber Factory at Akron, +O. + +I worked there a year and found conditions and my prospects intolerable. +I applied for permission to work a part shift at night. It was granted. +This reduced my income but allowed me to go to school in the daytime. + +For three years I worked at night in the factory and went to school by +day. I completed my high schooling and a year of college (Akron, O.) in +this manner. + +Then I applied for entrance to the United States Army Air Service +Primary Flying School, was examined, found qualified, and admitted. One +hundred and four others were admitted to this same class. Charles A. +Lindbergh was one of them. Our status, as well as that of the other 104, +was that of an enlisted man with a flying cadet rating. + +A year later, in March, 1925, I was one of eighteen who graduated from +the Army Advanced Flying School, Kelly Field, San Antonio, Tex. The rest +of the 104 had been disqualified during the course, only the eighteen +most apt being kept. Of these eighteen who graduated, four had been +chosen to specialize in pursuit flying. Lindbergh and myself were two of +these four. Upon graduating from the Advanced Flying School, I was +discharged from the army, and commissioned a second lieutenant in the +United States Army Reserve Flying Service (now Air Corps). + +I went back to Akron after getting my commission as a reserve flyer and +discovered that there was no market for my newly acquired ability. I +tried to get a job as mail pilot with N. A. T. in Cleveland but was told +I didn’t have enough experience. I tried to get a job with Martin +Airplane Company in Cleveland and couldn’t. I was almost broke. I +decided to return to the rubber factories and go back to school the next +fall. I got a job with the Goodyear Company, in the factory. + +But I couldn’t take it any more. I quit the job in two months and took +my one bag and my eighty dollars and went to Columbus, O., where there +was a reserve flying field. I flew a couple of weeks there, sleeping in +a deserted clubhouse and eating at the gas station across the street. I +was earning no money, of course, the ship being available to me for +practice only. So I applied for a two weeks’ tour of active duty at +Wright Field and got it. I was paid for that. While there I applied for +a six months’ tour of active duty at Selfridge Field, and also got that. +I was paid an officer’s (second lieutenant) salary on this duty. + +At the expiration of the active duty tour at Selfridge I applied for +another six months but couldn’t get it because there was no more money +available for that purpose, but I was told that there was some cadet +money left over and that if I was willing to reënlist as a cadet they +could keep me there in that status for another six months. I decided I +would try to get on with Ford first, and if that failed to accept the +cadet status. + +Ford was just getting under way with his tri-motor aviation venture at +that time. He had an airplane factory at Dearborn Airport. Selfridge +Field is just outside of Detroit, so I moved into Detroit and applied +for a job as pilot at Ford’s Dearborn Airport. I was told that the only +way I could get on as pilot was first to get a job in the automobile +plant, and that I would later be transferred to the airplane plant, and +still later to the airline between Detroit and Chicago as pilot. After +standing in long lines every morning for a week I finally got a job in +the automobile factory. I was given a badge with a number and told to +report to such and such a department the next morning. + +Early on the morning I was to start work at the Ford factory I got on a +street car and started for the plant. I had on work clothes and my +badge. Long lines of workers sat on either side of me. Across the aisle +another long line sat facing me. They sat with hunched shoulders and +vacant faces, dinner pails on their laps, eyes staring lifelessly at +nothing. The car lurched and jolted along, and their bodies lurched and +jolted listlessly like corpses in it. A sense of unspeakable horror +seized me. I had forgotten the rubber factories. Now I remembered them +again, but I didn’t remember anything as horrible as this. These men +impressed me as things, not men, horribly identical things, degraded, +hopeless, lifeless units of some grotesque machines. I felt my identity +and my self-respect oozing out of me. I couldn’t become part of that. I +couldn’t. Not even for a short time. Not even long enough to get into +the airplane factory and then to become pilot. Not even for that. I +wouldn’t. Not for anything. Life was too short. Even cadet status in the +army was better. I got off the car at the factory. I watched the men +file into the factory. I shuddered across the street. I caught the next +car back to town. It was like getting away from a prison I had almost +been put into. I went out to Selfridge Field and enlisted as a cadet. + +I began to think. What would I do when the six months was up? Go back to +Akron, the factories, and school? I couldn’t stand the thought of the +factories. A college degree wouldn’t be worth it. Besides, I would drop +out of aviation. But how? Stay in aviation? Stay in the army? How? As an +enlisted man? I didn’t like that thought. As an officer? It would be +difficult to get a regular commission, and even so, where would I get in +the army? Go outside and take my chances? The outside was a cold +unfriendly place. I was afraid of it by then. Your percentage chance was +small outside. The army was warm and secure. O. K. I’d try to get a +commission. + +Two months after my sudden decision not to work in a factory I passed my +army exams and got my commission. But unfortunately I began to read. I +had made up my mind to get the equivalent of a liberal college degree by +reading. And I accidentally ran across Bernard Shaw. I was twenty-one +years old. All my life I had been keenly aware of contradictions in life +all around me, and all my life they had worried me and I had wrestled +with them, attempting to resolve them in my own way. Shaw opened a whole +new world to me which I explored eagerly. I was transferred to Brooks +Field, Tex., as an instructor. I had a lot of fine times. I continued to +read Shaw. The idea of socialism struck me immediately as eminently +just. I agreed with the wrong of capitalism. I had already thrown over +religion. But I remember that the whole experience left me unsatisfied. +The question of what to do about it kept arising in my mind. And I +remember the inadequacy I felt for the only implied answer in Shaw’s +works I could find, that to preach was the answer, and hope that the +other preachers in other generations would take up the good work, until +some hazy future generation, in the dim and distant, the beautiful, and +perfect beyond, would benefit from the preaching and start living by +it—or maybe it would just happen gradually, evolutionarily, as lungs +develop out of gills. + +By 1928 I was still in the air corps, instructing, and reading Shaw. +Early in that year I was transferred from Brooks Field, San Antonio, +Tex., to March Field, Riverside, Calif., and again assigned to work as +instructor. I considered myself a Socialist by then. I also considered +myself a pacifist. To find one’s self a convinced Socialist and a +pacifist and at the same time a professional soldier, at the age of +twenty-four, places one, if one is conscientious, as I was, in a +considerable dilemma. + +In the days when I was instructing army flyers and reading socialism I +still had something that I fondly and innocently called morals, an evil +left-over from my early and vigorous religious upbringing. So I decided +that the only moral thing I could do was to get out of the army. Several +other practical considerations supported my “morality” in this decision. +One was the fact that I had had four years of military training as an +aviator. The other was the fact that Lindbergh had flown to Paris, and, +as a result of the stimulus that aviation received from the publicity +given Lindbergh upon his return, there existed a commercial market for +my flying ability, in which I could at that time sell that ability for a +much higher wage than the army was paying me for it. + +Accordingly I resigned my commission in the Air Corps in April, 1928, +and accepted a job as airplane and engine inspector for the newly found +aeronautic branch of the Department of Commerce, and, after a little +schooling at Washington on the nature of my new duties, and after flying +Secretary McCracken on a long tour around the country, I was assigned +the charge of the Metropolitan area and headquartered at Roosevelt +Field. + +I found the post very uncongenial because I found myself with no +assistant, swamped with more work than I could adequately have handled +even with a couple of assistants, and because there was too much paper +work and office work and too little flying. So, six months later, after +receiving a pay raise and a letter of commendation, I resigned from the +department and I took a job with Curtiss Flying Service, which I found +much more congenial because it was almost purely a flying job. + +My work there soon attracted the attention of the Curtiss Airplane and +Motor Company, and I was asked to become their chief test pilot, which I +did in November, 1928. + +I worked for them for six months, mostly on military stuff, and when I +resigned to take what I thought was going to be a better job, I was +asked to stay on with them. + +For almost a year after that I was vice president of a little aviation +corporation. The company didn’t do well. The depression was in full +swing. I didn’t agree with the company policies. Early in 1930 I +resigned. + +After my resignation from the vice presidency of the aviation concern I +did private flying—flying for private owners of aircraft, rich men—and I +experienced wide gaps of unemployment between jobs. But since I left the +army I had been reading and thinking about “social” matters. I ran +across the “radical” press in New York. I began reading Walter Duranty +in the _Times_. I read books on Russia. I fought against the idea of +communism. It seemed stupid and crude to me. But step by step—I +stubbornly fought all the way—the beautifully clear logic of communism +broke down all my barriers, and I was forced to admit to myself that the +Bolsheviks had the only complete and effective answer to the riddle of +the world I lived in. + +I began to consider myself a Communist. My bourgeois friends, and they +ranged from the very elite to the petty, thought I was nuts. I, in turn, +thought they were unreasonable and talked myself blue in the face trying +to convince them of it. I became quite a parlor pink. It took me a +couple of years to realize the futile ridiculousness of my antics, of +attempting to turn the bourgeoisie to communism. It took me that long +because I didn’t at first grasp the full implications of the class basis +of my convictions and did not realize that, like a fish out of water, I +was a born and bred proletarian justified by peculiar circumstances with +a position of isolation from my class and with contact with an alien +class. + +And when that realization began to dawn on me—dimly at first—the +question of what to do about it again arose in my mind. + +I pondered the matter a long time. I was already over the romantic +notion that the thing to do was to go to Russia, as I had had a spell of +thinking. I sensed that that, in a way, would be running away. It +occurred to me to join the party, but I didn’t know exactly how to go +about it or even if I could. I furthermore didn’t get a very clear +picture of just what good I could do even if I did. I was also, having +got married and begun a family in the meantime, pretty much absorbed in +personal adjustment and just the plain economic details necessary to +existence. + +It finally occurred to me that I could do something for the radical +cause right where I was, in aviation, instead of going to Russia. But +what? And how? I didn’t know. I decided that there were undoubtedly +people in the party who did. If you want to build a house, go to an +architect. If you want to build an airplane, go to an aeronautical +engineer. If you want to build a revolutionary organization, go to a +revolutionary leader. It was a naïve but a direct, an honest, and a +logical method of reasoning, you must admit. So I found out from the +_Daily Worker_ where headquarters was and went down. + +I felt a little ridiculous and abashed when I got there. I sensed, +rather than reasoned, that I was suspected because of my approach. It +didn’t bother me enough to stop me, because I was sincere, but it did +embarrass me. + +Shortly after that, at Roosevelt, I accidentally ran across a +mimeographed four-page paper, the organ of a club of aviation students. +I picked it up and idly began reading it. It sat me bolt upright in my +chair. It expressed everything that I felt. I had thought I was an +exception, that nobody else in the whole game felt as I did about +economic, social, and political matters. But this paper indicated that I +wasn’t a complete exception. It excited me terrifically. I noted the +name of the paper and the name of the club that had issued it. I had +never before heard of either one. I ran around madly asking everybody I +knew what the club was, where it was, who it was. I couldn’t find out +much, but I did find where the club rooms were and when meetings were +held. I went down to the next meeting. I joined up. + +Out of that organization grew another, on a broader basis, planned to +move adequately to meet the needs of the workers as a whole in the +industry, which was still small, and of which I was an active member. + +Word of my organizing activities with this group got around to my boss, +and that, together with other things, was the reason for my being fired +from my job of private pilot for a certain very rich man. + +After being discharged for radical activity by my rich boss I learned +discretion, which, somebody said long ago, is the better part of valor. +And I did not lose my valor: I continued to work with the disapproved +group. But I was out of a job, and I had a wife and two small children +to support. I had also learned a few things, so that I knew them now +utterly, and not only intellectually, as I did a while ago. One of them +is the class basis of my convictions. I began inquiring, and I learned +that I was the only pilot of my training and experience that I knew of +who had a working-class background. All others that I knew, and also a +good many mechanics, had middle-class background. That accounted for the +different way I saw things. + +I was now face to face with a peculiar problem. Unemployment was rampant +in this industry as in every other. In looking for a job, I discovered +that the Chinese government (Nationalist-Nanking and Canton) was looking +for a few men. I submitted qualifications to a high-ranking Chinese in +this country and was answered by him that owing to my military and +testing experience I was eminently qualified, and that he would set +machinery in motion immediately to get me a job. China, of course, was +very busy building up a Nationalist air force. I would be used as an +adviser in their school and factories. + +But I was a Communist. Would the Chinese Nationalist Air Force, which I +would be helping to build up, be used against the Chinese Soviets? +Against the U. S. S. R.? And still I must earn a living. What if several +prospects I had for jobs failed to materialize before the Chinese +proposition did? Should I or should I not go? If I went, what rôle +should I play? How dangerous would my position be? Would I be of more +value here, now that our organizational efforts were bearing fruit? And +so on did the questions in my mind run. + +At that time my wife and two small children were on the farm with my +mother-in-law and father-in-law in Oklahoma. What should I do? + + + + +RETURN TO EARTH + + +I was sitting around the restaurant at Roosevelt Field Hotel with the +rest of the unemployed pilots, smoking, talking, sipping the eternal cup +of coffee, hoping that something would turn up, when the phone rang and +the girl who answered it called for me. + +“It’s long distance,” she added as I brushed past her on my way out to +take the call, and I couldn’t help running the rest of the way. I had +put in word at a factory some time ago if anything turned up to let me +know. Maybe my luck was changing. + +“Hello,” I said eagerly as I grabbed the receiver, and before the +familiar voice on the other end told me I knew I was talking to the guy +who hired the pilots for the company. + +“I’ve got a job for you,” he announced, “demonstrating one of our new +airplanes for the navy.” + +“What kind of a demonstration?” I asked warily. + +“A dive demonstration,” he said. I knew what that meant all right. Ten +thousand feet straight down, just to see if it would hang together. I +wasn’t so sure my luck was changing after all. + +“What kind of a ship?” I asked. I hoped it wasn’t too experimental. I +had dived airplanes before. The last one, six years before, I had dived +to pieces. I still remembered the exploding crack of those wings tearing +off. I remember the dazing blow of the instrument board as my head had +snapped forward against it from the sudden lurch of the midair failure, +and dimly then the slow, limp slumping into unconsciousness. I +remembered how I had come to, thousands of feet later, and leaped my way +clear, only to be threatened by the falling wreck on top and the +rushing-at-me earth beneath. I remembered the tumbling, jerking stop as +my chute had opened after the long drop, and how startlingly close the +ground had looked. I remembered how white and safe against the blue sky +those billowing folds of that chute had looked, and then immediately the +awful heart-pound, breath-stop fear that that milling wreck would take a +derelict pass at it. I remembered the acute relief of hearing the loud +report that told me the wreck had hit the ground, and then the “What if +that had clutched me!” when they told me afterward how close it really +had come. + +“It’s a bomber fighter, second model, first-production job, a +single-seater biplane with a seven-hundred-horsepower engine,” the man +at the other end said. That was encouraging anyway. It wasn’t the +experimental job. + +I had heard that another free-lance test pilot like myself had recently +jumped out of a ship he had been diving. His prop had broken and torn +his motor clear out of his ship. He had got down with his chute all +right, but he had hit the fin as he had gone past the tail surfaces +getting out of the wreck. He had broken a couple of legs and an arm and +was in the hospital at that moment. I knew he had been doing some +diving. + +I wondered why they didn’t use one of their own men. They had a very +fine staff of test pilots right there at the factory. “What’s wrong with +your pilots?” I asked. + +“Well, to be frank about it,” was the answer, “while we really don’t +expect any trouble with this ship, because we have taken every possible +precaution that we know about, still, you never can tell. Our chief test +pilot now, you know, has done seven of these dive demonstrations. We +feel that that is about enough to ask one man to do on a salary, and he +feels that he has had about enough anyway. None of the rest of our men +have ever done any of this work before. Besides, why should we take a +chance on breaking up our organization if we can call a free lance in?” +So that was it! After all, why shouldn’t they look at it that way? + +I thought of the already long absence of my family. My wife and my +year-and-a-half-old son and my half-year-old daughter were still on my +father-in-law’s farm in Oklahoma, where I had sent them in the spring to +make sure they would be able to eat during the summer. If I could make +enough money—— + +“How much is there in it for me?” I asked. + +“Fifteen hundred dollars,” he said. “If the job takes longer than ten +days we will pay you an additional thirty-five dollars a day. We will +insure your life for fifteen thousand dollars for the duration of the +demonstrations and provide for disability compensation. We will also pay +your expenses, of course. So, if you are still free, white, and +twenty-one—” His voice trailed off, posing the question. + +“Well, I’m still free and white,” I answered, “but I am no longer +twenty-one. I’m thirty now, you know. Old enough to know better. But +I’ll take your job.” + +“We will wire you as soon as the ship is ready,” he said and hung up. + +I came back to the gang at the table. They were still sipping their +coffee, smoking, talking, and undoubtedly hoping for an odd job to come +in. + +“I’ve got a job,” I announced, beaming. + +“What kind of a job?” they all piped up. + +“Diving one of the new fighters for the navy,” I replied as casually as +I could. + +“Boy, you can have it!” they chorused. + +“I’ve got it,” I snapped. “And anyway,” I added, “I won’t be dropping +dead of starvation around here this winter.” + +They razzed me for a while, and I razzed them back. They wanted to know +what kind of flowers I wanted. I wanted to know if they were planning on +just breakfast or just dinner when they got down to that one meal a day +this winter. + +After a while, as soon as my elation in contemplation of the fifteen +hundred bucks wore off, I didn’t feel so cocky. I really might get +bumped off in that crate. Maybe I could have got by without taking the +job. + +I remembered that dive of six years before. It had been different then. +It hadn’t occurred to me at that time that airplanes would fall apart. +Oh, I knew they would. I knew they had. It was something, however, that +had happened to other test pilots and might happen to some more, but not +to me. + +I remembered the times I had jumped, startled wide awake from sleep in +the nights, not immediately after that failure, but some months later. +No special dreams of horror. Just the delayed action of some +subterranean mechanism of fright in my subconscious brain. I had been +honestly convinced during my waking hours up to that time that that +failure had not made much of an impression on me. + +I remembered the subconscious fear of just normal excess speed that had +grown on me since then. I wouldn’t nose an airplane down very much from +level cruising speed and open the throttle coming in from a +cross-country, for instance. A couple of times when I had done it +without thinking, I had found myself practically bending the throttle +backwards to kill the speed when I had suddenly become aware of it. + +These things convinced me that that failure had made a deeper impression +on me than I had thought. I realized it the more when I contemplated +these new dives I was about to do. I knew I was more afraid of them than +I would admit. + +“Death in the Afternoon, or Reunion in Oklahoma,” I thought. You’ve got +to take some chances. I didn’t see how I was going to get the money to +bring the family back any other way. + +Besides, I thought I could beat the game by being smart. I knew a lot of +boys who hadn’t been able to, and I knew they had had good heads on +their shoulders. + +----- + +Two weeks later I stepped out of a taxi in front of the hangar at the +airport. Some experimental military airplanes were sitting outside. It +was good to see military airplanes again. There is something about +military airplanes—something businesslike. + +I entered the hangar office. The engineers were waiting for me. I knew +most of them from working with them before. They were all still just +pink-faced kids. But I knew they were bright kids. They knew their stuff +and had all had quite a lot of experience. + +They greeted me with a queer sort of smile on their faces, the way you +greet somebody you know is being played for a sucker. Maybe they were +right. Undoubtedly they were. But I resented that smile in a mild sort +of way. + +Bill was there. I had known Bill since before he had become their chief +test pilot. He had that same queer smile on his face. + +“Hey, Bill,” I said to him, greeting him with a quizzical smile +answering his own, “why don’t you dive this funny airplane?” + +“I got smart and chiseled my way out of this one,” he said. + +“It is a sap’s game,” I agreed with him. “But starvation is dangerous +too.” He laughed, and we all laughed. + +He studied me for a minute. We hadn’t seen each other in a couple of +years. Finally he said soberly, “You’ve grown older, Jim.” + +“Yeah, I’ve grown older, Bill,” I answered him banteringly, “and I want +to grow a lot older too. I want to have a nice long white beard trailing +out in the slip stream some day. So I hope you guys are building good +airplanes for diving. By the way, let’s go out in the hangar and take a +look at the crate. After all, I’m mildly interested in it, you know.” + +We all went out into the hangar. There was the ship, suspended from a +chain hoist with its wheels just off the cement in the middle of a large +cleared area. It was silver and gleamed even in the somewhat darkened +interior. It looked sturdy and squat and bulldoggish, as only a military +fighting ship can. I was glad it looked sturdy. + +A group of mechanics were swarming around it and over it and under it. +They all looked up as we approached the ship. I knew most of them. I was +introduced to the others. You could see that they felt toward that ship +as a brood hen feels toward her eggs. They didn’t want me to break it. I +didn’t want to break it either. + +I walked around the ship and looked it over. The engineers pointed out +special features and talked metal construction and forged fittings and +stress analysis and safety factors, and I asked questions. I was +fascinated by the wires that braced the wings. They looked big enough to +hold up the Brooklyn Bridge. I liked those wires. + +I learned that a pilot had been up there and had gone over the whole +stress analysis with them and had recommended only one little change in +the ship, which had been made. I learned that he had expressed +willingness to dive the ship after that, but that he had been unable to +because another job he had contracted to do some time previously was +coming up at the same time this one was. I was glad to hear this man had +gone over the ship. He was not only one of the most, if not the most, +competent test pilots in the country, but also a very good engineer, +which I was not. + +I crawled into the cockpit. There were more gadgets in it. Something for +everything except putting wings back on in the air. The racket had +changed, I decided. In the old days, dive demonstrating hadn’t been so +accurate a thing. You took a ship up and did a good dive with it and +came down and everybody was happy. But now, as I could see, they had +developed a lot of recording as well as indicating instruments. You used +to be able to get away with something. You couldn’t get away with +anything now. They could take a look at all those trick instruments +after you had come down and tell just what you had done. They could tell +accurately and didn’t have to take your word for it. + +There was one instrument there, for instance, that the pilot couldn’t +see. It was called a vee-gee recorder. It made a pattern on a smoked +glass of about the size of one of those paper packets of matches. This +pattern told them, after the pilot had come down, just how fast he had +dived, what kind of a dive he had made, and what kind of a pull-out he +had done. + +There was another instrument there that I had never seen before. It +looked something like a speedometer and was called an accelerometer. I +was soon to find out what that was for! Oh, they told me what it was for +then. They explained everything in the cockpit to me, and I sat there +and familiarized myself with it as best I could on the ground before +taking the ship out. But I wasn’t really to find out what that +accelerometer was for until I used it. And did I find out then! + +We rolled the ship out that afternoon, after last-minute adjustments had +been made on it—an airplane is like a woman that way: it always has to +have last-minute adjustments—and I made a familiarization flight in it. +I just took it off and flew it around at first. Then I began feeling it +out. I rocked it and horsed it and yanked it and pulled it and watched. +I watched the wires, the wings, the tail. Any unusual flexing? Abnormal +vibration? Any flutter? I brought the ship down and had it inspected +that night. + +The next day I did the same thing. But I went a little bit further this +time. I built up some speed. I did shallow dives. I listened and felt +and watched. I did steeper dives. Anything unusual? + +This went on for several days. Some minor changes and adjustments were +made. Finally I said I was ready to start the official demonstrations, +and the official naval observers were called out to watch. + +I did five speed dives first. These were to demonstrate that the ship +would dive to terminal velocity. Contrary to popular opinion, a falling +object will not go faster and faster and faster and faster. It will go +faster and faster only up to a certain point. That point is reached when +the object creates by its own passage through the air enough air +resistance to that passage to equal in pounds the weight of the object. +When that point is reached, the object will not fall any faster, no +matter how much longer it falls. It is said to be at terminal velocity. +A diving airplane is only a falling object, but it is a highly +streamlined one, and therefore capable of a very high terminal velocity. +A man falling through the air cannot attain a speed greater than about a +hundred and twenty miles an hour. But the terminal velocity of an +airplane is a lot more than that. + +I led up to it carefully. I went to fifteen thousand feet to start the +first dive. The ship dove smooth and steady. I pulled out at three +hundred miles an hour and climbed back up to do the next dive. I dove to +three hundred and twenty miles an hour this time. Everything was fine. +Everything was fine as far as I could tell, but when I had eased out of +the dive I brought the ship down for inspection before I did the next +two dives. + +I did the next two dives to three hundred and forty miles an hour and +three hundred and sixty. I lost seven thousand feet in the last one. It +had me casting the old fish eye around to see if everything was holding +before I got through it. Everything held, but I brought the ship down +for inspection again before the final speed dive. + +I went to eighteen thousand feet for the final one. It was cold up +there, and the sky was very blue. I lined all up facing down wind and +found myself checking everything very methodically. Was I in high pitch? +Was the mixture rich? Was the landing gear folded tightly? Was the +stabilizer rolled? Was the rudder tab adjusted? I was a little extra +methodical and extra deliberate. I knew that my mind wasn’t normally +clear. I was breathing harder than usual. It was the altitude. There +wasn’t enough oxygen. I was a little groggy. + +I was a little worried about my ears. I had always had to blow my ears +out when just normally losing altitude. I had funny ears like that that +wouldn’t adjust themselves. I might break an eardrum. + +I eased the throttle back, rolled the ship over in a half roll, and +stuck her down. I felt the dead, still drop of the first part of the +dive. I saw the air-speed needle race around its dial, heard the roaring +of the motor mounting and the whistle of the wires rising, and felt the +increasing stress and stiffness of the gathering speed. I saw the +altimeter winding up—winding down, rather! Down to twelve thousand feet +now. Eleven and a half. Eleven. I saw the air-speed needle slowing down +its racing on its second lap around the dial. I heard the roaring motor +whining now, and the whistling wires screaming, and felt the awful +racking of the terrific speed. I glanced at the air-speed needle. It was +barely creeping around the dial. It was almost once and a half around +and was just passing the three-eighty mark. I glanced at the altimeter. +It was really winding up now! The sensitive needle was going around and +around. The other needle read ten thousand, nine and a half, nine. I +looked at the air-speed needle. It was standing still. It read three +ninety-five. You could feel it was terminal velocity. You could feel the +lack of acceleration. You could hear it too. You could hear the motor at +a peak whine, holding it. You could hear the wires at a peak scream, +holding it. I checked the altimeter. Eight and a half. At eight I would +pull out. + +Suddenly something shifted on the instrument board and something hit me +in the face. I sickeningly remembered that dazing smack on the head of +six years before, and the old electric startle shock convulsed me as I +remembered the resounding crack of those wings tearing off. I +involuntarily took a fear-glazed glance at my wings and instinctively +tightened up on the stick and began to ease out of the dive. Through the +half-daze pull-out and the dawning ice-cold clearness always +aftermathing fright I dimly checked the trouble while I leveled out. +When I had got level and got things quieted down and my head had cleared +I saw that I was right. Only the glass cover had vibrated off the +manifold-pressure instrument, and the needle had popped off the dial. I +was thoroughly shaken. And I was mad because I had allowed so little a +thing to upset me so much. + +I checked my altimeter. It read five thousand feet. I figured I had +dived eleven thousand and taken two for recovery. + +My ears had a lot of pressure on them. I held both nostrils and blew. +The pressure inside popped my ears out easily. They were going to stand +the diving all right. + +I brought the ship down to be inspected that night and decided to +celebrate the successful conclusion of the long dive. Cirrus clouds were +forming high up in the blue sky, so I figured maybe I could do it +safely. I went up to the weather bureau on the field to check on it. + +“How is the weather for tomorrow?” I asked. “Terrible, I hope.” + +“I think it will be,” the weather man said. He consulted his charts +further. “Yes, it will be,” he assured me. + +“Definitely?” I pressed him. + +He looked his charts over again. “Yes,” he reassured me, “definitely. +You won’t be able to fly tomorrow.” + +“Swell!” I exclaimed to the mildly startled man. He didn’t quite get it. + +It was lousy the next morning, all right. You couldn’t see across the +field. Even the birds were walking. The engineers were dismayed. They +wanted to get on with the demonstrations. I was overjoyed. I had a head. +I had celebrated a little too much. + +Along about the middle of the morning it began to lift. The engineers +began to cheer up. I watched with gathering apprehension while it lifted +still further and began to break. In an incredibly short time there were +only a few clouds in the sky. I was practically sick about it, but the +engineers, with beaming faces, were having the ship pushed out. + +I went up to the field lunch wagon to get a cup of coffee while the +mechanics warmed up the ship. + +I went back down to the hangar and crawled into the ship to do the first +two of the next set of five dives. These were to demonstrate pull-outs +instead of speed. Here was where I found out what the accelerometer was +for. + +I knew that the accelerometer was to indicate the force of the +pull-outs. I knew that it indicated them in terms of _g_, or gravity. I +knew that in level flight it registered one _g_, which meant, among +other things, that I was being pulled into my seat with a force equal to +my own weight, or one hundred and fifty pounds. I knew that when I +pulled out of a dive, the centrifugal force of the pull-out would push +the _g_ reading up in exactly the same proportion that it would pull me +down into my seat. I knew that I had to pull out of a ten-thousand-foot +dive hard enough to push the _g_ reading up to nine, and pull me down +into my seat with a force equal to nine times my own weight, or thirteen +hundred and fifty pounds. I knew that that would put a considerable +stress on the airplane, and that that was the reason the Navy wanted me +to do it; they wanted to see if it could take it. But what I didn’t know +was that it would put such a terrific stress on me. I had no idea what a +nine _g_ pull-out meant to the pilot. + +I decided to start the dives out at three hundred miles an hour and +increase each succeeding dive in increments of twenty miles an hour for +the first four dives, as I had in the speed dives. I decided to pull out +of the first dive to five and a half _g_, and pull out of each +succeedingly faster dive one _g_ harder, until I had pulled out of the +fourth dive of three hundred and sixty miles an hour to eight and a half +_g_. Then I would do the grand dive of ten thousand feet to terminal +velocity and pull out to nine _g_. + +I took off and went up to fifteen thousand feet and stuck her down to +three hundred miles an hour. I horsed back on the stick and watched the +accelerometer. Up she went, and down into my seat I went. Centrifugal +force, like some huge invisible monster, pushed my head down into my +shoulders and squashed me into that seat so that my backbone bent and I +groaned with the force of it. It drained the blood from my head and +started to blind me. I watched the accelerometer through a deepening +haze. I dimly saw it reach five and a half. I eased up on the stick, and +the last thing I saw was the needle starting back to one. I was blind as +a bat. I was dizzy as a coot. I looked out at my wings on both sides. I +couldn’t see them. I couldn’t see anything. I watched where the ground +ought to be. Pretty soon it began to show up like something looming out +of a morning mist. My sight was returning, due to the eased pressure +from letting up on the stick. Soon I could see clearly again. I was +level, and probably had been for some time. But my head was hot with a +queer sort of burning sensation, and my heart was pounding like a water +ram. + +“How am I going to do a nine-_g_ pull-out if I am passing out on five +and a half?” I thought. I decided that I had held it too long and that I +would get the next reading quicker and release it sooner, so I wouldn’t +be under the pressure so long. + +I noticed that my head was completely cleared from the night before. I +didn’t know whether it was the altitude or the pull-out. One or the +other, or both, I decided, was good for hang-overs. + +I climbed back to fifteen thousand feet and stuck her down to three +hundred and twenty miles an hour. I horsed back quick on the stick this +time. I overshot six and a half and hit seven before I released it. I +could feel my guts being sucked down as I fought for sight and +consciousness, but the quicker pull and the earlier release worked, and +I was able to read the instruments at the higher _g_. + +I brought the ship down for inspection. Everything was all right. I went +back up again and did the next two. They sure did flatten me out, but +the ship took it fine. I brought it down for a thorough inspection that +night. + +I felt like I had been beaten. My eyes felt like somebody had taken them +out and played with them and put them back in again. I was droopy tired +and had sharp shooting pains in my chest. My back ached, and that night +I blew my nose and it bled. I was a little worried about that nine-_g_ +business. + +The next morning was one of those crisp, golden autumn days. The sky was +as blue as indigo and as clear as a mountain stream. One of those good +days to be alive. + +To my surprise, I felt fine. “Those pull-outs must be a tonic,” I +thought. + +I went out to do the terminal-velocity dive with the nine-_g_ pull-out. +I found that the last dive I had done the day before had flattened out +the fairing on the belly of the ship. The sudden change of attitude of +the ship in the eight-and-a-half _g_ pull-out had pushed the belly up +against that pretty solid three-hundred-and-sixty-mile-an-hour blast of +air and crushed the metal bracings that held the belly fairing in shape +as neatly as if you had gone over it with a steam roller. It was not a +structural part of the ship, however, as far as strength went, and could +be repaired that day. They decided to beef up the bracings when they +repaired it. + +While I was waiting on the repair I talked with a navy commander who had +just flown up from Washington. I told him my worry about the nine _g_. +He said to yell as I horsed back and it would help. I thought he was +kidding me. It seemed so silly. But he was serious. He said it would +tense the muscles of the abdomen and the neck and preserve sight and +consciousness longer. + +Somebody during that wait told me about an army pilot who, several years +before, in some tests at Wright Field, had accidentally got too much +_g_, due to a faulty accelerometer. He got some enormously high reading +like twelve or fourteen. He ruptured his intestines and broke blood +vessels in his brain. He was in the hospital about a year and finally +got out. He would never be right again, they told me. He was a little +bit goofy. I thought to myself that anybody doing this kind of work was +a little bit goofy to begin with. I decided not to get any more than +nine _g_ if I could help it. + +That afternoon I went up to eighteen thousand feet again and rolled her +over and stuck her down. Again the dead, still drop and the mounting +roar. Again the flickering needles on the instruments and the job of +reading them. You never see the ground in one of those dives. You are +too busy watching things in the cockpit. Again the tensing fear for +thirty whining, screaming seconds while your life is a held breath and +the fear of your death is a crouching shadow in a dark corner. Again the +mounting racking of the ship until it seems no humanly built thing can +stand the stress of that speed much longer. + +At eight thousand feet on the altimeter I shifted my gaze to the +accelerometer and horsed. I used both hands. I wanted to get the reading +as quickly as possible. That unseen violence, punishing this time, +fairly crunched me into my seat, so that I only darkly saw the needle +passing nine. I realized somehow that I was overshooting and let up on +the stick. As my head unwound and my eyes cleared up I noticed that I +was level already and that the recording needle on the accelerometer +read nine and a half. I checked my altimeter. It read six and a half +thousand feet. + +When I got back on the ground the commander, who had seen a lot of those +dives, said, “Boy, I thought you were never going to pull that out. You +had me shouting out loud, ‘Pull it out! Pull it out!’ And when you did +pull it out, did you wrap it!” + +I felt I had. I felt all torn down inside. I had forgotten to yell. My +back ached like somebody had kicked me. I was really woozy. I was glad I +didn’t have to do those every day. + +I wasn’t through yet. During the rest of the afternoon, under a variety +of load conditions, I looped, snap-rolled, slow-rolled, spun, did true +Immelmanns, and flew upside down. + +I still wasn’t through. I flew the ship to Washington the next day. The +work at the factory had been only the preliminary demonstration! + +At Washington I had to do three take-offs and landings, all the +maneuvers over again under the different load conditions, and two more +terminal-velocity, nine-_g_ pull-out dives by way of final +demonstration. + +Just as I was getting ready to go out and do the three take-offs and +landings, the navy squadron that was going to use these ships if the +navy bought any of them showed up in a flock of fighters. About +twenty-seven of them. They landed, lined up in a neat row beside my +ship, got out and clustered around to watch me. I got stage fright. Here +was a group of the hottest experts in the country. I had paid little +attention to my landings at the factory, being too intent on the other +work. What if I bungled those landings right there in front of that +gang? + +Three simple little take-offs and landings really had me buffaloed, but +I worked hard on them, and they turned out all right. Doing the +maneuvers under the different load conditions during the rest of the day +was practically fun after that. + +The next day I came out to do the final two dives. I had to go to +Dahlgren to do them. So many airplanes had fallen apart over Anacostia +and gone through houses and started fires and raised hell in general +that the District of Columbia had prohibited diving in that vicinity. +Dahlgren was only about thirty miles south and just nicely took up the +climbing time. + +The first dive went fine, and I had one more to go. I hated that one +more. Everything had been so all right so far, and I hated to think that +something might happen in that last dive. + +I thought of the wife and kids as I climbed for altitude. It was a swell +day. I checked everything carefully. I rolled over into the dive and +started down. I caught a glimpse of the blue earth far beneath, so +remote. Then to the instruments while I crouched and hated the mounting +stress of the terrific speed. About mid-dive I saw something in front of +my face. It took me a second to recognize it. It was the Very pistol, +used for shooting flare signals at sea. It had come out of its holster +at the right side of the cockpit and was floating around in space +between my face and my knees. I grabbed it with my throttle hand and +started to throw it over my left shoulder to get rid of it, but quickly +decided that that wouldn’t be such a smart thing to do. A three or four +hundred mile an hour slip stream was lurking just outside there. It +would have grabbed that pistol and dashed it into the tail surfaces, and +it would have been good-bye airplane. I fumbled it from one hand to the +other and finally kept it in my throttle hand. I noticed that I had +allowed the ship to nose up out of the dive ever so slightly during that +wrestling match, and I spent the rest of the dive nosing it ever so +slightly back in. That nose-back-in showed up as negative acceleration +on the vee-gee recorder. And in addition to that, although I pulled out +to nine and a half _g_ on the accelerometer, something had gone wrong +with it, because the pull-out turned out to be only seven and a half _g_ +on the vee-gee recorder. + +The navy threw that dive out, so I still had one more to do. Still one +more, and by then one more was a mental hazard difficult to overcome. I +have a morbid imagination anyway. I knew that the motor and prop had +taken a severe beating so far. Maybe one more would be just too much. +Maybe something—something that had eluded inspection, perhaps—was just +about ready to let go, and I was so damned near the finish. Besides, +although I am not superstitious, the rejected dive made that last one +the thirteenth. + +They gave me a check for fifteen hundred dollars the next day and +canceled my insurance. My old car wouldn’t have got as far as Oklahoma, +and wasn’t big enough anyway, so I had to break a new one in on the way +down. I was back with the family in good shape, but they still had to +eat, and fifteen hundred dollars wouldn’t last forever, so I was looking +for another job. I thought I had one coming up ... a diving job! + + + + +COLLISION, ALMOST + + +I took off from Newark with about a seven-thousand-foot ceiling after +dark. The ceiling came down as I went farther and farther into the +mountains toward Bellefonte, but it didn’t come down too much. I got to +Sunbury, about fifty miles from Bellefonte, and started into the worst +part of the mountains. Then I hit snow. + +I went over the first big ridge on the blinkers, closely spaced red +lights between beacons in bad spots. It was thick in the valley beyond, +but I could just make out the beacon on the next ridge. + +I flew up to it, couldn’t see the next beacon, went on past from that +beacon as far as I dared, but couldn’t find the next beacon without +losing that one. So I went back to it. + +I made several excursions out toward the next beacon before I could find +it without losing the one I had. Then I couldn’t find the next one. + +I circled and circled about fifty feet over that beacon on the mountain +top in the driving snow. I couldn’t go backward toward the last one. I +couldn’t go forward toward the next. I was quite sure the next was the +field beacon at Bellefonte, but I didn’t dare go out far enough to find +it. + +I knew I couldn’t sit there and circle all night. The snow was not +abating. I had to do something. Finally I pulled off the beacon in a +climbing spiral, headed off blind in what I thought was the direction of +the next beacon—what I hoped it was!—and hoped to see it under me +through the snow if I flew over it, and if not, to keep on going, blind, +until I flew out of the mountains, the snow, or both. + +I was lucky, flew right over it, saw dimly down beneath me through the +driving snow the Bellefonte Airport boundary lights, spiraled down and +landed. + +Not five minutes later an air-mail ship came in from the same direction +and landed. I asked the pilot how close he had come to the beacon I had +been circling. He said he had flown right over it. Can you imagine what +would have happened if I had still been sitting there circling that +beacon when he came barging along through the snow right over it? He +said he was flying on his instruments for the most part. He undoubtedly +wouldn’t have seen me. I wouldn’t have seen him. Our meeting probably +wouldn’t have been so pleasant! + + + + +HE HAD WHAT IT TOOK + + +Eddie Stinson, that colorful and beloved figure of American aviation, +has gone West. But the many stories that cluster around his almost +legendary name, live on. + +Dick Blythe, the man who handled Lindbergh’s publicity just after +Lindbergh’s return from Paris, tells me this one about Eddie. Eddie told +it to him. + +Eddie was working with a crowd that was representing the German Junkers +plane in America. One of the things they were trying to do was sell it +to the Post Office Department for use on the air-mail lines. + +To attract attention to the superior performance of the ship Eddie +decided to make a non-stop flight from Chicago to New York. He decided +to fly straight over the Alleghanies. + +Flying the Alleghanies is common nowadays, what with modern equipment, +lighted airways, blind flying instruments and radio. But in those days +it was a feat. + +Eddie was delayed in taking off and didn’t get over the mountains until +after dark. Then his imagination began to work overtime. + +That happens to a great many of us many times. A motor can be running +along perfectly until you get over a spot where you can’t afford to have +it quit. Then you begin worrying about it and can invariably find +something wrong. If all the motors quit under the conditions that all +pilots fear, there would be as many wrecked ships scattered over the +country as there are signboards. + +Anyway, Eddie got to thinking his motor was rough. But he was prepared +for the situation. He reached down under his seat and pulled out a +bottle of gin. He took a long swig and listened to his motor again. It +had smoothed right out. + +Every once in a while the motor would get rough again, and Eddie would +reach down and take another swig. He said it took him the whole quart of +gin to smooth that motor out and get the ship over the mountains and +onto Curtiss Field. + + + + +DRY MOTOR + + +One of the customs in the army, if you were out on a cross-country +flight, was not to look at the weather map to see if the weather was all +right to go home, and not to look at your ship to see if it was in good +enough shape to make the trip, but to look in your pocket and see if you +had enough money to stay any longer. + +I didn’t have, so I piled into my old wing-radiatored PW-8 and took off +from Washington for Selfridge Field. I knew I was going to have trouble +with the radiators. + +I climbed slowly on reduced throttle, reaching for the cold air of +altitude. I watched the water temperature indicator, but before it +registered boiling I was surprised to see steam coming from the +radiators. I remembered then. Water boils at a lower and lower +temperature the higher you go. I still thought the lower temperatures of +altitude would offset that, so I throttled my motor to the minimum +necessary for level flight until the radiator stopped steaming, then +opened it a little and tried to sneak a little more altitude before it +steamed again. + +I worked myself up to six thousand feet like that. I was watching for +steam for the umpteenth time, hoping to make Pittsburgh before I ran out +of water, when I saw white smoke coming out of the exhausts. I was out +of water and was burning the oil off the cylinder walls. + +I cut the switches. The speed of my glide kept the prop turning over +like a windmill. I picked a field in the country and started talking to +myself: “Take it easy—Slow her down—Come around—Don’t undershoot +whatever you do—Hold it now, you’re overshooting—Slip it—Not too +much—You’re undershooting again—Kick those switches on—Gun it—All right, +kick him off—Watch those trees—The fence now—You’re slow—Let ’er drop, +the field’s small—Wham!—Watch your roll—Ground loop at the end if you +have—You don’t—You made it.” I always talk to myself like that in a +forced landing. + +I don’t remember how much water I put in the thing. I do remember that +there was only a pint in it when I had landed. And I had kept from +burning up the motor! + +I took off again and made Pittsburgh, Akron, Cleveland, and Toledo, +steaming, but without running clear dry. I probably had a few more gray +hairs when I finally landed at Selfridge, but everything else was all +right. + + + + +IMAGINATION + + +A friend of mine got an aërial mapping job last summer. He had to fly at +twenty thousand feet to take the pictures. Some pilots can stand more +altitude than others, but my friend didn’t know how much he could stand +because he had never flown that high. He decided he had better take +oxygen with him, just in case. + +His mechanic got a cylinder of oxygen for him, and he took off. He felt +pretty groggy at eighteen thousand feet, reached down, got the hose, put +it in his mouth, turned on the valve, and took a whiff of oxygen. He +couldn’t hear the hissing of the stuff escaping because the motor noise +drowned it out. + +He perked up immediately. The sky brightened, everything became clearer +to him, and he went on up to twenty thousand feet. Every once in a while +he would feel low and reach down and get himself another whiff of oxygen +and feel all right again for a while. + +He didn’t say anything to his mechanic, but his mechanic decided for +himself a few days later that the oxygen was probably getting low in +that tank and that he would need another soon. He decided to put a new +one in ahead of time to forestall the possibility of running completely +out in the air. + +He brought a new tank out and decided to test it before he put it in the +ship. He opened the valve and nothing happened. The tank was empty. + +He took it back to the hangar and discovered that the previous tank my +friend had been flying on had come out of the same bin and had been +empty all along. + +He got a good one and put it in the ship and didn’t say anything about +the incident. My friend said that the next time he took a whiff of +oxygen it almost knocked him out of his seat. + + + + +I SPIN IN + + +I had been spin testing a Mercury Chic for several weeks, doing +everything at a safe and sane altitude, being very scientific. I finally +spun it in from an altitude of about three feet. And I mean spun it in +too. The ship was a complete washout. + +There was a strong wind that day, and a very gusty one. When I taxied +out for the take-off the wind was on my tail. There were no brakes on +the ship. It was very light, and in addition, a high wing job—always a +top-heavy thing in a wind. + +The wind kept swinging me around into it, and I wanted to go the other +way. I should have called a couple of mechanics from the line to come +and hold my wings and help me taxi. But I was proud or stubborn or dumb +or something that day. + +I adopted a little strategy. I’d get the ship all lined up down wind and +when the wind would start swinging me around the other way I’d just let +it swing until the nose was headed almost into the wind. Then I would +gun it, kick rudder with the swing, thus aggravating it instead of +checking it, hoping to get my way by going with it instead of fighting +it, and then, when it was headed down wind again, try to hold it there +until the next gust started swinging me around again. + +It worked fine, and I was making a certain amount of headway down the +field until, on one of the swings, a particularly heavy gust of wind +picked up my outside wing as I was swinging. The ship tipped up very +slowly, and I thought I was going to tip a wing. Then a larger and +heavier gust hit it. It picked that ship off the ground, turned it over +on its back and literally threw it down on the ground. + +It was the worst crack-up I had ever been in. All four longerons were +broken, the wings crumpled, the motor mount was twisted, the prop bent, +the tail crushed, and the ship looked like it had spun in from at least +ten thousand feet. + +I crawled out from under it unhurt except for my feelings. I never felt +so foolish in my life. I had cracked up a ship without even flying it. + + + + +BUSINESS BEFORE FAME + + +Clyde Pangborne, of Pangborne and Herndon fame, the two flyers who were +first to fly non-stop from Japan to America over the Pacific Ocean, and +also of Pangborne and Turner fame, the flying team that won third place +in the London-Australia Air Derby in 1934, was operations manager for +the famous Gate’s Flying Circus for many years. He flew into Lewiston, +Mont., in October, 1923, with his aërial circus. He had a contract with +the fair association of that town, giving him exclusive rights to all +the passenger carrying and flying to be done at the local fair then in +progress. + +He landed an hour before he was supposed to put on his first performance +of stunting, wing-walking and parachute jumping, the preliminary +crowd-attracting procedure before the money-making of passenger +carrying, which was one of the attractions the fair had advertised. He +found another pilot and plane, with chute jumper, there ahead of him, +all set to do business in his place. + +Pangborne told the other pilot to get out. The other pilot said, “So +what?” Pangborne said: “I got a contract, and I’m going to town to see +about it.” + +He went to town and told the fair association about it. He said he would +sue the city if they didn’t get that other guy and his chute jumper off +the field by the time he was ready to put on his exhibition. + +The fair association went out to the field. They got hold of the other +pilot and his chute jumper. They reminded the pilot that he had flown +out of that field the previous year, and, in departing, had overlooked +the small matter of paying a certain amount of rent he had agreed to pay +for the field. They told him to get out or go to jail by four o’clock +that afternoon. + +It was a conclusive argument. The pilot cranked his ship, got in his +cockpit, called to his chute jumper, a long, slim, gangling kid who was +obviously disappointed at the turn affairs had taken, because he had +been all set to have some fun jumping that day, and took off. + +The chute jumper was Charles Augustus Lindbergh, who had not yet learned +to fly. + + + + +EVERYTHING WRONG + + +On my first solo in a Martin bomber, I started to take off and started +swinging to the left. I put on right rudder but kept on swinging to the +left. I ran out of right rudder and was still swinging to the left into +a line of mesquite trees. I eased the right motor off a little, but it +didn’t help much. I couldn’t cut the gun and stop before I hit the +trees. I could only hope to get into the air before I got up to them. + +Suddenly my left wing started to lift, and it dawned on me like a flash +of shame what was wrong. I had had the wheel rolled to the right and my +left aileron down. The resistance of that down aileron had swung me to +the left at slow speeds, and I had fought it with right rudder, but now +at high speeds it was banking me to the right, and I still had on right +rudder. I was taking off in a right-hand bank with the controls set +fully for it. The left-hand motor was pulling stronger than the right. + +I never kicked and pulled so many things so fast before as I did right +then. By some miracle I found myself fifty feet in the air instead of in +a heap. But I was flying exactly at right angles to the direction I had +originally planned. + +Everything seemed to be all right, so I went around and landed. I gave +it the gun immediately on touching the ground and went around and landed +again. + +This time I saw a lot of cars coming out toward me. Maybe that take-off +had looked pretty good. Maybe they thought I knew what I had been doing. +The two landings had been good. Maybe they were coming out to +congratulate me. + +My instructor got there first. He ran over and started inspecting the +right wing tip. He was looking underneath it. “Hey, you,” he shouted at +me when he looked up, “don’t you ever get out and take a look after you +crack up a ship?” + +I had dragged the right wing for several hundred feet. The under side of +the wing was badly torn up, and the aileron was just barely hanging on. + + + + +A SHOWY STUNT + + +An upside-down landing is one of the showiest maneuvers a stunting pilot +can perform. He doesn’t really land upside down. He comes all the way in +in his glide upside down until he is about ten or twenty feet off the +ground. Then he rolls over and lands right side up. + +Jack, who had got pretty hot at this maneuver, hit a telephone pole +coming in like that one day and woke up in the hospital. + +Some time before that I had almost done practically the same thing. I +had dived low over the field down wind at the end of a show I had been +putting on at a little air meet and had pulled up until I was on my back +at about eight hundred feet. I decided I would not only glide in upside +down but would make it really fancy and slip both ways in the glide. I +started to slip but forgot and did it the same as I would have had I +been right side up and produced a bank instead. No, no, I told myself, +coördinate, don’t cross controls. There. I tried one to the other side. +That’s fine, I told myself. I got so absorbed in this little maneuver +that I completely forgot the ground until I was almost too low and too +slow to turn right side up again. I actually missed the ground by inches +as I rolled over, and only some kind fate presiding over absent-minded +stunt pilots enabled me to do it then. + +I saw Jack in the hospital, when he was well enough. + +“Hey, Jack,” I started kidding him, “I hear that you practiced +upside-down landings for months, and that finally you made one. Is there +any truth to that?” + +He clamped his jaws but grinned back at me. “That’s all right,” he said, +“but if I remember correctly I saw a pilot by the name of Jimmy Collins +just miss landing upside down once.” + +“Yeah, Jack,” I said, “but—” I hesitated: this was too good not to +emphasize—“but I missed,” I said. + +Jack just glared at me. There wasn’t any answer. + + + + +DEATH ON THE GRIDIRON + + +It’s funny how things turn out sometimes. Fate gives you a capricious +little tweak, and there you are. I often think of the case of Zep +Schock. + +Zep and I were fraternity brothers at college. I was crazy about +aviation, and Zep was crazy about football. I had been too poor to fly +up till then, and Zep had been too little to play football. He weighed +only about ninety-five pounds when he came to college. They had even +used him as a sort of a mascot on the high-school teams. + +Near the end of my freshman year I discovered quite accidentally, +through reading an aviation magazine which I had repeatedly promised +myself not to read because it took my mind off my work, that the army +would teach me to fly for nothing. They would even pay me for it! And +Zep suddenly started to grow. + +I passed my entrance examinations for the Army Primary Flying School at +Brooks Field, San Antonio, Tex., that fall, and prepared to quit school +after the mid-term exams—which would mark the end of my freshman year, +because I had started college in January instead of March—to go to +flying school the following March. Zep had made the freshman football +team in the meantime. + +There wasn’t much flying outside of the army in those days, and nobody +knew much about it except that it was dangerous. None of the fellows +could understand why I was doing such a fool thing. They tried to talk +me out of it, discovered they couldn’t, decided I was nuts, and started +kidding me. Zep was the best of the bunch. + +Every night at dinner he used to propose a toast to me. “Here’s to Jimmy +Collins,” he used to say. “The average life of the aviator is forty +hours.” He had picked those figures up some place reading about war +pilots. + +That was eleven years ago, and I’m still flying. Poor Zep made the +regular team the next year and got killed playing football. + + + + +NOVICE NEAR DEATH + + +One flight test I gave, when I was an inspector for the Department of +Commerce, was almost my last. + +I went up with a guy, saw in three minutes he couldn’t fly, took the +controls away from him, landed, and told him to come back some other +day. He pleaded with me that I hadn’t given him a chance, that if I +would only let him go further through the test without taking the +controls away he would show me he could fly. + +So I took him up again. I let him slop along without interference until +we came to spins. I told him to do a spin, and he started a steep +spiral. I took the controls away from him, regained some altitude, told +him to do a spin again, and he started a steep spiral again—a lousy +spiral, too! + +I thought maybe he was afraid to do a spin, so I said the mental +equivalent of “Skip it” to myself and told him to do a three-sixty. He +should have gone to fifteen hundred feet, cut the gun, turned around +once in his glide and landed on a spot under where he had cut the gun. +He went to two thousand feet instead, put the ship in a steep, skidding +spiral verging on a spin—he was death on steep spirals—and held it +there. Round and round we went. I let him go. I wanted to convince him +this time. + +I had been watching for it, but at two hundred feet the ship beat me to +it even so and flipped right over on its back. I made one swift +movement, knocking the throttle open with my left hand in passing, and +grabbed the stick with both hands. The guy was frantically freezing +backward on it, but my sudden, violent attack on it gave me the lead on +him and I managed to get the stick just far enough forward to stop the +spin we had begun. I was sure we were going to hit the ground swooping +out of the resultant dive, but by some miracle we missed it. + +I landed immediately and was so mad I started to walk off without saying +anything. But the guy followed me, bleating, “Please, Mr. Collins. +Please, Mr. Collins,” until I relented and turned to speak. + +Before I could say anything he broke in on me with: “Please, Mr. +Collins, please don’t grab the controls from me like that just because I +make one too many turns. I could bring the ship down all right.” + +My mouth opened and closed speechlessly. Bring it down! Bring us both +down in a heap! But how could I say it and make myself understood? The +guy didn’t even know we had been in a spin. He didn’t know we had almost +broken our necks in one. He thought I was impatient! + + + + +HUNGRY’S SHIP BURNED + + +Lieutenant Hungry Gates’ ship caught fire in the air. He pulled his +throttle and worked carefully but fast. He undid his belt and started to +raise himself out of the cockpit. He started to leap but remembered +something. That swell bottle of pre-war liquor that a friend had given +him just before he took off was in the map case. He’d need that if he +got down alive. He made a quick grab back into the cockpit for it and +leaped head foremost, clear of the burning wreck. + +He missed the tail surfaces and waited a moment, thankful for that much. +He didn’t want the ship to fall on him. He didn’t want any of the +burning débris to fall on his chute when he opened it. + +When he had waited long enough, he started to pull his rip cord to open +his chute, but discovered both hands already engaged. He let go of the +bottle of liquor with his right hand and hugged the bottle tightly with +his left arm. He grabbed his rip-cord ring with his freed right hand, +yanked hard, grabbed his bottle to him with both hands again, and +waited. The sudden checking of his speed when his chute opened jolted +him up short in his harness, but he didn’t drop the bottle. + +He thought of the flaming wreck above him. He looked up but saw only his +white chute spread safely above him, etched cold against the clear blue +sky. He looked around the sky. He saw a long trailing column of black +smoke and followed it with his eyes downward until he saw the hurtling +ship at the end of it. It was beneath him now and no longer a threat to +his chute. He watched it nose violently into a wooded patch off to his +left just before he settled down into a pasture. He hit hard, fell down, +but held on to his bottle. His chute toppled over into a limp heap in +the still air. + +He sat up and decided he needed a drink before he even got out of his +harness to gather up his chute. He hauled his bottle out from under his +arm and gazed at it in consternation, licking his lips. + +It wasn’t a bottle at all. It was the fire extinguisher! + + + + +BACK-SEAT PALS + + +Back-seat driving is taboo in the ethics of the flying game. But +occasionally you get a case of it when you get two pilots together in +the same cockpit. + +Two pilots were flying a pretty heavily loaded bomber on a cross-country +trip, one time. They were both fast friends and both equally good +pilots. Maybe that’s why the thing happened as it did. + +They landed at Love Field, Tex., gassed up, and taxied out to take off +again. Part of the field was torn up. They didn’t have any more field +than just enough from where they began their take-off. + +Their heavily loaded ship with its two Liberty motors, its acres of +wings, and its forest of struts started lumbering down the field. The +pilot who was flying the ship used most of the space in front of his +obstacles before he got the ship off the ground. He did a nice job after +he got it off the ground by not climbing it more than just enough to +clear the wires which were in front of him. He figured he was just going +to clear them nicely when apparently the other pilot, sitting alongside +him in the other cockpit, figured he wasn’t although why the other pilot +did what he did at that second I could never figure out, except that it +was one of those dumb things that we are all apt to do under duress if +we don’t watch ourselves. + +Anyway, both motors suddenly quit cold, and the ship smacked into the +wires and piled up in a heap on the far side of the road across the +airport. + +Both pilots came out of the wreck running. The one who had been flying +the ship had the wheel, which evidently had broken off in the crash, +raised above his head in his right hand. He was brandishing it wildly, +running after the other pilot and shouting at the top of his voice, “Cut +my switches, will you! Cut my switches just when I was going to make it! +If I ever catch you I’ll cut your throat!” + + + + +WATCH YOUR STEP! + + +At Anacostia Naval Air Station, the river flows on one side of the +hangars, and the airport stretches on the other. They fly boats out of +the river side and land planes out of the airport side. + +One pilot down there had been flying land planes exclusively for several +months. Then one day he flew a boat. One of the enlisted pilots went +along with him as co-pilot. + +After flying around for a while he started in for a landing. But instead +of coming in for a landing on the river he started to land on the +airport. + +The enlisted pilot with him let him go as long as he thought he dared. +Then he nudged him in the ribs, pointed out that he was about to land a +boat on land, and suggested that maybe it would be a better idea to go +over and land in the river. + +The pilot agreed that it certainly would. He gave it the gun and went +around again and came in for a landing on the river. He made a good +landing and let the ship slow down. When they were idling along he +turned around to the enlisted pilot and started to apologize for almost +landing him on land. He undid his belt as he talked. + +“That was a dumb thing for me to do,” he said. “I’ve been flying land +planes for so long that I guess I just started coming in there from +habit without thinking. It sure was dumb.” He was obviously humiliated +and confused. + +“Well,” he said finally, “it sure was dumb,” and got up and climbed out +of the cockpit onto the wing. + +“So long,” he said, and stepped down off the wing into the water. + + + + +FLYER ENJOYS WORRY + + +Gloomy Gus got his name at Brooks Field, the army primary flying school. +He was always going to get washed out of the school the next day. When +he graduated from Brooks he wasn’t going to last three weeks at Kelly, +the advanced school, because he had got through Brooks by luck anyway. +When he graduated from Kelly, the hottest pilot in his class, he would +never get a job in commercial flying, so he might just as well have been +washed out at Kelly. + +I saw him several months later in Chicago. He was flying one of the best +runs on the western division of the mail. He was sure it wouldn’t be +very long before he cracked up, night flying, and disabled himself for +life, so what good was his mail job? + +I saw him several years after he had been transferred to the eastern run +over the Allegheny Mountains. He didn’t know what good the additional +money he was making was going to do him when he was dead. Didn’t all the +hot pilots get it in those mountains? + +He took a vacation from the passenger lines and went on active duty with +the army. I saw him at Mitchell Field. He said he was taking his +vacation flying because he wanted to fly some army ships for a change +and have some fun. “But you know, I shouldn’t have done it,” he said. +“I’ve been flying straight and level too long. I almost hit a guy in +formation this morning. I probably won’t live long enough to get back to +the lines.” + +I saw him a few days after he had gone back to the lines. + +“How they going, Gloomy?” I greeted him. + +“Oh,” he said, “that bit of army flying made me careless. I almost hit a +radio tower this morning. Carelessness is what kills all old-timers, you +know.” + +“Gus,” I said. “You’d be miserable if you didn’t have something to worry +about. You will probably live to have a long white beard and worry +yourself sick all day long that you are going to trip on it and break +your neck.” + +Only a faint flicker of humor lit up his gloomy eyes. + + + + +WEATHER AND WHITHER + + +Archer Winsten writes that “different” column in the _Post_, In the Wake +of the News. I met Archer for the first time in San Antonio in 1927. He +was down there for his health, and I was instructing at Brooks Field for +my living. We both had ideas of writing even at that time. We became +fast friends before Archer went home to Connecticut and I went to March +Field, Riverside, Cal. + +I resigned from the army the next year and went with the Department of +Commerce. I was assigned to fly Bill McCracken, head of the department, +on about a seven-thousand-mile tour of the country. I kept asking Bill +if his itinerary was going to take us to Westport, Conn., or anywhere +near it, because if it was I wanted to go see my friend Archer Winsten, +who lived there. He said he didn’t know where the place was, and I began +looking for it on the map. I couldn’t find it and told Bill that. I +remarked how strange it was several times later that I couldn’t find +Westport on the map. A couple of times Bill asked me if I had found it +yet, and I said no. + +I was strange to the East at that time, and when we got to Hartford I +was sure we were going to go right past Westport without my ever finding +out where it was. I complained to Bill about it and we both looked over +a map and couldn’t find the place. + +The next day we started down to New York from Hartford and ran into +lousy weather. It got so low finally that, although I was following +railroads and valleys, I decided that I couldn’t go any farther. I +milled around, dodging trees and hills for about ten minutes before I +found a place to sit down. + +I landed in a small field surrounded with stone fences. A man came +wading through the wet grass toward us after we had stopped rolling. +Bill asked me where we were, and I said I had only a vague idea after +all that milling around but would ask the man. The man said Westport. + +Bill howled with delight. Part of his delight undoubtedly was relief at +getting down out of that soup without breaking his neck, but I was never +able to convince him that I didn’t know I was landing at Westport. + + + + +I SEE + + +A man came up to me for flight test once when I was an inspector for the +Department of Commerce. He flew terribly, so I sent him away and told +him to come back in a couple of weeks, after he had practiced a little +more. He came back a couple of weeks later, and I turned him down again. + +The third time he came in he said, “I think we’ll get along all right +this time. Can I take the test today?” + +“I’m too busy today,” I told him. But he pleaded so hard that I finally +said, “All right, I’ll squeeze you in this afternoon. Come at three +o’clock.” + +“Thank you, thank you,” he said, and held out his hand. + +I reached out my hand to grip his and felt something in my palm. I +pulled my hand away and found a piece of paper in it. I unfolded it and +discovered a ten-dollar bill. + +I stood there and looked at it, puzzled and amazed for a few seconds. +Then the full import of it dawned on me. He thought I had been holding +out for something. He thought he would fix me up. He didn’t know he +could never fix me up if I put my stamp of approval on him when he was +unfit and he should then go out and kill some passenger because of my +leniency. + +It started at the top of my head, that raging anger. It burned like +flaming coals and raced through my veins like fire. I began to tremble +violently, and when I looked up the man was a red flame in a red room. + +I hurled the paper bill at him as though it were a javelin and shouted, +“Get out! Get out and don’t ever come back!” + +Have you ever thrown a piece of paper at anybody? + +The bill fluttered ineffectually down to the floor halfway between us. I +rushed at it and kicked at it until it was out of the door. I kicked him +out too. + +I wondered, sitting at my desk afterward, why I had got so mad. It +wasn’t honesty. I hadn’t had time to think of honesty. I wondered if it +was because he had implied that I was worth ten dollars. I wondered what +I would have done if he had offered me ten thousand dollars. I began to +understand graft. + + + + +WON ARGUMENT LOST + + +“That student is dangerous. You’re crazy if you fly with him again,” I +harangued my friend, Brooks Wilson. + +“Don’t be that way,” Brooks answered. “He’s not dangerous. He’s goofy.” + +“That’s why he’s dangerous,” I countered. “You tell me that he froze the +controls in a panic today and you lost a thousand feet of altitude +before you were able to get the ship away from him. The next time you +may not have a thousand feet.” + +“I won’t need a thousand feet the next time,” Brooks argued. “I wrestled +the controls away from him today, but the next time he grabs them like +that, I’ll just beat him over the head with the fire extinguisher and +knock him out.” + +“If you are high enough to do that, you won’t be in any danger,” I +pointed out. “And if you are low enough to be in danger when he freezes, +you won’t have time to knock him out.” + +Brooks and I were both very young army instructors, and Brooks was +stubborn with the confidence of youth. He only growled, “Don’t be a +sissy all your life. I can handle this guy.” + +The next day a solo student spun in, in a field of corn beside the +airport. Brooks had just landed with his goofy student and was crawling +out of his cockpit when he saw the ship hit. He jumped back into his +cockpit, gave his still idling motor the gun and took off, his goofy +student still in the rear seat. + +He flew over the wreck, circled it, dove on it, pulled up, wing-it, dove +on it, pulled up, wing-overed, and dove on it again. He was a beautiful +pilot. He was pointing out to the ambulance where the wreck was in the +tall corn. He pulled up and started another wing-over, flipped suddenly +over on his back, and spun in right beside the wreck. + +When they pulled Brooks out of his wreck he was unconscious but was +muttering over and over again in his Southern vernacular, “Turn ’em +loose. Turn ’em loose. Turn ’em loose before we crash.” + +The goofy student was hardly even scratched. Brooks died that night. + + + + +MONK HUNTER + + +Monk Hunter was a dashing aviator, the only really dashing aviator I +have ever known. There was dash to the cut and fit of his uniforms, dash +to the shine and the fit of his boots, dash to the twirl and flip of the +cane he carried. There was dash to the set of his magnificently erect +and darkly handsome head, dash in the flare of his nostrils and the +gleam of his flashing black eyes, dash in his violently dynamic gestures +and in his torrential, staccatoed, highly inflected speech which he +aimed at you as he had aimed machine guns at enemy flyers during the war +when he had shot down nine of them. + +There was especial dash to Monk’s mustache. Only Monk could have worn +that mustache. I saw him once without it, and something seemed to have +gone out of him as it went out of Samson when they clipped his hair. He +looked naked and helpless. + +It was a big mustache, the kind you see in tintypes of swains of long +ago. It bristled, and Monk had a way about him in twirling it that you +should have seen. + +Poor Monk took off at Selfridge one day in an army pursuit ship. He even +did that with dash. He held it low after the take-off and then started a +clean, left, sweeping climb into the blue sky. + +We all saw the white smoke start trailing out behind his ship. Then with +bated breath we watched the ship slump slowly over from its gestured +climbing and nose straight down inexorably toward the ice of Lake St. +Clair. Monk’s chute blossomed out behind the diving ship just before it +disappeared behind the trees. + +We all jumped into cars and rushed madly over to where we thought it had +hit. We found Monk, unhurt, except for the jar from landing on the ice, +waving his arms, wildly shouting that the ship had caught fire and to +look what the damned thing had done. We looked at the ship, but Monk was +still gesticulating excitedly, so we looked at him. He meant to look +what it had done to him. + +We all started laughing like hell. We were really laughing with Monk, +not at him. He appreciated it, too. + +His mustache had been burnt clear off on one side. + + + + +COULDN’T TAKE IT + + +I was testing an airplane one day. Its wings came off, and I jumped out +in my chute. I am convinced that the people on the ground watching me +got a bigger thrill out of it than I did. I was too busy. + +For one thing, Admiral Moffett, who was later killed in the _Akron_, +rushed home to his office in an emotional fit and wrote me a very nice +letter about what a hero I was. I wasn’t any hero. I had just been +saving my neck. + +And for another, my mechanic came up to see me in the hospital right +afterward. I wasn’t in the hospital because I was hurt, but because the +military doctor on the post made me go there. After I had got into the +hospital I discovered that my heart was beating so violently that I +couldn’t sleep, so when Eddie, my mechanic, came up they let him in. + +He didn’t say anything at all for a while. He just sat on the bed +opposite mine and twirled his cap, looking down at the floor. Finally he +said, “When your chute opened, I fell down.” + +I pictured him running madly across the field, watching me falling +before I had opened my chute, and then stumbling just as my chute +opened. “Why didn’t you watch where you were going?” I said banteringly. + +He kept looking at the floor, twirling his cap, his face expressionless. +“I wasn’t going any place,” he said. + +The conversation wasn’t making much sense to me. “Didn’t you say that +when my chute opened, you fell down?” I asked. + +“Yes,” he said, as if he were talking to the floor. He was in a sort of +trance. + +“Well,” I said, puzzled, “then you must have been running across the +field watching me. You must have stumbled and fallen.” + +“No,” he said, like a man in a dream, “I didn’t stumble on anything. I +was just standing there looking up, watching you.” + +I was getting frantic. “Well, how in the hell did you fall down, then?” +I asked. + +“My knees collapsed,” he said. + + + + +GOOD LUCK + + +Soon now, he would be flying out over the ocean. Soon he would be famous +and rich. Lindbergh had made it. Why shouldn’t he? + +His ship was almost ready. Its belly bulged with new tanks. Its wings +stretched with new width to take the added gas load. Its motor emitted a +perfect sound that his trained ears could find no fault with. + +Only the final adjusting of his instruments remained. Lindbergh had +taken great pains with his instruments. He would too. When the ground +crew had finished with them, he flew his ship on a short cross-country +trip to check the instruments in flight. They worked fine. + +He brought his ship down to put it in the hangar until he got his break +in weather. He lingered in the cockpit for a few moments, contemplating +his instruments in anticipation of the weary hours he would have to +watch them during the long flight. + +A thought occurred to him. Lindbergh had been lucky. He would be too. +His girl (sweet kid—maybe when he came back ... but he would do the job +first) had already wished him luck. She had given him a token of her +wish. It was only a cheap thing she had picked up in some novelty shop, +but he treasured it. He took it out of his pocket. He tied it to the +instrument board and fashioned its bright red ribbon into a neat bow +knot that reminded him of the way she fastened her apron when she made +coffee for him in her kitchen late at night. There. Yes, he too would +have luck now. + +Several days later his break in the weather hadn’t come yet. He got +worried about his instruments. There were no landmarks in the ocean. +Maybe he had better check his compass again. + +He went out to the field and flew his ship. The compass was off! It was +way off! When the ground crew checked it again it was off twenty degrees +on the first reading. + +They soon found the trouble. As everybody knows, metal near a compass +will throw it off. They found a metal imitation of a rabbit’s foot +suspended on a red ribbon tied to the bottom of the compass case. + + + + +WILL ROGERS IN THE AIR + + +I was flying as a passenger on one of the airlines once, going out to +Wichita to take delivery of a ship I had sold. Will Rogers was a +passenger on the same ship. + +When we stopped at Columbus, I managed to engage Rogers in conversation. +I had always been curious about whether he talked in private life as he +does on the stage and radio, and if the poor grammar in his writing was +deliberate or natural. He talked to me exactly as he does on the stage +and radio, and his grammar was just as bad as it is in his writing. So I +decided that, if it was an act, he was carrying it pretty far. + +I noticed that he made certain movements with difficulty. He seemed to +be crippled up a little. I asked him what was the matter. He said he had +fallen off his horse before he left California and had broken a couple +of ribs. I thought that was kind of funny, because I had always supposed +he was a good horseman. I told him that, and he said it was a new horse +and he wasn’t used to it. I still thought it was kind of funny, but I +let it pass. + +I managed to bring out a little later in the conversation that I was a +professional pilot myself and that being a passenger was a rare +experience for me. He said he could tell me the truth then. He said he +really had had an airplane accident the day before. An airliner he had +been riding in had made a forced landing, had nosed over pretty hard, +and had banged him up a little. That’s how he had broken his ribs. + +He said it hadn’t been the pilot’s fault that they had cracked up, that +the motor had quit, and that the pilot had done a good job considering +the country he had to sit down in. He said that only a good pilot could +have kept from killing everybody in the ship, and that he was the only +one who had been hurt. + +He said he had told me that story about the horse in the first place +because he thought I was a regular passenger. He said not to tell any of +the rest of the passengers, because it might scare them and spoil their +trip. + + + + +HE NEVER KNEW + + +Pilots often play jokes on each other when they fly together. + +Two pilots I knew at Kelly Field had been up to Dallas on a week-end +cross-country trip. They started back on a very rough day and were +bouncing all around the sky. + +About fifty miles out of San Antonio, the pilot who was flying the ship +turned around to ask the other one in the rear seat for some matches. He +couldn’t see him, so he figured he was slumped down in the cockpit, +napping. He looked back under his arm inside the fuselage. The rear +cockpit was empty! + +He was only flying at about five hundred feet, hadn’t been flying any +higher than that on the whole trip, and at times had been flying even +lower. + +Scared to death that his passenger had loosened his belt to stretch out +and sleep and had been thrown out of the cockpit in a bump, perhaps even +failing to recognize his predicament in time to open his chute, the +pilot swung back on his course and started searching the route he had +covered for signs of a body. He searched back over as much of it as he +dared and still have enough gas left to turn around again and go on into +Kelly Field. + +He found nothing and was worried sick all the way back to Kelly. But +when he landed, there was the other pilot, grinning a greeting at him. + +The pilot who had been in the rear seat explained that he had undone his +belt to stretch out and sleep and that the next thing he knew he felt a +bump and woke up with a start to discover the cockpit about four feet +beneath him and off to one side. He said he reached, but only grabbed +thin air. The tail surfaces passed by under him, and he saw the airplane +flying off without him. + +He was too astounded at first, but quickly realized he ought to do +something, sitting out there in space with no airplane or anything, so +he pulled his rip cord. His chute opened just in time. + +He walked over to the main road he had been flying over so recently and +thumbed himself a ride to Kelly Field. He said he had seen the ship turn +around and start back looking for him. + +The pilot who had been flying the ship never knew if the other one had +really fallen out of the ship, or if he had jumped out as a joke. + + + + +BONNY’S DREAM + + +Bonny had a dream. His inventor’s eyes gleamed with the light of it. His +days lived with the hope of it. His nights moved with its vision. + +Because of his dream we called him Bonny Gull. He dreamed of building an +airplane with metal, wood and fabric to emulate the sinewed, feathered +grace of a soaring gull. + +He studied gulls. He studied them dead and alive. He studied their +wonderful soaring flight alive. He killed them and studied their +lifeless wings. He wanted their secret. He wanted to recreate it for +man. + +He might have asked God. He might have asked God and heard a still small +voice answer: “Render unto Cæsar what is Cæsar’s and unto God what is +God’s. Render unto man his own flight and leave to the gulls their own. +Man’s flight is different because his destiny is different. He doesn’t +need the gulls’ flight.” + +But Bonny envied the gulls. He killed hundreds of them, yes, thousands, +and buried them in the field. He built an airplane from what he thought +he had learned from their dead bodies. + +He built an airplane and took it out to fly. Engineers, who had never +studied gulls but who had studied man’s flight, told him he shouldn’t do +it. They pointed out to him how the center of pressure would shift on +his wings. But Bonny glared his glittering faith at them, snuggled his +dream in close, and flew. + +He took off all right. He roared across the field, and if he didn’t +sound quite like a gull, he looked the part. He rose into the air for +all the world like a giant gull. He pulled off in a steep climb, and the +wise men wondered if again they were proved wrong by an ignorant +fanatic. + +Their wonder didn’t last long. When Bonny tried to level out, he nosed +over and dove straight into the ground, like a gull diving into the +ocean for a fish. We rushed out to the wreck. Bonny was quite dead. +There was scattered around him not only the remains of his own gull +wings, but thousands of the feathered remains of other gull wings. He +had dived straight into the shallow grave of all the gulls he had +killed. + + + + +COB-PIPE HAZARDS + + +Silly little things are apt to crack you up sometimes. + +I did an outside loop at Akron once. I came up over the top of the loop +and started right down into another. I didn’t want to do another, so I +pulled back on the stick to stop it. It wouldn’t come all the way back. +It was jammed some way. + +The ship was nosing steeper and steeper into the dive. I rolled the +stabilizer, and that enabled me to pull the nose up. I couldn’t keep it +up if I cut the gun more than halfway. I knew I would have a tough time +landing like that. Besides, although I had a chute, I knew that when I +got down low to make a landing the stick might jam even farther forward +and nose me in before I had a chance to jump. Or the engine might quit +down low and do the same thing. It wasn’t my ship, however, and I didn’t +want to jump and throw it away if I didn’t absolutely have to. + +I tried the stick a few more times. Each time I yanked it back hard it +came up against the same obstacle at the same point. I decided to take a +chance that it would stay jammed where it was. + +I came in low ’way back of the field with almost all of the back travel +of the stick taken up, holding the nose up with the gun. I had to land +with the tail up high, going fast. I bounced wildly, used all the field, +but made it all right. + +I made an immediate inspection to find out what had jammed the stick. I +couldn’t imagine what it was because I had taken all the loose gadgets +out of the ship before I had gone up. + +I found a corncob pipe that the ship’s owner had been looking for for +weeks. He had left it in the baggage compartment and had never been able +to find it. It had slipped through a small opening at the top of the +rear wall of the compartment and had evidently been floating around in +the tail of the fuselage all that time. + +When I did the outside loop it had been flung upward by centrifugal +force and wedged into the wedge ending of the upper longerons at the end +of the fuselage. The flipper horn was hitting it every time I pulled the +stick back, preventing me from getting the full backward movement. + +Only the bowl of the pipe was left. It was lodged sidewise. Had it +lodged endwise it would have jammed the stick even farther forward, and +I would have had to jump or dive in with the ship. I would have had to +jump quickly, too, because I didn’t have much altitude when I started +that second involuntary outside loop. + + + + +WHOOPEE! + + +A friend of mine was once chased and rammed in midair by a drunken +pilot. If you have ever been approached on the road by a drunken driver +you have some idea of the predicament he found himself in when this +drunk started chasing him. Of course, he didn’t know this guy was drunk, +but he knew he was either drunk or crazy. + +My friend was an army pilot. He was flying an army pursuit ship from +Selfridge Field, Mich., to Chicago and was circling the field at Chicago +preparatory to landing when he was set upon by the drunk, who, evidently +still living in the memory of his war days, was trying to egg my friend +on to a sham battle, trying to get him to dogfight. + +He saw the DH, which was a mail ship of those days, approach him first +from above and head on. He had to kick out of the way at the last +moment, or he would have been hit on that first pass the guy took at +him. The guy pulled up and took another pass at him. He kicked out of +the way again and started wondering since when had they turned lunatics +loose in the sky. He didn’t have much time for wondering, because the +guy kept taking passes at him. Finally, the guy took to diving down +under him and pulling up in front of him. He seemed to think that was +more fun than just diving on my friend, and he kept it up. + +My friend saw him disappear under the tail of his ship this time, and he +didn’t know what to do about it. He didn’t know which way to turn, +because he didn’t know which way the goof was going to pull up. + +Suddenly he saw the nose of the other ship. It came up directly in front +of his own nose. He knew the guy had overdone it this time and come too +close. He pulled back on his stick, but felt the jar of the collision +just as he did. It threw him up into a stall, and when he came out his +motor was so rough he had to cut his switches. He had raked the tail of +the other ship with his propeller, and it was bent all out of shape. He +had also cut the tail off the drunk’s ship. + +The drunk was evidently too drunk to get out of the cockpit because he +cracked up with his ship. My friend managed to get his ship down without +jumping. It was only a wonder, plus some neat flying on my friend’s +part, that he wasn’t killed too. + + + + +BUILDING THROUGH + + +A pilot should never be too stubborn with an airplane. I learned that +early, fortunately, without coming to grief in the process. + +Another pilot criticized my flying once. He criticized the way I was +making my take-offs. Kidlike and cocky, just out of flying school, I +took a foolish way of proving he was wrong. But he had me so riled by +his caustic and nasty remarks about how I was going to kill myself if I +kept that up that I flung out a challenge to him and felt I had to keep +my attitude even when I saw I was overdoing the thing and thought I was +going to crack up. + +“If you think my take-offs are so dangerous,” I told him, “I’ll just go +out there and cut my gun in the most dangerous spot of this dangerous +take-off and land safely back in the airport.” And I stalked out, +fuming, and got in the ship. + +I took off toward the high trees at the end of the field, didn’t let the +ship climb very steeply approaching the trees, and banked just before I +got to them—exactly like I had been doing on the take-offs he had been +criticizing. But I also pulled up sharply, just to make it worse. I +didn’t want him to have any comeback. I cut the gun and started dropping +back in over the trees into the airport. I should have put the nose down +a little to cushion the drop, but I was mad. I’d show him the worse way. +I wanted to gun it because I was dropping hard, but I wouldn’t give him +the satisfaction. + +I hit like a ton of bricks. The ship groaned and bounced as high as a +hangar. Luckily, it was a square hit and a square bounce. That’s the +only reason I didn’t spread the ship all over the field. It hit and +bounced again and rolled to a very short stop for a down-wind landing. + +“All right,” I told the guy when I crawled out of the ship, “you go out +now and cut your gun just over the trees on one of your safe, straight +take-offs. You won’t have a turn started and already pretty well +developed, and you won’t have room enough to start one. You’ll pile into +the trees in a heap, and if that’s safer than landing on the airport in +one piece, then I’ll admit that your take-offs are safer than mine.” + +He didn’t dare and he knew it. So he just glared at me, knowing damned +well, as I knew myself, that I should by all rights have cracked up on +that landing. But I had him, and he shut up and didn’t make any more +cracks about me. + + + + +MUCH! + + +Somebody asked me one day what kind of an airplane I flew. I told him +any kind anybody was willing to pay me for flying. + +“But don’t you own an airplane?” the man asked. + +“No,” I answered. “And furthermore,” I added, “I have never owned an +airplane, although I have been a professional pilot for eleven years.” + +Why? + +Well, I can best explain that as I explained it to a little boy once out +in California. + +I was at the Lockheed factory. I had been there several months, +supervising the construction of an airplane I had sold to a rich +sportsman pilot in the East. It was a Lockheed Sirius plane and at that +time a ship which was taking everybody’s eyes as the latest and sleekest +thing yet developed by the engineers. Lindbergh had just popularized it +by flying himself and his wife across the country in it and establishing +a new transcontinental record. + +They rolled my ship out on the line one bright, sunny day and I must say +that in its shiny new red-and-white paint job and its clean, sweeping +lines it certainly was a beautiful sight sitting there glistening in +that California sunshine. + +A little boy who had crawled over the factory fence despite the “No +Trespassing” sign evidently thought so too, for he was standing there +gazing raptly at it with eyes as big as silver dollars when I stalked +out toward the ship to make a first test hop in it. He intercepted me +neatly as I rounded the wing tip and approached the cockpit. + +“Ooh, mister,” he said, “do you own that ship?” + +“No, sonny,” I answered. “I merely fly it. I find that that is less +expensive and more fun.” + + + + +CROSS-COUNTRY SNAPSHOTS + + +I take off from March Field, Calif., head north and climb steeply. At +ten thousand feet on the altimeter I see the green fir trees skimming +only a couple of hundred feet beneath me. I see the deep snow between +their trunks, brilliant in the sun. I am clearing the San Bernardino +range. + +I come out at ten thousand feet over the Mohave Desert, my altimeter +still reading ten thousand feet. The floor of the Mohave is high. + +I look ahead to the railroad, thirty miles away. I look behind. The +green-sloped, snow-capped Bernardinoes form a backdrop for the desert +underneath. + +On beyond the railroad, beyond Barstow, into the Granite Mountains, low, +rolling, black, barren, lava-formed. + +Into the Painted Hills. They are not named that on the map. They are not +named at all, and at first I can’t believe them. But there they are +beneath me. No atmospheric trick. No effect of distance. No subtle color +either. They are really painted. There is one over there. It sweeps out +of the desert upward into green and ends in a peak of white. There is +another, sweeping through purple to red. Others through red to yellow. +It is as if God had been playing with colored chalks, picking up purple, +perhaps, powdering it through his fingers to drop in a purple heap, +picking up another color then to drop on top of that in powdered +brilliance, powdering then on top of that another color still to form a +brilliant, pointed tip. Fantastic, unreal, true! + +For a long time now I have seen no life. The brilliant land is barren. I +look back. I can still make out where the railroad runs. Far, far +behind, the white Bernardinoes rise, low on the horizon now in the +distance. It is not a long flight back to the railroad, or even a very +long one back to the mountains and over them into the green San +Bernardino Valley and March Field. But it is a long walk. It is a long +walk back even to the railroad. What if my motor quits? I had intended +to go on to Death Valley, just to see it, circle, and return. + +I bank reluctantly around and assume a reverse compass course for home. +I have seen enough for an afternoon’s jaunt, anyway. + + + + +REMINISCENCE + + +I taxi out and turn my ship into the wind at the end of the snow-plowed +runway at Hagerstown Airport, Maryland. The white hangar looms too +close. Deep snow on the rest of the field prohibits its use. Can I get +over the hangar? I give it the gun and try. Just miss the hangar. Too +close! + +Head off on a compass course for New York. Strong drift to the right +from northwest wind. Head a little more to left. + +Blue Ridge Mountains pass under me. On into the friendly undulating +valley country beyond, snow covered. + +Gettysburg under my left wing. They were fighting down there once. Hard +to believe, looking down on the peaceful fields now. Wonder what they +would have done if they could have looked up and seen me and my +airplane? + +Low hills before the Susquehanna River. Their brown contours reach like +dusky fingers out into the snow-filled valleys. + +Over the river, and Lancaster off to my left. Reform school there. +That’s where they were always going to send me when I was a bad little +boy. + +More valley country. Ridge-like hills. The Schuylkill River and +Norristown. Philadelphia, blue laws, and no movies on Sundays far off to +my right. + +More valley. The Delaware River. Washington crossed the Delaware. I +cross it in half a minute. + +The Sourland Mountains and Lindbergh’s sad white house. I see Flemington +and know the trial is going on down there. I remember walking with +Lindbergh, ten years ago, from San Antonio, Tex., to Kelly Field, where +we were both advanced flying students. “What are you going to do when +you graduate?” he asked. “What are you going to do?” I asked him. Yes, +what were we going to do? And now he was down there in that courtroom, +and the world stretching out around him as far as I could see and much, +much farther was a cocked ear listening again to his tragedy. And I was +circling above in the clean blue sky, remembering many things and +thinking. + +I shuddered a last long unbelieving look at Lindbergh’s empty, lonely +house, perched up on its hill, circled and flew on. Half an hour later, +on Long Island, I kissed the chubby cheek of my own first-born son in +greeting and pitied Lindbergh somewhat for his fame. + + + + +MEXICAN WHOOPEE! + + +I hadn’t seen Darr Alkire since I had resigned from the army several +years before, so when I dropped into March Field, Calif., to say hello +and he told me that he and a couple of the other officers were flying +three ships down to Mexacali on the Mexican border that afternoon to +return the next and asked me to go along, I said yes. + +I flew down in the rear seat of Darr’s ship, and when we landed and +crossed the border everybody proceeded to get drunk. Everybody but Yours +Truly. I had been on a party the night before I had dropped in to see +Darr and didn’t feel up to it. + +The next morning we met a Mexican captain, and everybody had to drink a +lot of drinks to each other. I still threw mine over my shoulder. + +That afternoon the Mexican captain had to escort us to the airport, just +to say good-bye to us. The leader of our formation then, no sooner had +we taken off, had to lead us in some diving passes at the Mexican +captain, just to say good-bye to him. + +They were having a lot of fun dusting their wings on the airport, +saluting the captain, but I wasn’t! Darr was sticking his wing in too +close to the leader’s for comfort. I had a set of dual controls in the +rear cockpit and couldn’t resist just a little pressure on them to ease +his wing away from the leader’s in some of the passes or to pull him up +just a little sooner in some of the dives. It was a heluva breach of +flying ethics, but after all I was sober! + +We got back to March, and Darr, sobered by then, began telling me what a +swell guy I had been to sit back there and take it. He said he would +have taken the controls away from me, had I been flying drunk, and he +sitting back there sober. I thought he was razzing me for a moment, but +saw that he really meant it. My pressure on the controls had been so +subtle that he hadn’t noticed it. + +I didn’t bother to tell him the truth. I liked the idea that he thought +I had had enough sand to sit there and not interfere with him. I didn’t +have enough nerve to set him straight on the matter. + + + + +IT’S A TOUGH RACKET + + +The hazards of a pilot’s life are sometimes different than some people +suppose. + +For instance, I flew some people to a ranch in Mexico once. I fought bad +weather most of the way from New York to Eagle Pass on the Border, +skimming mountains and swamps, and then flew eighty miles of barren +mountain and desert country to the ranch house. + +They insisted the next day that I go out hunting with them. That meant +that I had to ride a horse. I had ridden a horse once before in my life +and remembered it as the most uncomfortable means of transportation ever +invented by man. + +But I went with them. I even began to like it after we had been out a +while. I discovered that you could wheel the horse around in a running +turn and that it was almost like banking an airplane around. I was +having pretty good fun experimenting until I noticed that a certain +portion of my anatomy was getting very warm, and then, soon, that it was +getting very tender. Pretty soon I began to think that we would never +get back to the ranch house. When we finally did, my pants and my +anatomy were brilliantly discolored. And when I went to take the pants +off, I noticed that quite a bond had developed between me and them, +quite an attachment indeed! They were stuck fast and could be persuaded +away from me only with their pound of flesh. + +I decided that I would stick to my airplane after that. But the next +day, I discovered that my airplane was uncomfortable too—and I had to +make a five-hour flight to Mexico City. + +When I got to Mexico City everything was uncomfortable, and I had to eat +my dinner off the mantelpiece that night. There was an additional +humiliation. The doctor had to undress me. He had to use plenty of hot +oil and go very easy. + + + + +ALMOST + + +Bunny had trusted me on the outward trip, so now, returning to March +Field, Calif., I comforted myself in the rear cockpit of our army DH +with the thought that Bunny could fly as well as I. + +San Francisco lay behind us. The Diablo Mountains were beneath. Snug +around us, familiar and friendly, was our ship. + +But beyond, strange and ominous by now to Bunny and me because we had +hardly ever flown in it before, and never for so long, stretched like a +white, opaque, and directionless night the fog. + +The ship felt as if it were flying straight, but when I peeked over +Bunny’s shoulder I saw the needle on his bank and turn indicator leaning +halfway over to the right. I watched it start back then—Bunny was all +right—to the center. But slowly then, inexorably—Bunny! Bunny!—the +needle leaned over to the left. The ball was centered, so the turns were +good. But that was not enough. Where were we going? Were we weaving? +Circling? Which way were we turning mostly? The ocean was not far off to +our right. + +Then something else—ice! Its white hands gripped the front of wings, the +leading edge of struts and wires. The prop got rough. The motor beat and +strained. Once the ship shivered. I saw one aileron go down. Bunny was +trying to hold a wing up. I saw the needle straighten. He had held it. +But I saw something else too! I saw the altimeter losing. No hope for +blue sky now. No hope to ride on top until we found a hole, as our +weather report had indicated that we would. How far were the mountain +tops beneath us? Would the ice melt off before we sank too far? + +I saw the throttle moving backward, heard the motor taper off its +friendly roar, heard Bunny’s voice sound out like thunder in white doom. + +“Let’s jump,” he shouted, turning his head halfway. + +Were there mountains to land on and walk on in the depths of that white +down there? Or had we circled out over the ocean? + +“Let’s not. Let’s wait. Let’s try once more,” I shouted back. + +Then I shouted again, scraped my fingers on the windshield, reaching, +grabbed Bunny’s shoulder, but too late. Even as I shouted, reached, and +grabbed, the ship banked on its ear, wheeled over, and dove safely +through a brown passage tunnel to the earth. Bunny had seen it too—a +hole in the fog, and through it, ground. + +The warmer lower air flowed over us. The ice dripped from our wings in +glistening drops. We came out in the San Joaquin Valley with plenty of +ceiling, and it was plain sailing from there on. + + + + +RUN! RUN! RUN! + + +It is a bright, golden day in Texas. A little Mexican boy is working in +a field of sugar cane just back of Kelly Field. The airplanes from the +field are droning in the sleepy air above his head. Occasionally he +pauses in his work to glance half curiously at one of them. He is not +much interested in them. They are like the automobiles swishing +endlessly past on the highway near by. He is accustomed to them. And +besides, they are not of his world. + +Sometimes the long motor roar of a ship coming out of a dive attracts +his half-hearted attention. Occasionally an intricate formation maneuver +over his head warrants his momentary gaze. Often he stares, half +abstractedly, skyward while he works. Like a shoe cobbler in a window +watching the crowds passing in the street. + +This time, however, a curious interruption in the steady beating drone +of a three-ship formation of DHs passing over him makes him +involuntarily raise his head from his work. It is a strange sound, +somehow ominous to him. He is accustomed to hearing the motors run. Even +their tapering off for a landing is a different noise than this one. His +unknowingly trained ears and maybe some strange premonition tell him +that. + +He sees two of the three ships locked together in collision. He sees +them, startlingly silent and arrested in their flight, falling in their +own débris. He sees two black objects leave the wrecks. He sees a white +streamer trail out behind each of them and then blossom open into two +swinging, slowly floating parachutes. He stands with his head thrown +back, his Indian eyes rapt in his Asiatic face. + +Suddenly he is alarmed, then full of fear. The two milling wrecks, black +harbingers of doom by now, are going to fall on him. He begins to run. +Any way, any direction at all. He runs as fast as his little brown legs +will carry him. He covers a considerable distance from where he was +standing by the time the wrecks hit. + +The spot he runs from, unruffled, undisturbed, lies warming, sleeping in +the sun. The wrecks don’t hit that spot. They hit him, running. + +The world that was not his has folded darkened crumpled wings of death +around him. + + + + +HIGH FIGHT + + +One of the briefest and most amusing family fights I have ever listened +in on occurred in an airplane. I was flying its owner and his wife to +the coast. + +We came in over the Mohave Desert, crossed the mountains at the desert’s +western edge, and started out over the valley, where I knew Los Angeles +lay thirteen thousand feet beneath us. The valley and the ocean beyond +were covered with fog, and I could see nothing but the white, billowed +stretch of it and the tawny mountains rising out of it behind us. + +I spiraled down and went through a hole in the fog near the foot of the +mountains. It was lower and thicker underneath than I had hoped. I +picked up a railroad and started weaving my way along it into the +airport. + +The owner of the ship, sitting on my right, was helping me with my map, +holding it for me. His wife, sitting behind me, was squirming anxiously +in her seat and peering tensely out of the windows through the low +mists. + +Soon she tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Aren’t we flying awfully +low?” + +I half turned my head and shouted, “Yes, the ceiling is awfully low.” I +wanted to add, “You fool,” but didn’t dare. + +“Isn’t it dangerous?” she whined. + +“We’re all right,” I shouted. “I’ve flown stuff like this before. I can +handle it.” + +Pretty soon she tapped me on the shoulder again. “Where are we?” she +inquired. + +“I can’t tell you the exact spot,” I shouted, “but we are still on the +right railroad and will be coming into the airport in a few minutes.” + +We passed over a town section just then, and the railroad branched three +ways under us. I made a quick jump at my map to check which of the three +I should follow. The wife saw me jump and must have seen that I looked +worried. She tapped me on the shoulder again. + +“Oh, are you sure we are going the right way?” she whimpered. + +I started to turn around to explain to her what I was doing and why, +realized my flying required all my attention right then, cast an +appealing glance at her husband, clamped my jaws tight, and started +studying landmarks. We were in close to the airport, and I didn’t want +to miss it. + +I heard the husband shout one of the funniest mixtures of supplication +and command I have ever heard. + +“Now listen, honey,” he shouted at her. “You keep your damn mouth shut, +sweetheart.” + + + + +GESTURE AT REUNIONS + + +It is the year before Lindbergh becomes famous. I have graduated in the +same class with him from the army flying school the year before and have +seen him only twice since. I am on an army cross-country trip, bound for +St. Louis, when I land at Chicago and run into him. He is just taking +off with the mail, bound for St. Louis too, and we decide to fly down +together in formation. + +It is getting dark when we sight the river at St. Louis in the distance. +Lindbergh shakes his wings. He is calling my attention. I pull my ship +in close to his. I see him pointing from his cockpit. I look ahead and +see a speck. It grows rapidly larger. I make it out as another DH +approaching us head on from the deepening dusk. It comes up, swings +around into formation with us, and sticks its wing right up into mine. +Its pilot peers at me, and I peer at him. We recognize each other. It is +Red Love. Red, Lindbergh, and myself were three of the four cadets in +our pursuit class at flying school. Looks like a class reunion in the +air. + +But no. Lindbergh is shaking his wings. He is banking. He is pointing +down. He spirals down, circles a field, flies low over it several times, +dragging it, looking it over carefully, and lands. Red and I follow. + +Lindbergh and I crawl out of our ships with parachutes strapped to us. +Red crawls out of his without one. Lindbergh takes his off as the three +of us converge for greetings. + +“You will need this getting the mail on into Chicago the rest of the way +in the dark tonight,” he says to Red, holding the chute out to him. + +“It’s the only one in the company,” he says, turning, explaining to me, +“and I won’t need it for the few miles on into St. Louis from here.” + +We say hasty greetings and good-byes, crawl back into our still idling +ships, and take off. Lindbergh, chuteless now, heads off south for St. +Louis, and I follow. Red swings off in the opposite direction for +Chicago. + +I look back. I see Red disappearing into the darkening north. I know he +feels better now, sitting on that chute. + + + + +AS I SAW IT + + +I had to go to Cleveland to bring back a ship that a student of mine had +left there in bad weather. I got on an airliner, with a parachute. The +chute was for use on the way back. + +The airline porter wanted to put my chute in the baggage compartment. My +argument was: “What good would it do me there?” The porter looked +offended, but I kept my attitude and took my chute to my seat with me. + +We took off from Newark after dark. The weather was bad, and we went +blind three minutes after we took off. + +I tried to console myself with the thought that the pilots were +specially trained in blind flying, that they had instruments, had two +motors, had radio, that everything was just ducky. But I couldn’t even +see the wing tips. + +I tried to read my magazine. I found myself peering out of the windows +through the darkness to see if we had come out on top yet. + +I tried to nap. I found myself hearing the motors getting slightly +louder, knowing we were nosing down; feeling myself getting slightly +heavier in my seat, knowing the pilot was correcting; hearing the motors +begin to labor slightly, knowing we were nosing up; feeling myself +getting ever so slightly lighter in my seat, knowing the pilot was +correcting again; telling myself repeatedly that he knew his stuff and +that there wasn’t anything I could do about it anyway, but sitting there +going through every motion with him just the same. + +Two hours later we were still blind, and my nose was pressing up against +the windowpane almost constantly. The other passengers probably thought +I had never been in a ship before. + +Half an hour later we were still blind and only half an hour out of +Cleveland. We broke out of the stuff finally just outside of Cleveland. +We were flying low, and the lights were still going dim under us as we +skimmed along not very far above them. There wasn’t much ceiling when we +landed, and it closed in shortly after that. + +Most of the passengers roused themselves from sleep when we landed. I +was plenty wide awake. I knew that ship hadn’t had much gas range. If we +had got stuck, we would have had to come down someway before very long. +If those passengers could have read my mind, or I think even the +pilot’s, there probably would have been a battle in the cabin over my +chute. + + + + +WAS MY FACE RED! + + +I took off at Buffalo one time to do a test job. I had been called up +there as an expert and was supposed to be pretty hot stuff. + +I took the ship off and started rocking it violently from side to side. +I kept this up through a variety of speed ranges, watching the ailerons +closely all the time. I wanted to find out first of all if the ailerons +had any tendency to flutter under a high angle of attack condition. Then +I began horsing on the stick to see if anything unusual happened to the +ailerons when I introduced the high angle of attack condition that way. + +I interrupted my observations of the ship’s behavior after a while to +look around for the airport. I couldn’t find it! I had forgotten that I +was in a high-speed ship and could get far away from the field in a very +short time. Furthermore, the country was unfamiliar to me, and I had no +map. Gee, if I had only thought to stick a map in the ship before I took +off. + +I knew the airport was somewhere on the west side of town. I thought it +was somewhat north. But how far north I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember +even if it was close in to town or far out. I had a vague idea it was +far out, but how far out I didn’t know. If I had only thought to bring a +map! Or if I had only kept the airport in sight. Good old hindsight! + +I was panic-stricken. There I was, a supposedly high-powered test pilot, +lost over the airport. What a dumb position for me to be in! + +Before I found the airport by just cruising around looking haphazardly +for it, I might be forced down by the weather, which was none too good +and getting worse, or I might run out of gas. What if I was finally +forced to pick a strange field, a pasture or something, and cracked up +getting into it? How would I explain that? + +I decided to cruise north and south, up and down, in ten- or +fifteen-mile laps, starting far enough out of town to be sure to fly +over the airport on one of the laps as I moved closer in on each one. +That would be at least an orderly procedure. + +I found the field on my fourth lap. But was I in a sweat! And did I keep +my eye on that field after that! + + + + +CO-PILOT + + +Dick Blythe, who handled Lindbergh’s publicity not only after Lindbergh +came back from Paris but also, as Dick stated to me, just before +Lindbergh went to Paris, is a bit of aviation folklore in himself. + +I just ran into Dick over at the Roosevelt Field restaurant, and he told +me this one about Dean Smith. Dean is one of the oldest air-mail pilots. +He started flying the mail ’way back in the postoffice days, just after +the war. He is a lean six-foot-two, easy-going guy who would never talk +much about his flying. + +Dick caught him just after he had returned from one of his crackups in +the Alleghanies in the old days when Roosevelt Field was called Curtiss +Field and the mail went out of there instead of out of Newark as it does +now. Dean was just pouring his long self into the cockpit of another DH +to take the night mail out again. + +“Where in the hell have you been?” Dick greeted him. + +“Oh,” Dean said, “I had a hell of a time the other night. Just got +back.” + +“What happened?” Dick asked him. + +“Aw, I got tangled up with a load of ice after dark. She started losing +altitude, and I eased a little more gun to her. She kept on losing, so I +eased a little more gun to her. She still kept on losing, so I eased all +the gun she had. She was squashing right down into the trees. I had done +everything I knew and couldn’t hold her up. So I said, ‘Here, God, you +fly it awhile,’ and turned her loose and threw my arms up in front of my +face. + +“I guess it must have been tough, because He cracked her up. He piled +into that last ridge just outside of Bellefonte.” + + + + +ORCHIDS TO ME! + + +The late Lya de Putti, German screen actress, paid me the nicest +compliment of all. + +She was up front in the two-place passenger compartment of a Lockheed +Sirius. The owner of that plane was in the pilot’s open cockpit just +back of her. And I was behind him in the rear cockpit. + +He had insisted, against my better judgment, upon getting into that +pilot’s cockpit in the first place. But, after all, he owned the ship, I +was only his pilot, and there was a set of dual controls in the rear +cockpit. + +The motor quit cold over Whitehall, N. Y., because we ran out of gas in +one of the six tanks in the ship. I shouted back and forth with the +ship’s owner, halfway to the ground, trying to tell him how to turn on +one of the other five tanks. There was a complicated system of gas +valves in the ship, and I couldn’t make him understand what to do, and I +couldn’t reach the valves myself. + +Finally I shouted, “You play with them. I’ll land,” and stuck my head +out and looked around. We were already low. I picked a small plowed +field, the only likely-looking one in the mountainous country, and +started into it. + +I was coming around my last turn into the field when I discovered +high-tension wires stretching right across the edge of it. I was too low +to pick another field. The field was too small to go over the wires. I +had to go through a gap in the trees to get under them. + +I kicked the ship around sidewise. The trees flashed past me on either +side, and I hit the ground. The wires flashed past over my head. I used +my brakes and stopped the fast ship very quickly in the soft ground. If +we had rolled fifty feet farther we would have hit an embankment that +rose sharply at the far end of the field. + +I crawled out of my cockpit and started to help Lya out of her cabin. +She was already emerging, fanning herself with a handkerchief. She spoke +with a German accent. + +“Oh, Jeemy,” she said, “all the way down I pray to God. But I thank you, +Jeemy. I thank you.” + + + + +RECOVERY ACT + + +Johnny Wagner came up to me for his transport pilot’s license test. I +was the inspector for the Department of Commerce. Johnny knew I was +“tough.” As a matter of fact, he figured I was much tougher than I was. + +I knew Johnny and liked him. He was crazy about flying and had worked +hard to get his flying training. He had pushed ships in and out of +hangars, washed them, acted as night watchman and office boy, done +anything and everything to pay for his flying time. But I didn’t have +the slightest idea how he flew. And after all, you may be a swell guy +but not be able to fly worth a cent, and a transport test is supposed to +determine whether you are safe to carry passengers. + +I found out three minutes after Johnny got in the ship how he flew. +Nevertheless, I made him go all through the test. When he came to steep +banks I made him pull them in tight. He was reluctant to do it, so I +took the ship to do it myself to show him. I could see right away why he +was reluctant. It was the way the ship was rigged. It had a tendency to +roll under in a tightly pulled in steep bank. But I wanted to see what +he would do with it, so I made him do it. He did, and rolled right under +into a power spin. He had gone into an inadvertent spin, the +unforgivable sin in a flight test. + +I started to reach for the controls but let him go. When he had pulled +out of the spin I told him to land. + +He got out of the ship with his face as long as a poker. He couldn’t +even talk, the test had meant so much to him. I didn’t say anything for +a moment, then with a stern face I said roughly, “Well,” and waited a +moment. The poor kid was getting all set for the worst. I could tell by +his face. + +“Well,” I went on, “you passed,” and I smiled broadly at him. + +His mouth fell open. “But—but—” he stuttered—“but I spun out of that +steep bank!” + +“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But you also recovered. It was the way you +recovered. You stopped that spin like that and recovered from the +resultant dive neatly and smoothly, with a minimum loss of altitude and +still without squashin’ the ship. It was a beautiful piece of work and +told me more about your flying than anything else you did, although I +could tell in the first three minutes that you could fly.” I never saw a +kid beam so much. + +Johnny is now flying a regular run over the Andes in South America for +Pan American Grace. + + + + +“A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME....” + + +I delivered a plane at a ranch in Mexico a few years ago for Joe and +Alicia Brooks. I was to take back the ship they had been using. The +ranch was about eighty miles over the border from Eagle Pass. The +Brookses planned to leave with me and fly formation to New York. Both +planes had approximately the same cruising speed. Alicia and I flew in +one ship. Sutter, the mechanic, flew with Joe in the other. + +The day we started didn’t look too good. Thick gray clouds were rolling +in from the northeast. There was no way we could check our weather till +we got to Eagle Pass. We had to take a chance on the eighty miles. + +Joe led the way, and everything went fine at the start, but the nearer +we got to Eagle Pass the worse the weather got. We were flying on top of +a jerkwater railway, just missing the tops of the trees, when we bumped +into a solid wall of fog. Joe disappeared into it. I stuck my nose in +the stuff and pulled out: there was no percentage in two planes milling +around blind. Too much chance of collision. I picked out a spot in +between the cactus and landed. There was nothing to do but wait. If Joe +came out he would come out on the railway and we would see him. Ten +uncomfortable minutes passed. We heard a motor. Joe reappeared. He +circled and landed alongside of us. + +By this time the planes were surrounded by a herd of angry shrieking +Mexicans. There must have been over a hundred of them. They didn’t seem +to like us, but we couldn’t find out why. None of us spoke Spanish. +Finally an official-looking fellow appeared with a lot of brass medals +on his coat. He made us understand through the sign language that he +wanted to see our passports. We couldn’t find them. The atmosphere was +most unpleasant. We had visions of spending the next few days in a +flea-bitten Mexican jail. + +Then it occurred to me that I did know one Spanish word. Might as well +use it, I thought, and see what happens. “Cerveza” I commanded. The +Mexicans looked startled. “Cerveza” I commanded again. The Mexicans +started to laugh. + +The next thing we knew, we were sitting at a Mexican bar drinking beer +with a lot of newfound friends. Cerveza is the Spanish for beer. + + + + +“YES, SIR!” + + +Our jenny hit the ground wheels first and bounced dangerously. My +instructor in the cockpit in front of me grabbed his controls, gave the +ship a sharp burst of the gun, and set her down right. We were in a +little practice field near Brooks Field in Texas. + +My instructor turned around to me: “Damn it, Collins,” he said, “don’t +run into the ground wheels first like that. Level off about six feet in +the air and wait until the ship begins to settle. Then ease the stick +back. When you feel the ship begin to fall out from under you, pull the +stick all the way back into your guts and the ship will set itself down. +Go around and try it again.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +I came in the next time, hit the ground wheels first, and bounced. My +instructor righted the ship. + +“No, Collins. No,” he fumed. “Six feet. Look, I’ll show you what six +feet looks like.” + +He took the ship off and flew over the open fields, then came around and +landed. + +“Now do you know what six feet looks like?” he shouted back to me. + +“Yes, sir,” I lied. I was afraid to tell him that I could not see the +ground right. He might send me to the hospital to have my eyes examined. +They might find some slight defect in my eyes that they had overlooked +in the original examination and wash me out of the school. + +“Well, then, go around and make a decent landing for me,” my instructor +said. + +“Yes, sir.” + +I leveled off too high the next time. My instructor grabbed his controls +and prevented us from cracking up. + +“Damn it, Collins,” he shouted when the ship had stopped rolling, “don’t +run into the ground wheels first. And don’t level off as high as the +telegraph wires. Level off at about six feet. Then set her down. Now go +round and try it again.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Damn it, Collins, don’t sit back there and say ‘Yes, sir’ and then do +the same damned thing again.” + +“No, sir.” + + + + +MOONLIGHT AND SILVER + + +Pat paints. She also flies. + +Pat and I landed at Jacksonville, Fla., late one night in Pat’s Stearman +biplane. Pat was taking cross-country instruction from me. We gassed +hurriedly and took off again. We left the glare of the floodlights +behind us as we headed our ship along the line of flashing beacons +stretching southward toward Miami. The stars were brilliant in the +cloudless sky, but the night was very dark. There was no moon. + +Soon we were flying down the coast. White breakers rolled in under us +from the Atlantic Ocean on our left and dimly marked the coast line. +Swamps stretched away to the inland on our right but were invisible in +the black night. Beacons flashed brilliantly out of the darkness in a +long line far behind us and far ahead. Blotches of lights slipped slowly +past under us when we flew over towns. + +We saw clouds ahead. We nosed down under them. We had to fly +uncomfortably low to stay under the clouds. We nosed up to get above +them. + +We flew into them. The lights beneath us dimmed and disappeared. We +climbed in opaque blackness, flying by instruments. + +We emerged into an open space where the clouds were broken. The lights +reappeared. The stars became visible. + +The clouds spread out under us to the horizon in all directions. They +were lit a dim silver by the stars. They softly undulated like a mystic, +limitless sea beneath us. + +Now and then we saw a break in the clouds and caught the flash of a +beacon through it or saw the lights of a town. We caught glimpses of dim +breakers rolling in on the beach far down under the clouds. + +Something I couldn’t explain was happening. The sky in the east was +getting lighter. It was only about midnight. I looked at the western sky +and then looked back at the eastern sky. Yes, the sky was definitely +getting lighter in the east. Half an hour later the eastern sky was much +lighter than the western sky. + +I watched toward the east. + +I saw a thin, blood-red tip of something rise up from the eastern +horizon. The top of the object was rounded. The bottom of it was +irregular in shape. The object got larger rapidly. + +“The moon!” I shouted out loud to myself. + +It rose rapidly. Invisible clouds far out at sea, silhouetted against +the moon, gave the bottom of it its irregular shape. + +The moon got up above the clouds in an incredibly short time. It was a +full moon, golden and glorious. It made the clouds between me and it +seem darker. It made the sea beneath the clouds silver. Through the +large breaks in the clouds I saw a beam of moonlight like a golden path +from the moon across the sea to the beach beneath us. The beam traveled +with us. It raced across the sea under the clouds at the same speed that +we flew through the air above the clouds. + +I eased the throttle back and slowed the ship down. + +“Paint that some day,” I shouted to Pat. + +Pat was gazing out across the ocean toward the moon. She didn’t say +anything. I knew she had heard me. + + + + +FIVE MILES UP + + +I was stationed at Selfridge Field after I graduated from the Advanced +Flying School at Kelly. The Army Air Corps’ First Pursuit Group was at +Selfridge. The officers used to gather every morning at eight-fifteen in +the post operator’s office. We would be assigned to our various +functions in the formation. Then we would fly formation for an hour or +so, practicing different tactical maneuvers. After flying we would +gather at the operations office again for a general critique, which was +supposed to conclude the official day’s flying. We would separate from +there and go about our various ground duties. I discovered I could +quickly finish my ground duties and have a lot of time left over for +extra flying. I used to bother the operations officer to death asking +him for ships. He usually gave me one, and I would go up alone and +practice all sorts of things just for fun. It was no part of my work. It +was pure exuberance. + +One day I was flying around idly in a Hawk. I decided I would take the +Hawk as high as I could, just for the hell of it. + +I opened the throttle and nosed up. I gained the first few thousand feet +rapidly. The higher I went the slower I climbed. At 20,000 feet climbing +was difficult. The air was much thinner. The power of my engine was +greatly diminished. I began to notice the effect of altitude. Breathing +was an effort. I didn’t get enough air when I did breathe. I sighed +often. My heart beat faster. I wasn’t sleepy. I was dopey. I was very +cold, although it was summer. + +I looked up into the sky. It was intensely blue, deep blue; bluer than I +had ever seen a sky. I was above all haze. I looked down at the earth. +Selfridge Field was very small under me. The little town of Mount +Clemens seemed to be very close to the field. Lake St. Clair was just a +little pond. Detroit seemed to be almost under me, although I knew it +was about twenty miles from Selfridge Field. I could see a lot of little +Michigan towns clothing the earth to the north and northwest of +Selfridge. Everything beneath me seemed to have shoved together. The +earth seemed to be without movement. I felt suspended in enormous space. +I was 23,000 feet high by my altimeter. + +I was dopey. My perception and reaction were ga-ga. I was cold, too. To +hell with it. It said 24,500 feet. I eased the throttle full and nosed +down. + +I lost altitude very rapidly and with very little effort at first. After +that it got more and more normal. I didn’t come down too fast. It was +too loud on my ears. I came down fairly slowly, so as to accommodate +myself to the change in air pressure as I descended. + +It was warm and stuffy on the ground. + +I saw the Flight Surgeon at dinner that evening. + +“I worked a Hawk up to 24,500 feet today,” I told him proudly. “Gee, it +sure felt funny up there without oxygen.” + +“Without oxygen?” he asked. + +I nodded my head. + +“You’re crazy,” he said. “You can’t go that high without oxygen. The +average pilot’s limit is around 15,000 to 18,000 feet. You’re young and +in good shape. Maybe you got to twenty. But you just imagined you went +higher than that.” + +“No, I didn’t imagine it,” I said. “I really went up that high.” + +“You went ga-ga and imagined it,” he said. + +He added: “Don’t fool around with that sort of business. You’re likely +to pass out cold at any moment when you’re flying too high without +oxygen. You’re likely to pass out cold and fall a long way before +regaining consciousness. You might break your neck.” + + + + +AËRIAL COMBAT + + +I was flying in a student pursuit formation of SE-5s. Another student +pursuit formation of MB3As was flying several thousand feet above us. +The formation above us was supposed to be enemy pursuit on the +offensive. My formation was supposed to be on the defensive. We were +staging a mimic combat. Kelly Field, the army Advanced Flying School, +lay beneath us. + +I had to watch my flight leader, the other ships in my formation, and +the enemy formation. + +I saw the enemy formation behind us and above us in position to attack. +I saw it nose down toward us. + +I looked at my flight leader’s plane. He was signaling a sharp turn to +the left. He banked sharply to the left. Everybody in our formation +banked sharply to the left with him. The attacking formation passed over +our tails and pulled up to our right. + +I saw the attacking formation above us to our right, banking to the +left, nosing down to attack us broadside. + +I looked at my flight leader. He was signaling a turn to the right. He +turned sharply to the right. Our whole formation turned with him. We +were heading directly into the oncoming attack of the other formation. + +Just as I straightened out of my turn my ship lurched violently and I +got a fleeting impression of something passing over my head. I couldn’t +figure out what had happened. My leader was signaling for another turn. +I followed him through several quick turns in rapid succession. We were +dodging the enemy formation. I kept trying to figure out what had +happened when my ship had lurched. + +Then it occurred to me: Somebody in the attacking formation, when the +formation had been diving head on into ours, had pulled up just in time +to keep from hitting me head on. I had passed under him and immediately +behind him as he pulled up, and the turbulent slip stream just back of +his ship was what had caused my ship to lurch. + +I felt weak all over. God, how close he must have come, I thought! + +Later, on the ground, we stood around our instructors, listening to +criticism of our flying. I wasn’t listening very much. I was looking +around at the faces of the other students. I saw another student looking +around too. It was Lindbergh. He had been flying in the attacking +formation. After the criticism was over I walked up to Lindbergh. + +“Say,” I said, “did you come close to anybody in that head-on attack?” + +He grinned all over. + +“Yes,” he said. “Was that you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Did you see me?” he asked. + +“No,” I said. “I _felt_ you.” + +“It is a good thing you didn’t see me,” Lindbergh said, “because if you +had seen me you would have pulled up, too, and we would have hit head +on.” + + + + +WINGS OVER AKRON + + +Tom was flying in front of me to my left. We both had PW-8s. We were +heading toward Uniontown, Pa. They were opening a field there. We were +going to stunt for them. We were flying 7,000 feet high in a milky +autumn haze. The rolling Ohio country beneath us was visible only +straight down and out to an angle of about 45 degrees. Beyond that the +earth mingled with the haze and was invisible. + +I saw a town over the leading edge of my lower right wing. I recognized +it as Akron, O. I pushed my stick forward and opened my throttle. I had +always wanted to jazz the fraternity house in a high-powered fast ship. + +Down I came. Roaring louder and louder. I couldn’t see a soul in the +yard of the fraternity house. + +I missed the house by inches as I pulled sharply out of my dive and +zoomed almost vertically up for altitude. I looked back as I shot up +into the sky. The yard was full of fellows. + +I kicked over and nosed down at the house again. I came as close to it +as I could without hitting it as I pulled back and thundered up into the +air. + +I nosed over into a third dive at the house. As I pulled up this time I +kicked the ship into a double snap roll as I climbed. I didn’t look +back. I just kept on climbing, heading for Uniontown. I overtook Tom a +little while later. + +On my return trip from Uniontown I was forced down at Akron owing to bad +weather. Tom had gone back a day earlier than I. I was alone. + +Friends of mine at the airport came up to me as I climbed out of my +ship. They asked me if I had flown over Akron in a PW-8 a few days +before. I said, “No. Why?” They showed me a clipping from a local +newspaper. It said: + +AIRMAN STARTLES AKRON—MANY LIVES ENDANGERED + + At noon today a small fast biplane appeared over Akron and + proceeded to throw the populace into a panic by performing a + series of zooms and dives and perilous nose spins low over the + business section of town. Onlookers said that the plane narrowly + missed hitting the tops of the buildings and that it several + times almost dove into the crowds in the streets. + + Hospital authorities complained to city officials that the plane + roared low over the hospital, frightening many of their patients + and endangering the lives of others. Other complaints have + rolled in from all over the city. + + City officials told reporters that the name of the pilot is + known. He was a former resident of Akron and was a student at + Akron University. At present he is on duty with the Army + Aviation Service. Officials said they had reported the + outrageous act to the military authorities at the pilot’s home + station. + +“I wonder who that damned fool could have been,” I said as I handed the +clipping back to my friends. I grinned. + +I was staying with my uncle. I didn’t have much appetite for dinner that +night. I didn’t sleep very well. + +“What is the matter, Jim?” my uncle asked me at breakfast the next +morning. “Why don’t you eat more?” + +“I don’t feel very well,” I said. + +I got back to Selfridge that afternoon. Nobody there had heard of my +escapade. + +I ate a big dinner that evening. + + + + +TEARS AND ACROBATICS + + +“Go around and try it again,” I shouted. + +“Yes, sir,” the cadet in the rear cockpit behind me shouted back. + +I felt the throttle under my left hand go all the way forward with a +jerk. I pulled it back. + +“Open that throttle slower and smoother,” I shouted back. I didn’t look +round. I just turned my head to the left and put my open right hand up +to the right side of my mouth. That threw my voice back. + +“Yes, sir,” came the cadet’s voice from the rear cockpit. + +I felt the throttle under my left hand move forward slowly, smoothly. +The engine noise rose louder. The ship rocked and bumped slowly forward +over the rough ground. The tail of the ship came up, and the nose went +down. The nose of the ship veered to the left. I wanted to kick right +rudder to bring the nose back. I just sat there. The nose swung back +straight and then veered badly to the right. I wanted to kick left +rudder and bring the nose back. I didn’t move. The nose stopped veering. +We were going pretty fast. We bumped the ground once more and bounced +into the air. We stayed there. I took my nose between my left thumb and +forefinger and turned my head to the left so the cadet behind me could +see my profile. + +The ship banked to the left. I felt a blast of air strong on the right +side of my face and felt myself being pushed to the right side of my +cockpit. We were skidding. I wanted to ease a little right rudder on and +stop the skid. Instead, I patted the right side of my face several times +with my right hand so the cadet could see it. I felt the rudder pedal +under my right foot jerk forward. We stopped skidding. The ship +straightened out of the bank and flew straight and level for a little +way. It made another left-hand bank, leveled out again, and flew +straight again for a little way. It did it again. I felt the throttle +under my left hand come all the way back. The engine noise quieted down, +and the engine exhaust popped a few times. The ship nosed down into a +glide. It made another left turn in the glide and then straightened out. +We were gliding toward the little field we had just taken off from. It +was a little field near Brooks that the Army Primary Flying School used +as a practice field. + +“That was lousy,” I shouted back. “You jerked your throttle open. You +veered across the field on your take-off like a drunken man. Are you too +weak to kick rudder? You skidded on your turns. You landed cross-wind. +Go around and try it again. See if you can do something right this +time.” It was about the twentieth speech like that I had shouted back to +the cadet that morning. + +I felt the throttle under my left hand jerk forward. I pulled it back. + +“Damn it, open that throttle slower and——” + +A voice from the rear cockpit broke in on me: + +“I hope you never get anyone else as dumb as I am, Lieutenant.” + +The voice was choked. The kid was crying. + +“Hey, listen here,” I said, “I give you a lot of hell because I’m as +anxious for you to get this stuff as you are to get it. I wouldn’t even +give you hell if I thought you were hopeless. Sit back and relax and +forget it a while now. You’ll do better tomorrow.” + +The cadet started to open his mouth. I turned hastily around and sat +down in my cockpit and opened the throttle wide open. The engine roared. +I didn’t hear what the cadet said. + +I took off in a sharp climbing turn. I dove low at the ground, flew +under some high-tension wires. I pulled up and dove low at a cow in a +pasture. The cow jumped very amusingly. I pulled up and did a loop. I +came out of the loop very close to the ground. It was all against army +orders. It was all fun. I pulled back up to a respectable altitude and +flew sedately over Brooks Field. I cut the gun to land. I looked back at +the cadet. He was laughing. There were little channels in the dust on +his face where the tears had run down. + + + + +ACROSS THE CONTINENT + + +It was 1:45 a. m. The lights of United Airport at Burbank, Calif., where +I had left the ground fifteen minutes before, had disappeared. I knew +the low mountains were beneath me, but I couldn’t see them. I knew the +high mountains several miles east of me were higher than I was, but I +couldn’t see them. I could see the glow of the luminous-painted dials in +my instrument board in front of me. I could see the sea of lights of Los +Angeles and vicinity south of me, stretching southeastward. I could see +the stars in the cloudless, moonless sky above. I was circling for +altitude to go over the high mountains. + +At 13,000 feet I leveled out and assumed a compass course for Wichita, +Kan. I passed over the high mountains without ever seeing them. I saw +only an occasional light in the blackness beneath me where I knew the +mountains were. I knew from my map that there were low mountains and +desert valleys beyond. + +Greener country. Fertile valleys. Mountains looming. The Sangre de +Cristo range loomed high in front of me. Twelve thousand feet. I passed +over it into the undulating low country beyond it. Soon I was flying +over the flat fertile plains of western Kansas. + +Gas trucks were waiting for me at Wichita Airport. Reporters asked me +questions. They took pictures. They told me I was behind Lindbergh’s +time. A woman out of the crowd jumped up on the side of my ship and +kissed me. I was off the ground, headed for New York, fifteen minutes +after I had landed. + +It was very rough. It was hot. I was miserable in my fur flying suit. I +ached like hell from sitting on the hard parachute pack and wished I +could stand up for a while. I hadn’t had a chance to step out of the +ship at Wichita. + +Clouds gone. Towns closer together. Towns larger. Farms smaller. More +railroads and paved roads. Industrial towns. On into the rolling country +of eastern Ohio. + +Pittsburgh was covered with smoke. The Allegheny Mountains were dim in a +haze. It was getting dark. + +Mountains beneath me in the dusk like dreams floating past. Stars +appearing in the clear sky. Lights coming on in the houses and towns. + +It was dark now. The flashing beacons along the Cleveland-New York mail +run were visible off to my left. + +New York. An ocean of shimmering light in the darkness, spreading +immensely under me. Beyond stretched Long Island. I could see where the +field ought to be. Did I see the Roosevelt Field beacon? Was that it? +What was that beacon over there? I saw hundreds of beacons. Beacons +everywhere. Every color of flashing beacon. Then I remembered it was +Fourth of July night. I would have a hell of a time locating the field. +Finally I distinguished Roosevelt Field lights from the fireworks, and +dove low over the field. The flood lights came on. My red-and-white +low-wing Lockheed Sirius glided out of the darkness, low over the edge +of the field, brilliantly into the floodlight glare, landed and rolled +to a stop. + +There was a crowd at the field. Roosevelt was giving a night +demonstration. People ran out of the crowd toward me. George jumped up +on the wing and leaned over the edge of my cockpit. I was taxiing toward +the hangar. + +“That did it,” Pick shouted over the noise of my engine. + +“Did what?” I shouted back. + +“Broke the record, boy!” + +“You’re crazy as hell,” I answered. It took me sixteen and a half hours. +Lindbergh made it in fourteen forty-five. + + + + +THE FLYER HIKES HOME + + +I was hanging around Roosevelt Field one afternoon with nothing much on +my mind when a couple of friends came up and said they were just taking +off for the South. They wanted to catch the Pan-American plane from +Miami the next day. They were amateur pilots. The weather was lousy +toward the South and they hadn’t had much experience in blind or night +flying. I said I would fly with them as far as Washington and maybe by +that time the weather would clear. When we got to Washington the weather +had pretty well closed down. I didn’t like to see them start off in a +fog bank with the sun already setting, so I volunteered to go to +Greensborough. The stuff grew thicker. We were flying at two hundred +feet and getting lower all the time. So when we landed at Greensborough +there was nothing to do but stick with the ship. We took off for +Jacksonville after a scanty supper. It was one o’clock in the morning. +By that time I could barely make out the beacon lights. I turned to the +girl sitting next to me and told her that if we lost the beacon behind +us before we saw the one ahead of us we would have to turn back. At that +moment both beacons disappeared. I started to bank the ship towards +home. And then suddenly the whole sky lightened up. It looked as though +a huge broom had gone to work to tidy up the clouds. + +We landed at Jacksonville at five in the morning without further mishap. +I said good-bye to plane and passengers and then started wondering how I +was going to get back to New York. I decided to hitch-hike and save the +train fare. It took me three days. When I appeared at the house with a +straw behind each ear and a suit full of holes my wife thought I had +gone crazy. + + + + +KILLED BY KINDNESS + + +Earle R. Southee was so good-hearted he killed a guy. I don’t mean that +he actually killed him, but you can see for yourself from the following +story that, nevertheless, he killed him. + +Southee was a civilian flying instructor to the army before the war, +when the Signal Corps was the flying branch of the army. He was also an +instructor during the war, after the Air Service had been created. + +It was while he was instructing at Wilbur Wright Field during the war +that he met up with this guy. The guy had come down there to learn to +fly and then go to France and shoot Germans—or get shot by them. For +some reason or other he couldn’t pick the stuff up. Some people are like +that. They simply can’t get going when they first start to learn to fly. +Most of them actually have no flying ability and ought to quit trying. +It’s not in their blood. But occasionally you run across one who later +gets going and is all right. + +This guy came up to Southee for washout flight. He was so obviously +broken up over the idea that he was going to get kicked out of the Air +Service into some other branch of service, he loved flying so much, that +Southee took pity on him, held him over a while, gave him special +instruction, and finally got the guy through. The guy even became an +instructor himself, and a very good one. + +Later, most of the gang was transferred to Ellington Field, Houston, +Tex. At Ellington, this guy had such a tough time at first, got so hot, +that he was made a check pilot and put in charge of a stage or section. + +One day one of the students came up to him for washout check. The kid +was just as broken up about it as he was. He gave the kid a chance, like +Southee had given him. Three days later the student froze on him, spun +him in, and lulled him. + + + + +THE FIRST CRACK-UP + + +I sat in the cockpit of an army DH, high over southern Texas. I was +heading toward Kelly Field, the Army Advanced Flying School. I was +returning from a student trip to Corpus Christi. + +I was looking behind me. Beyond the tail of the ship I could see the +Gulf of Mexico. Far out over the Gulf was a low string of white clouds. +The sky was very blue. The water flashed in the sun. + +Occasionally I turned to scan my instrument board, but mostly I looked +behind me. Purple distance slowly swallowed up the Gulf. + +I turned around and faced forward and lit a cigarette. I looked at my +instrument board. I looked at my map. The course line on my map lay +between two railroads. I looked down at the earth. I was directly over a +railroad, flying parallel to it. To my right a little distance ran +another railroad, parallel to the one I was flying over. Another +railroad lay off to my left. I could not decide which two of the three +railroads I should be flying between. + +I saw a little town on the railroad under me. I throttled back and nosed +down. I circled low over the town and located the railroad station. I +dove low past one end of the station and tried to read the name of the +town on the station as I flashed past it. I didn’t make it out. I opened +the throttle to pull up. The engine started to pick up, then sputtered, +then picked up all right. I paid no attention to its sputtering. It had +done that when I took off from Kelly Field that morning. It had done it +when I had circled the field at Corpus Christi on the Gulf. There was a +dead spot in the carburetor. The engine was all right. It was airtight +above or below that one spot on the throttle. I continued to pull up. I +went around and dove low at the station again. Again I failed to read +the sign. I opened the throttle to pull up. The engine started to pick +up, then sputtered, then picked up beautifully. I went around and dove +at the station again. I got it that time. It was Floresville, Tex. I +knew where that was. I opened the throttle to pull up. The engine +started to pick up, then sputtered, then died. The prop stood still. + +I swung my ship to the left. I held it up as much as I dared. I headed +toward the open space. I was almost stalling. I barely cleared the last +house. I was dropping rapidly. I eased forward on the stick. No +response. I eased back. The nose dropped. I was stalled. I was about ten +feet above the ground. There was a fence almost under me. Maybe I would +clear it. + +I heard a loud rending of wood and tearing of fabric. I felt a sensation +of being pummeled and beaten. Something hit me in the face. Then I was +aware of an immense quietness. + +I just sat there in the cockpit. The dust settled slowly in the still +air. The hot Texas sun filtered through it. I still held the stick with +my right hand. My left hand was on the throttle. My feet were braced on +the rudder bar. + +I was on a level with those fences. I stepped over the side of the +cockpit onto the ground. I looked at the wreck. The wings and landing +gear were a complete Washout. The fuselage wasn’t damaged. + +I looked into the gasoline tanks. The main tank was empty. The reserve +tank was full. I looked into the cockpit at the gas valves. The main +tank was turned on. The reserve tank was turned off. I turned the main +tank off and turned the reserve tank on. + +I phoned Kelly Field from a house near by. + +An instructor flew down to get me. He landed his ship and then walked +over and looked at my ship. He looked at the gas tanks. He looked in the +cockpit at the gas valves. He turned to me. His eyes twinkled. + +“What was the matter, wouldn’t your reserve tank take?” he asked. + +“No, sir, it wouldn’t take,” I lied. + +“That’s the first tough luck you’ve had during the course, isn’t it?” he +asked. + +“Yes,” I said. “I have never cracked up before.” + +He flew me back to Kelly Field. + + + + +A POOR PROPHET + + +“What is the weather to New York?” I asked the weather man at the +air-mail field at Bellefonte, Pa. + +“Clear and unlimited all the way,” he told me. + +I took off in my low-wing Lockheed Sirius at dark and flew along the +lighted beacons through the mountains. Half an hour later I ran into +broken clouds at 4,000 feet. I flew under them. Soon they became solid +and I couldn’t see the stars overhead. I saw lightning ahead of me +flashing in the darkness. + +Water began to collect on my windshield. The air got very rough. A +beacon light that had been flashing up ahead of me disappeared. I +noticed the lights of a town beneath me getting dim. For a second I lost +sight of them entirely. I nosed down to get out of the clouds. + +A brilliant flash of lightning lit the darkness around me. I saw the +rain driving in white sheets and caught the flash of a beacon through +it. I nosed down toward the beacon and started circling it. I knew by my +altimeter that I was down lower than some of the mountain ridges around +me. I looked for the next beacon but couldn’t see it through the raging +thunderstorm. I didn’t dare strike out in the general direction of the +next beacon in the hope of finding it. I might hit a mountain top. + +Another blinding flash of lightning surrounded me with glaring light. I +saw the dark bottoms of the clouds and the black top of the next ridge I +had to pass over. Then blackness and the slashing rain with only the +friendly beacon under me. + +I fought my way from beacon to beacon for an hour. The lightning flashes +receded farther and farther behind me. I began to see from beacon to +beacon. Stars appeared overhead. They were very dim. I was flying in a +haze. + +I passed over Hadley Field, New Jersey, and saw its boundary lights +burning cheerfully. I continued on toward Roosevelt Field. I was almost +home now. + +I noticed the lights of the towns beneath me getting dimmer. I looked +up. The stars were gone. I looked down again. The lights had +disappeared! I was flying blind in a thick fog. I began to fly by +instruments. I pulled up. At 3,000 feet I saw the stars. I was on top of +the fog. + +I swung around to go back to Hadley Field. Its lights were covered. I +saw the lights of what I figured was New Brunswick. I started circling +them. I knew Hadley Field was only a few miles from there. The lights of +New Brunswick began to blot out. Hey, what the hell! I said out loud to +myself. + +I saw a segment of the rotating beam of a beacon break through a hole in +the fog and make about a quarter of a turn in the darkness before it +disappeared. That’s the beam from Hadley beacon! I was saying all my +thoughts out loud now. I flew over to where I figured the center of the +beam was and started circling. The top of the fog looked pretty bright +there. I decided that Hadley had heard me and had turned on its +floodlights. + +I eased back on my throttle, settled into a spiraling glide, and sank +down into the fog, flying by instruments. The opaque white fog got more +and more luminous. Individual bright spots, greatly blurred, began to +appear. I figured they were the boundary lights of the field. My +altimeter read very low. I broke through the bottom of the fog at about +two hundred feet. I was over Hadley. I flew low into the blackness back +of the field and came around and landed. + +“What the hell are you flying in this stuff for?” the Hadley weather man +asked me. + +“Because I was damned fool enough to take Bellefonte’s weather report +seriously,” I said. + + + + +TOO MUCH KNOWLEDGE + + +When I was in Cleveland at the air races a couple of years ago four +so-called flyers asked me to fly with them in their Bellanca to the Sky +Harbor airport near Chicago. I agreed. We took off after the last race +with just enough gas to make the field nicely. We hit a head wind, but I +still figured we were okay. I didn’t know where the field was, but one +of the girls in the plane had been taking instruction at Sky Harbor and +the other three claimed that they had lived in Chicago all their lives +and knew Sky Harbor as well as their own mother. + +When we got to Chicago it was already dark. I followed instructions. We +flew north. Someone yelled I should turn east. I turned east. Someone +else shouted that was all wrong, we were already too far east. I turned +west. The next fifteen minutes were bedlam. "_East, north, west, and +south,"_ they yelled. I lost my temper. "_Do you or do you not know +where this field is?"_ I exploded. "_There it is!"_ they chorused. I +heaved a sigh of relief and got ready to land. It wasn’t the field. I +looked at my gas, and my gas was too low. I took matters into my own +hands and flew back to the municipal airport and gassed up. We started +out again. The situation started to strike me as funny as soon as the +tanks were full. I let them have their fun, and eventually they did find +the field. I called back to the girl who had been taking instruction and +asked if there were any obstructions around the field. “Absolutely not!” +she vowed. I looked the field over as carefully as I could. There were +no floodlights (they had also told me the field was well lighted). I cut +the gun and glided in for a landing. A high-tension post whizzed by my +left ear. We had missed the wires by just two inches. And there were no +obstructions around the field! + + + + +HIDDEN FAULTS + + +Nearly every time that a big money race comes along a lot of new planes +put in an appearance. Some of them haven’t been properly tested (you can +get a special license for racing), and none of them are the type you +would want to give your grandmother a ride in. But they are all fast, +and when you are flying in a race for money you want speed, a lot of it. + +I pulled up in front of the hangar late one summer afternoon and saw a +brand-new, speedy type cantilever monoplane standing on the line. The +wing had large L-shaped gashes in it. The plane belonged to Red +Devereaux, who was going to fly it in the National Air Race Derby. As I +sat there Red came over. He told me that on the way in from the factory +in Wichita a terrific wing flutter set in every time he passed through +rough air. The oscillations were so bad that the stick would tear itself +from Red’s hands. He asked me to try it out and see if it were possible +to race the plane. + +I put on my parachute and climbed in. As I warmed the motor up I decided +to have the door taken off the ship. Easier to get out that way. I put +the ship in a shallow climb and held it to six thousand feet. Feeling it +out, I dived, banked, rolled, looped, and spun it. It seemed to be fine. +I landed and told Red that everything was okay. + +The next day diving over the Boston airport, in the lead, the wing broke +off. The plane plunged into the marsh, killing Red and his bride of a +few months. + + + + +“DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY” + + +A friend of mine knew a doctor who had an old skeleton. The skeleton +wasn’t of any use to the doctor. It had been hanging in a closet for +almost a year. I decided to have some fun with it. I wired the head and +jaws with fine wire. I attached two strings to the wire in such a way +that by pulling one I could make the skeleton’s head turn left or right. +When I pulled the other the jaws clacked up and down. I tied the +skeleton in one of the dual-control seats of a cabin Travelair. I flew +the ship from the other seat. By bending way down nobody from the +outside could see me. It looked as though the skeleton were doing the +flying. Jim Drummond, flying mechanic, lay on the floor of the plane and +took charge of the skeleton’s behavior. + +I knew that Eric Wood and Pete Brooks were flying formation over Floyd +Bennett Field that day. They had just joined the army reserve corps and +were all steamed up trying to make a success out of it. I decided they +would be my first victims of the day. We had no trouble finding the +formation. There was Pete just behind the leader, looking very +conscientious and pleased with himself. He was doing everything just +right. I eased up beside him. He didn’t notice me for a second. When he +glanced around I gave Jim the signal. The skeleton looked right in his +face and jabbered. Horror and amazement flooded Pete’s face. He turned +back to the formation—he had to unless he wanted to bump into the other +planes. But he couldn’t stand it for long. He had to look again. Jabber, +jabber, went the skeleton. This went on a third and a fourth time, till +I finally felt sorry for Pete. He was getting walleyed, one eye on the +formation, the other on the skeleton. I gave him one final superb +jabber, dipped my wings, and went in search of other game. + + + + +CONFESSION + + +Jimmie Doolittle has demonstrated American airplanes all over the world. +He landed on one of his tours at Bandoeng, Java, headquarters of the +Dutch East Indian Air Corps. They had some American, Conqueror-powered, +Curtiss Hawks there. They asked Jimmie to take one of them up and put on +a show for them. + +After turning the ship inside out for the better part of an hour, Jimmie +really got into the spirit of the thing. He decided to dive straight +down from about 6,000 feet and conclude the show by showing them how +close he could come to the ground, pulling out of the dive. + +He turned over and started down. Straight down, closer and closer to the +ground, wide open, he roared. He yanked back on the stick to just clear +the ground and discovered there were several little considerations he +had overlooked. One was that he had just stepped out f a Cyclone-powered +Hawk, much lighter than the Conqueror-powered one he was desperately +trying to clear the airport in at that moment. The other was that he was +accustomed to flying the lighter ship out of a sea-level airport, much +heavier-aired than the 2,500-foot-high airport that he was at that +moment trying to avoid. The heavier ship squashed in the thinner air and +hit the ground in the pull-out. Just kissed it and skimmed into the air +again. + +Jimmie wondered if his landing gear had been swiped off, came around, +landed, and discovered that it hadn’t. + +The Dutch officers rushed out to him when he crawled out of his cockpit. +“My God, Jimmie,” they chorused, slapping him on the back, “that was the +most delicate piece of flying we have ever seen!” + +“Huh,” Jimmie grunted, still thinking how lucky he had been to get away +with it, “delicate piece of flying, hell! That was the dumbest piece of +flying I ever did in my life!” + +They knew it too, of course, despite the polite way they had put it. So +from then on Jimmie was ace-high with them, because he had admitted the +boner instead of trying to lie out of it. + + + + +GONE ARE THE DAYS + + +George Weiss, one of the boys that kick the _Daily News_ photographic +ship around into position for the aërial photographs that appear in New +York’s picture paper, told me this funny one he experienced with the +late Commander Rogers of the navy: + +Commander Rogers had flown way back in the early days of Wright pushers. +He saw George in Washington several years ago and asked him if he could +fly him up to his home at Havre de Grace, Md. He assured George that +there was a field there right beside his house that they could land in. +He said that he had landed in it himself. + +George took him up in his Travelair cabin ship. He arrived over the +Commander’s house and the Commander pointed out the field. “It’s full of +cows,” George objected. “That’s all right,” the Commander told him, +“just buzz the field a couple of times and somebody will come out and +chase the cows away.” + +George did, and sure enough somebody came out and chased the cows off +the field. + +“I still can’t land there,” George remonstrated. “The field is too +small.” + +“Sure you can,” the Commander assured him; “I’ve done it.” + +George circled the field again. He said it looked like a good-sized +pocket handkerchief to him and was surrounded by tall trees. + +“Are you sure you’ve landed there?” George insisted. + +“Sure, I have,” the Commander reassured him. “Go ahead, you can get in +it.” + +George thought to himself that if the Commander had got in there, by +golly, he could too. He said he finally squashed down over the trees, +falling more than gliding, and dropped into the field with a smack that +should have cracked the ship up but didn’t. He stopped fifty feet from +the row of trees by standing on his brakes and cutting the switches. He +said he didn’t know how the hell he was going to get out of the place +without dismantling the ship. + +That night, in the Commander’s house, over a drink, George asked him, +“Come, now, Commander, tell me the truth. Did you really land in that +field?” + +“Certainly I did,” the Commander said. “It was back in 1912, and I was +flying a Wright pusher.” George sneezed into his drink. The Wright +pushers land so slow they can be flown off a dining-room table. + +“And do you remember those trees around the field?” the Commander asked. +George remembered. “Well, they were only bushes in 1912.” + + + + +“LOOK WHO TAUGHT HER” + + +I was trying to teach my wife to fly. I thought every flyer’s wife +should know something about flying. It would be so convenient on +cross-country trips if Dee could spell me off on the controls. I was +having very little success. In the first place, Dee’s eyes weren’t good, +which is a decided disadvantage, and in the second place she just +couldn’t seem to catch on. She had no coördination. I sweated and +struggled and cursed. “Don’t skid on the turns,” I moaned. “The rudder +and the stick must be used together. If you put the stick to the right, +push the right rudder. If you put the stick to the left, use the left +rudder.” And the ship would grind around on another skid. + +Dee didn’t take her flying as seriously as I did. She didn’t +particularly want to learn to fly except to please me. I thought if I +could instill in her a sense of shame at her lack of coördination maybe +she would improve. I picked a day when she was more than usually bad. +The plane had been in every conceivable position but the right one. She +had skidded and slipped and wobbled all over the sky. My temper was +getting the best of me. + +“Dee,” I said, “haven’t you any pride about learning how to fly? Other +women learn how. Look at all the girls who fly, and fly damn well. Look +at Anne Lindbergh, for instance. She has been doing a wonderful job on +that Bird plane. She solos all over the place, and she only took it up a +little while ago.” + +Dee looked at me a minute and said, “Well, look who taught her.” + +I gave up teaching my wife how to fly. + + + + +A FAULTY RESCUE + + +Eddie Burgin, one of the oldest pilots on Roosevelt Field, tells me this +one about how they used the last remaining outdoor “outbuilding” on +Roosevelt Field as a homing device to lead a troubled pilot down into +the airport. + +Russ Simpson, American flying instructor in the Gosport School in +England during the war and at present an airplane broker on Roosevelt +Field, took off in one of the old Jennies to fly the first electric sign +ever flown over New York City at night. While he was gone a ground fog +rolled in over the airport. + +Pretty soon the fellows on the ground heard him coming back. They could +hear his motor, but they couldn’t see his ship. They knew he couldn’t +see the airport. He was stuck on top of the fog. + +They decided to help him. They got cans of gasoline and poured them on +the old outbuilding which stood a little way out from the hangars and +set fire to the rickety structure. They tore up all the spare motor +crates they could find and piled them on top of the blaze. They got the +fire so big they were afraid for a while that the hangars were going to +catch. They were trying to make a red glow in the fog so Russ could tell +where the field was. + +Finally they heard Russ’s motor cut. They heard the ship glide in and +heard it hit. They could tell from the noise it made when it hit that it +had cracked up. + +They jumped into a car and went rushing all over the airport in the +darkness and the fog looking for the wreck. It took them half an hour to +find it, so Eddie says. + +When they did, they found Russ sitting on top of it, smoking a +cigarette. Their almost burning the hangars down had all been in vain. +Russ hadn’t seen any red glow at all. He had simply mushed down through +the stuff and hit the airport by luck. + + + + +HELPING THE ARMY + + +After I was graduated from Brooks and Kelly, the army transferred me to +Selfridge Field in Detroit. There was nothing much doing around +Selfridge, and I was getting a little bored. I heard they were giving an +air show at Akron, right near my home town. I thought it would be fun to +go out there to see my old friends and give a stunt exhibition. I got +the necessary permission from the higher-ups and started out in a Tommy +Morse. The Morse planes were pretty near obsolete by that time, and the +service was trying to replace them as fast as possible with newer +models. There were only a few of them left. + +When I got to Akron there was a lot of excitement going on over the air +show. I told myself I was going to give them the works—show them what a +local boy could do. The first part of my program went off fine. I +looped, barrel-rolled, dove, etc. I had figured out a trick landing as +the grand finale that would pull the customers right out of their seats. +The landing didn’t turn out so well. I misjudged my distance and ended +up on one wing. It was pretty humiliating. There was nothing to do but +wire Selfridge Field to ship me another wing. They wired back to the +effect that there were no more wings available at the moment and that I +should crate the ship home. That stumped me. I had no idea how to +dismantle a plane. I studied the old Morse from every angle, but I +couldn’t find the solution. I had to get the plane in a crate, and I had +to do it quickly. I used a saw. I sawed off the good wing, the damaged +wing, and the tail surfaces. I crammed them into a crate and sent them +on their way. The plane of course had to be junked. + +I had helped the army to get rid of one more Tommy Morse. + + + + +APOLOGY + + +I was sitting alone in a movie not long ago. The newsreel came on. +Jimmie Doolittle’s capable but impish face flashed upon the screen. +Behind him was the fast, low-wing, all-metal Vultee plane in which he +had just failed to better by more than a few minutes the Los Angeles—New +York record for transport planes. + +“I’m sorry I didn’t make faster time,” his picture spoke. “I didn’t do +justice to the ship I flew. I wandered off my course during the night +and hit the coast 200 miles south of where I should have hit it. It was +just another piece of bum piloting.” + +I saw Jimmie in Buffalo not long after that. + +“What was the matter, Jimmie?” I asked him, referring to the flight he +had spoken about in the newsreel. “Were you on top of the stuff for a +long time?” I continued, generously implying that of course he had had +enough bad weather to force him to fly on top of the clouds and out of +sight of land for so much of the trip that naturally he got off his +course. + +“No,” he explained, “I wasn’t on top. I was in it for ten and a half +hours. I couldn’t get on top because I picked up ice above sixteen +thousand feet. I couldn’t go under for several reasons. I had high +mountains to clear. I would have made even slower time and run out of +gas before I got to New York if I had flown low, because my supercharged +engine required 15,000 feet to develop its full power and its most +efficient gas consumption. So I had to fly in it. Also I got mixed up on +some radio beams. Some of them are stronger than others. I figured the +strongest ones the closest, which wasn’t always true. I learned a lot on +that trip. I think I could hit it on the nose the next time.” + +He was talking shop to a fellow professional. I could immediately see +that 200 miles off under the conditions he had had to contend with had +not been bad at all. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had explained to +the public a little more than he did. But when he said to them, without +the shadow of an alibi, “It was just another piece of bum piloting,” I +thought it was pretty swell. + + + + +I AM DEAD + + +_This is the testament of Jimmy Collins, the test pilot._ + +_It is, as he himself phrased it, “The word of my life and my death. The +dream word that breathed into my nostrils the breath of life and +destroyed me too.”_ + +_The body of Jimmy Collins was found on Friday in Pinelawn Cemetery, +near Farmingdale, L. I., beneath the wreckage of the Grumman ship he had +tested for the navy. That body was broken, mangled, twisted, in a +10,000-foot crash._ + +_His testament, the utterance of a poet who flew, first in search of +beauty, then in search of bread, is bravely, lyrically alive, straight +and whole, as was the spirit of the man who wrote it._ + +_He wrote it—laughingly, he said; grimly, we believe—nine months ago. +This is how it happened:_ + +_In October Collins went to Buffalo to test a new Curtiss bomber-fighter +for the navy. Before he left he took dinner with his old friend Archer +Winsten, who conducts the In the Wake of the News column for the_ Post. +_Winsten wrote a column about Collins and his spectacular job, begged +the flyer to do a guest column for him on his return, telling of the +Buffalo feat._ + +_What happened after that is best told in Collins’s own words._ + +_He wrote to his sister, out West: “I got to thinking it over and +thought maybe I wouldn’t come back because it was a dangerous job, and +then poor Archer would be out of a column.... So I playfully wrote one +for him in case I did get bumped off. Thoughtful of me, don’t you +think?... I never got bumped off. Too bad, too, because it would have +been a scoop for Arch....”_ + +_Last Friday’s job was to have been Jimmy’s last as a test pilot. He +took it because he needed the money, for his wife and children. Soon he +was to have started on a writer’s career._ + +_Jimmy’s writing career ends today with his testament. He prefaced it +with the following:_ + +_“The next words you read will be those of James H. Collins, and not ‘as +told to,’ although you might say ghost-written.”_ + +I AM DEAD. + +How can I say that? + +Do you remember an old, old story? I shall tell you just the beginning +of it: “In the beginning was the word, and the word was God....” That’s +enough for you to see what I mean. + +It is by the word that I can say that. + +Not by the spoken word. I cannot say to you by the spoken word, “I am +dead.” + +But there is not only the spoken word. There is also the written word. +It has different dimensions in space and time. + +It is by the written word that I can say to you, “I am dead.” + +But there is not only the spoken and the written word. There is also the +formless, unbreathed word of mood and dream and passion. This is the +word that must have been the spirit of God that brooded over the face of +the deep in the beginning. It is the word of life and death. + +It was the word of my life and my death. The dream word that breathed +into my nostrils the breath of life and destroyed me too. + +Dreams. And life. And death. + +I had a dream. Always I had a dream. I cannot tell you what that dream +was. I can only tell you that flying was one of its symbols. Even when I +was very young that was true. Even as long as I can remember. + +When I became older, it became even more true. + +So deep a dream, so great a passion, could not be denied. + +Finally I did fly. + +“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, when the evil days +drew not nigh....” Part of the same old story. + +I remembered the dream of the days of the youth of my flying, that burst +of glory, and how the world and my shining youth itself shone with the +radiance of it. + +It was my creator. It created life for me, for man shall not live by +bread alone. Man cannot. Only his dreams and his vision sustain him. + +But the evil days drew nigh. The glow died down, and the colors of the +earth showed up. Ambition, money. Love and cares and worry. Curious how +strong the strength of weakness is, in women and their children, when +you can see your own deep dreams, unworded, shining in their eyes. I +grew older too, and troublous times beset the world. + +Finally there came a time when I would rather eat than fly, and money +was a precious thing. + +Yes, money was a precious thing, and they offered me money, and there +was still a small glow of the deep, strong dream. + +The ship was beautiful. Its silver wings glistened in the sun. Its motor +was a strong song that lifted it to high heights. + +And then... + +Down. + +Down out of the blue heights we hurtled. Straight down. Faster. Faster +and faster. Testing our strength by diving. + +Fear? + +Yes, I had grown older. But grim fear now. The fear of daring and +courage. But tempered too with some of the strong power of the old dream +now too. + +Down. + +Down. + +A roar of flashing steel and a streak of glinting ... oh yes, oh yes, +now ... breaking wings. Too frail ... the wings ... the dream ... the +evil days. + +The cold but vibrant fuselage was the last thing to feel my warm and +living flesh. The long loud diving roar of the motor, rising to the +awful crashing crescendo of its impact with the earth, was my death +song. + +I am dead now. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Test Pilot, by Jimmy Collins + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEST PILOT *** + +***** This file should be named 34589-0.txt or 34589-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/5/8/34589/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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text-align: justify; } + +h1 {font-size:1.4em; text-align:center; font-weight:normal;} +h2 {font-size:1.2em; text-align:center; font-weight:normal; margin-top:2em; font-size:1.4em;} +.title {font-size:1.4em;} +img.align-center {display: block; text-align:center; margin: 30px auto;} +.larger {font-size: larger} +.smaller {font-size: smaller} + +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Test Pilot, by Jimmy Collins + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Test Pilot + +Author: Jimmy Collins + +Release Date: December 8, 2010 [EBook #34589] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEST PILOT *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div class="document" id="test-pilot"> +<h1 class="title">TEST PILOT</h1> + +<img alt="images/illus-em1.jpg" class="align-center" src="images/illus-em1.jpg" /> +<p class="align-center title">TEST PILOT</p> +<p class="align-center larger">JIMMY COLLINS</p> +<img alt="images/illus-em2.jpg" class="align-center" src="images/illus-em2.jpg" /> +<div class="align-center line-block"> +<div class="line">THE SUN DIAL PRESS</div> +<div class="line"><br /></div> +<div class="line">Garden City — New York</div> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="align-center smaller line-block"> +<div class="line">PRINTED AT THE <em>Country Life Press</em>, GARDEN CITY, N. Y., U. S. A.</div> +<div class="line"><br /></div> +<div class="line">COPYRIGHT, 1935</div> +<div class="line">BY DELORES LACY COLLINS</div> +<div class="line"><br /></div> +<div class="line">COPYRIGHT, 1935</div> +<div class="line">BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY</div> +<div class="line">ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</div> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="align-center line-block"> +<div class="line">HAPPY LANDINGS</div> +<div class="line">TO</div> +<div class="line"><br /></div> +<div class="line">CAPTAIN JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON (<em>The News</em>)</div> +<div class="line">GEORGE HORACE LORIMER (<em>Saturday Evening Post</em>)</div> +<div class="line">J. DAVID STERN (<em>New York Post</em>)</div> +<div class="line"><br /></div> +<div class="line">for permissions to reprint such parts of this book</div> +<div class="line">as appeared serially in their newspapers</div> +<div class="line">and periodicals.</div> +<div class="line"><br /></div> +<div class="line">—THE PUBLISHERS.</div> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<p class="align-center larger">FOREWORD</p> +<blockquote> +<p>Jimmy Collins used periodically to try to change +his name to Jim Collins, but he never could make it +stick. There was something about him that made +everybody call him Jimmy. He did sign his wonderful +article in the <em>Saturday Evening Post</em> about dive +testing “Jim Collins,” but his friends kidded him so +much about wanting to be a “he-man” that he went +back to Jimmy in his articles for the New York <em>Daily +News</em>.</p> +<p>The article from the <em>Saturday Evening Post</em>, +“Return to Earth,” which is printed in this book, is +the most extraordinary flying story I have ever read, +and as a newspaper and former magazine editor I +have read hundreds of them, from <em>The Red Knight +of Germany</em> down.</p> +<p>Jimmy wrote his own stuff—every word of it. Not +one line has been added to or taken from any of the +stories that appeared in the <em>Daily News</em>. If a story +had any unkindness in it, or reflected on any other +pilot’s ability, Jimmy omitted or changed the name +of the person under reproach.</p> +<p>Jimmy graduated from the army training schools +of Brooks and Kelly fields, in the same class as +Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh. Collins and Lindbergh +were two of the four selected for the pursuit group, +which means they were considered to have the greatest +ability in their class. Jimmy afterwards became +the youngest instructor at Kelly Field.</p> +<p>I was privileged to receive some instruction from +Jimmy. He was a fine teacher, making you know precisely +what he wanted and why. He told me promptly +that I lacked coördination. He said, “Every student +lacks coördination, but you lack more of it than any +student I ever saw.” In driving a car, you can go +forward or backward, left or right. An airplane cannot +go backward. It can go forward, right, left, up, +down. The coördination that Collins kept talking +about meant that when, for instance, you were going +up and to the right, you should do it in one perfect +arc between the two desired points, not in a wavering +line that sometimes bulged and sometimes flattened +itself out.</p> +<p>Pretty near any dub can be taught to fly some +if he has patience enough and can afford to pay for +two or three times as much instruction as the ordinary +man gets. But nobody not born for it can learn +to fly like Collins. His rhythm and reflexes were like +a good orchestra. He was just a natural aviator. He +had the wings of an angel all right, and he was +more at home, more comfortable, more at peace with +himself and the world in the air than he was on the +ground, where he sometimes thought himself to be +a misfit.</p> +<p>Jimmy talked as well as he wrote, drank less than +most aviators, and that’s not so much, and smoked +a considerable number of cigarettes.</p> +<p>Until the last couple of years, when the depression +and his trade had deepened the lines in his face, he +might almost have been called “pretty,” though it +would have been better not to say that to him. He +had light wavy hair, blue eyes, fine white teeth, smiled +a good deal, and as far as his appearance went he +could have been a romantic hero in Hollywood.</p> +<p>He was the most fearless man I ever knew. No, I +take that back. I have known other aviators whom +I considered to be without fear. Collins was as brave +as any of them. Even at best, in spite of what its +adherents say, flying is not a particularly safe business, +and Collins chose the most dangerous branch of +it, that is, dive testing. “Return to Earth,” in this +book, explains that. He said he did it for the money, +which was partly true, but I don’t think entirely so. +I think he liked to pull the whiskers of death and see +if he could get away with it. Anyhow, he had made +a resolution that the dive that killed him should be +his last one. Whether he would have kept that resolution, +I doubt. I think he liked the thrill of having +everybody on the field say, “Jimmy is dive testing a +bomber this afternoon.”</p> +<p>The story, as told by McCory, the photographer, +who had a desk near to him, is that he said to +Collins, “Jimmy, you are making some money now +out of your newspaper articles. Why don’t you stop +this test racket?” And Collins answered, “I will. I +was under contract to do twelve dives on this navy +ship, and I have done eleven. The next one is going +to be my last.” Then he paused, smiled his bright +smile, and said, “At that, it might be.”</p> +<p class="attribution">—JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON</p> +</blockquote> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="contents topic" id="contents"> +<p class="topic-title first">CONTENTS</p> +<ul class="simple"> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#to-whom-it-may-concern" id="id1">TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#return-to-earth" id="id2">RETURN TO EARTH</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#collision-almost" id="id3">COLLISION, ALMOST</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#he-had-what-it-took" id="id4">HE HAD WHAT IT TOOK</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#dry-motor" id="id5">DRY MOTOR</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#imagination" id="id6">IMAGINATION</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#i-spin-in" id="id7">I SPIN IN</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#business-before-fame" id="id8">BUSINESS BEFORE FAME</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#everything-wrong" id="id9">EVERYTHING WRONG</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#a-showy-stunt" id="id10">A SHOWY STUNT</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#death-on-the-gridiron" id="id11">DEATH ON THE GRIDIRON</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#novice-near-death" id="id12">NOVICE NEAR DEATH</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#hungrys-ship-burned" id="id13">HUNGRY’S SHIP BURNED</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#back-seat-pals" id="id14">BACK-SEAT PALS</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#watch-your-step" id="id15">WATCH YOUR STEP!</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#flyer-enjoys-worry" id="id16">FLYER ENJOYS WORRY</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#weather-and-whither" id="id17">WEATHER AND WHITHER</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#i-see" id="id18">I SEE</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#won-argument-lost" id="id19">WON ARGUMENT LOST</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#monk-hunter" id="id20">MONK HUNTER</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#couldnt-take-it" id="id21">COULDN’T TAKE IT</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#good-luck" id="id22">GOOD LUCK</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#will-rogers-in-the-air" id="id23">WILL ROGERS IN THE AIR</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#he-never-knew" id="id24">HE NEVER KNEW</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#bonnys-dream" id="id25">BONNY’S DREAM</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#cob-pipe-hazards" id="id26">COB-PIPE HAZARDS</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#whoopee" id="id27">WHOOPEE!</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#building-through" id="id28">BUILDING THROUGH</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#much" id="id29">MUCH!</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#cross-country-snapshots" id="id30">CROSS-COUNTRY SNAPSHOTS</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#reminiscence" id="id31">REMINISCENCE</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#mexican-whoopee" id="id32">MEXICAN WHOOPEE!</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#its-a-tough-racket" id="id33">IT’S A TOUGH RACKET</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#almost" id="id34">ALMOST</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#run-run-run" id="id35">RUN! RUN! RUN!</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#high-fight" id="id36">HIGH FIGHT</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#gesture-at-reunions" id="id37">GESTURE AT REUNIONS</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#as-i-saw-it" id="id38">AS I SAW IT</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#was-my-face-red" id="id39">WAS MY FACE RED!</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#co-pilot" id="id40">CO-PILOT</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#orchids-to-me" id="id41">ORCHIDS TO ME!</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#recovery-act" id="id42">RECOVERY ACT</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#a-rose-by-any-other-name" id="id43">“A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME....”</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#yes-sir" id="id44">“YES, SIR!”</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#moonlight-and-silver" id="id45">MOONLIGHT AND SILVER</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#five-miles-up" id="id46">FIVE MILES UP</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#aerial-combat" id="id47">AËRIAL COMBAT</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#wings-over-akron" id="id48">WINGS OVER AKRON</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#tears-and-acrobatics" id="id49">TEARS AND ACROBATICS</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#across-the-continent" id="id50">ACROSS THE CONTINENT</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#the-flyer-hikes-home" id="id51">THE FLYER HIKES HOME</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#killed-by-kindness" id="id52">KILLED BY KINDNESS</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#the-first-crack-up" id="id53">THE FIRST CRACK-UP</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#a-poor-prophet" id="id54">A POOR PROPHET</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#too-much-knowledge" id="id55">TOO MUCH KNOWLEDGE</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#hidden-faults" id="id56">HIDDEN FAULTS</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#death-takes-a-holiday" id="id57">“DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY”</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#confession" id="id58">CONFESSION</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#gone-are-the-days" id="id59">GONE ARE THE DAYS</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#look-who-taught-her" id="id60">“LOOK WHO TAUGHT HER”</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#a-faulty-rescue" id="id61">A FAULTY RESCUE</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#helping-the-army" id="id62">HELPING THE ARMY</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#apology" id="id63">APOLOGY</a></li> +<li><a class="reference internal" href="#i-am-dead" id="id64">I AM DEAD</a></li> +</ul> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="to-whom-it-may-concern"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id1">TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN</a></h1> +<p>I am an American citizen. I was born in Warren, O., +U. S. A., on April 25, 1904. I am the youngest +of the three remaining children of a family of seven. +My paternal grandfather came to this country from +Ireland. He was a basket weaver by trade and a +Protestant by religion. My father was a bricklayer +by trade. He died when I was five. My mother, whose +people hailed largely from Pennsylvania, scrubbed +floors, took in washings, sewed, baked, made handiwork +and sold it, worked in restaurants, and so managed, +with the help of charity, relatives, and my +older sister when she got old enough to help, to send +me to grammar school and through two years of high +school. Then she died.</p> +<p>I was sixteen. My sister was unable to carry me +further. I went to work in the boot-and-shoe department +of the Goodrich Rubber Factory at Akron, O.</p> +<p>I worked there a year and found conditions and +my prospects intolerable. I applied for permission to +work a part shift at night. It was granted. This reduced +my income but allowed me to go to school in +the daytime.</p> +<p>For three years I worked at night in the factory +and went to school by day. I completed my high +schooling and a year of college (Akron, O.) in this +manner.</p> +<p>Then I applied for entrance to the United States +Army Air Service Primary Flying School, was examined, +found qualified, and admitted. One hundred +and four others were admitted to this same class. +Charles A. Lindbergh was one of them. Our status, +as well as that of the other 104, was that of an +enlisted man with a flying cadet rating.</p> +<p>A year later, in March, 1925, I was one of eighteen +who graduated from the Army Advanced Flying +School, Kelly Field, San Antonio, Tex. The rest of +the 104 had been disqualified during the course, only +the eighteen most apt being kept. Of these eighteen +who graduated, four had been chosen to specialize in +pursuit flying. Lindbergh and myself were two of +these four. Upon graduating from the Advanced +Flying School, I was discharged from the army, and +commissioned a second lieutenant in the United +States Army Reserve Flying Service (now Air +Corps).</p> +<p>I went back to Akron after getting my commission +as a reserve flyer and discovered that there was +no market for my newly acquired ability. I tried to +get a job as mail pilot with N. A. T. in Cleveland +but was told I didn’t have enough experience. I tried +to get a job with Martin Airplane Company in +Cleveland and couldn’t. I was almost broke. I decided +to return to the rubber factories and go back +to school the next fall. I got a job with the Goodyear +Company, in the factory.</p> +<p>But I couldn’t take it any more. I quit the job in +two months and took my one bag and my eighty +dollars and went to Columbus, O., where there was a +reserve flying field. I flew a couple of weeks there, +sleeping in a deserted clubhouse and eating at the +gas station across the street. I was earning no money, +of course, the ship being available to me for practice +only. So I applied for a two weeks’ tour of active +duty at Wright Field and got it. I was paid for that. +While there I applied for a six months’ tour of active +duty at Selfridge Field, and also got that. I was paid +an officer’s (second lieutenant) salary on this duty.</p> +<p>At the expiration of the active duty tour at Selfridge +I applied for another six months but couldn’t +get it because there was no more money available for +that purpose, but I was told that there was some +cadet money left over and that if I was willing to +reënlist as a cadet they could keep me there in that +status for another six months. I decided I would try +to get on with Ford first, and if that failed to accept +the cadet status.</p> +<p>Ford was just getting under way with his tri-motor +aviation venture at that time. He had an airplane +factory at Dearborn Airport. Selfridge Field +is just outside of Detroit, so I moved into Detroit +and applied for a job as pilot at Ford’s Dearborn +Airport. I was told that the only way I could get on +as pilot was first to get a job in the automobile plant, +and that I would later be transferred to the airplane +plant, and still later to the airline between Detroit +and Chicago as pilot. After standing in long lines +every morning for a week I finally got a job in the +automobile factory. I was given a badge with a number +and told to report to such and such a department +the next morning.</p> +<p>Early on the morning I was to start work at the +Ford factory I got on a street car and started for +the plant. I had on work clothes and my badge. +Long lines of workers sat on either side of me. Across +the aisle another long line sat facing me. They sat +with hunched shoulders and vacant faces, dinner +pails on their laps, eyes staring lifelessly at nothing. +The car lurched and jolted along, and their bodies +lurched and jolted listlessly like corpses in it. A sense +of unspeakable horror seized me. I had forgotten the +rubber factories. Now I remembered them again, but +I didn’t remember anything as horrible as this. These +men impressed me as things, not men, horribly identical +things, degraded, hopeless, lifeless units of some +grotesque machines. I felt my identity and my self-respect +oozing out of me. I couldn’t become part of +that. I couldn’t. Not even for a short time. Not even +long enough to get into the airplane factory and +then to become pilot. Not even for that. I wouldn’t. +Not for anything. Life was too short. Even cadet +status in the army was better. I got off the car at the +factory. I watched the men file into the factory. I +shuddered across the street. I caught the next car +back to town. It was like getting away from a prison I +had almost been put into. I went out to Selfridge +Field and enlisted as a cadet.</p> +<p>I began to think. What would I do when the six +months was up? Go back to Akron, the factories, and +school? I couldn’t stand the thought of the factories. +A college degree wouldn’t be worth it. Besides, I +would drop out of aviation. But how? Stay in aviation? +Stay in the army? How? As an enlisted man? +I didn’t like that thought. As an officer? It would +be difficult to get a regular commission, and even so, +where would I get in the army? Go outside and take +my chances? The outside was a cold unfriendly place. +I was afraid of it by then. Your percentage chance +was small outside. The army was warm and secure. +O. K. I’d try to get a commission.</p> +<p>Two months after my sudden decision not to work +in a factory I passed my army exams and got my +commission. But unfortunately I began to read. I +had made up my mind to get the equivalent of a +liberal college degree by reading. And I accidentally +ran across Bernard Shaw. I was twenty-one years +old. All my life I had been keenly aware of contradictions +in life all around me, and all my life they had +worried me and I had wrestled with them, attempting +to resolve them in my own way. Shaw opened a whole +new world to me which I explored eagerly. I was +transferred to Brooks Field, Tex., as an instructor. +I had a lot of fine times. I continued to read Shaw. +The idea of socialism struck me immediately as eminently +just. I agreed with the wrong of capitalism. +I had already thrown over religion. But I remember +that the whole experience left me unsatisfied. The +question of what to do about it kept arising in my +mind. And I remember the inadequacy I felt for the +only implied answer in Shaw’s works I could find, +that to preach was the answer, and hope that the +other preachers in other generations would take up +the good work, until some hazy future generation, +in the dim and distant, the beautiful, and perfect +beyond, would benefit from the preaching and start +living by it—or maybe it would just happen gradually, +evolutionarily, as lungs develop out of gills.</p> +<p>By 1928 I was still in the air corps, instructing, +and reading Shaw. Early in that year I was transferred +from Brooks Field, San Antonio, Tex., to +March Field, Riverside, Calif., and again assigned +to work as instructor. I considered myself a Socialist +by then. I also considered myself a pacifist. To find +one’s self a convinced Socialist and a pacifist and at +the same time a professional soldier, at the age of +twenty-four, places one, if one is conscientious, as I +was, in a considerable dilemma.</p> +<p>In the days when I was instructing army flyers +and reading socialism I still had something that I +fondly and innocently called morals, an evil left-over +from my early and vigorous religious upbringing. +So I decided that the only moral thing I could do +was to get out of the army. Several other practical +considerations supported my “morality” in this decision. +One was the fact that I had had four years +of military training as an aviator. The other was the +fact that Lindbergh had flown to Paris, and, as a +result of the stimulus that aviation received from the +publicity given Lindbergh upon his return, there +existed a commercial market for my flying ability, +in which I could at that time sell that ability for a +much higher wage than the army was paying me +for it.</p> +<p>Accordingly I resigned my commission in the Air +Corps in April, 1928, and accepted a job as airplane +and engine inspector for the newly found +aeronautic branch of the Department of Commerce, +and, after a little schooling at Washington on the +nature of my new duties, and after flying Secretary +McCracken on a long tour around the country, I was +assigned the charge of the Metropolitan area and +headquartered at Roosevelt Field.</p> +<p>I found the post very uncongenial because I +found myself with no assistant, swamped with more +work than I could adequately have handled even with +a couple of assistants, and because there was too +much paper work and office work and too little flying. +So, six months later, after receiving a pay raise +and a letter of commendation, I resigned from the +department and I took a job with Curtiss Flying +Service, which I found much more congenial because +it was almost purely a flying job.</p> +<p>My work there soon attracted the attention of +the Curtiss Airplane and Motor Company, and I was +asked to become their chief test pilot, which I did +in November, 1928.</p> +<p>I worked for them for six months, mostly on military +stuff, and when I resigned to take what I +thought was going to be a better job, I was asked to +stay on with them.</p> +<p>For almost a year after that I was vice president +of a little aviation corporation. The company didn’t +do well. The depression was in full swing. I didn’t +agree with the company policies. Early in 1930 I +resigned.</p> +<p>After my resignation from the vice presidency of +the aviation concern I did private flying—flying for +private owners of aircraft, rich men—and I experienced +wide gaps of unemployment between jobs. But +since I left the army I had been reading and thinking +about “social” matters. I ran across the “radical” +press in New York. I began reading Walter +Duranty in the <em>Times</em>. I read books on Russia. I +fought against the idea of communism. It seemed +stupid and crude to me. But step by step—I stubbornly +fought all the way—the beautifully clear +logic of communism broke down all my barriers, and +I was forced to admit to myself that the Bolsheviks +had the only complete and effective answer to the +riddle of the world I lived in.</p> +<p>I began to consider myself a Communist. My +bourgeois friends, and they ranged from the very +elite to the petty, thought I was nuts. I, in turn, +thought they were unreasonable and talked myself +blue in the face trying to convince them of it. I +became quite a parlor pink. It took me a couple of +years to realize the futile ridiculousness of my antics, +of attempting to turn the bourgeoisie to communism. +It took me that long because I didn’t at first grasp +the full implications of the class basis of my convictions +and did not realize that, like a fish out of water, +I was a born and bred proletarian justified by +peculiar circumstances with a position of isolation from +my class and with contact with an alien class.</p> +<p>And when that realization began to dawn on me—dimly +at first—the question of what to do about it +again arose in my mind.</p> +<p>I pondered the matter a long time. I was already +over the romantic notion that the thing to do was to +go to Russia, as I had had a spell of thinking. I +sensed that that, in a way, would be running away. +It occurred to me to join the party, but I didn’t +know exactly how to go about it or even if I could. +I furthermore didn’t get a very clear picture of just +what good I could do even if I did. I was also, having +got married and begun a family in the meantime, +pretty much absorbed in personal adjustment and +just the plain economic details necessary to existence.</p> +<p>It finally occurred to me that I could do something +for the radical cause right where I was, in aviation, +instead of going to Russia. But what? And how? I +didn’t know. I decided that there were undoubtedly +people in the party who did. If you want to build a +house, go to an architect. If you want to build an +airplane, go to an aeronautical engineer. If you +want to build a revolutionary organization, go to a +revolutionary leader. It was a naïve but a direct, an +honest, and a logical method of reasoning, you must +admit. So I found out from the <em>Daily Worker</em> where +headquarters was and went down.</p> +<p>I felt a little ridiculous and abashed when I got +there. I sensed, rather than reasoned, that I was +suspected because of my approach. It didn’t bother +me enough to stop me, because I was sincere, but it +did embarrass me.</p> +<p>Shortly after that, at Roosevelt, I accidentally +ran across a mimeographed four-page paper, the +organ of a club of aviation students. I picked it up +and idly began reading it. It sat me bolt upright in +my chair. It expressed everything that I felt. I had +thought I was an exception, that nobody else in the +whole game felt as I did about economic, social, and +political matters. But this paper indicated that I +wasn’t a complete exception. It excited me terrifically. +I noted the name of the paper and the name +of the club that had issued it. I had never before +heard of either one. I ran around madly asking +everybody I knew what the club was, where it was, +who it was. I couldn’t find out much, but I did find +where the club rooms were and when meetings were +held. I went down to the next meeting. I joined up.</p> +<p>Out of that organization grew another, on a +broader basis, planned to move adequately to meet +the needs of the workers as a whole in the industry, +which was still small, and of which I was an active +member.</p> +<p>Word of my organizing activities with this group +got around to my boss, and that, together with other +things, was the reason for my being fired from my +job of private pilot for a certain very rich man.</p> +<p>After being discharged for radical activity by my +rich boss I learned discretion, which, somebody said +long ago, is the better part of valor. And I did not +lose my valor: I continued to work with the disapproved +group. But I was out of a job, and I had a +wife and two small children to support. I had also +learned a few things, so that I knew them now +utterly, and not only intellectually, as I did a while +ago. One of them is the class basis of my convictions. +I began inquiring, and I learned that I was the only +pilot of my training and experience that I knew of +who had a working-class background. All others that +I knew, and also a good many mechanics, had middle-class +background. That accounted for the different +way I saw things.</p> +<p>I was now face to face with a peculiar problem. +Unemployment was rampant in this industry as in +every other. In looking for a job, I discovered that +the Chinese government (Nationalist-Nanking and +Canton) was looking for a few men. I submitted +qualifications to a high-ranking Chinese in this country +and was answered by him that owing to my +military and testing experience I was eminently +qualified, and that he would set machinery in motion +immediately to get me a job. China, of course, was +very busy building up a Nationalist air force. I +would be used as an adviser in their school and +factories.</p> +<p>But I was a Communist. Would the Chinese Nationalist +Air Force, which I would be helping to +build up, be used against the Chinese Soviets? +Against the U. S. S. R.? And still I must earn a +living. What if several prospects I had for jobs +failed to materialize before the Chinese proposition +did? Should I or should I not go? If I went, what +rôle should I play? How dangerous would my position +be? Would I be of more value here, now that +our organizational efforts were bearing fruit? And +so on did the questions in my mind run.</p> +<p>At that time my wife and two small children were +on the farm with my mother-in-law and father-in-law +in Oklahoma. What should I do?</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="return-to-earth"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id2">RETURN TO EARTH</a></h1> +<p>I was sitting around the restaurant at Roosevelt +Field Hotel with the rest of the unemployed pilots, +smoking, talking, sipping the eternal cup of coffee, +hoping that something would turn up, when the +phone rang and the girl who answered it called for +me.</p> +<p>“It’s long distance,” she added as I brushed past +her on my way out to take the call, and I couldn’t +help running the rest of the way. I had put in word +at a factory some time ago if anything turned up to +let me know. Maybe my luck was changing.</p> +<p>“Hello,” I said eagerly as I grabbed the receiver, +and before the familiar voice on the other end told +me I knew I was talking to the guy who hired the +pilots for the company.</p> +<p>“I’ve got a job for you,” he announced, “demonstrating +one of our new airplanes for the navy.”</p> +<p>“What kind of a demonstration?” I asked warily.</p> +<p>“A dive demonstration,” he said. I knew what +that meant all right. Ten thousand feet straight +down, just to see if it would hang together. I wasn’t +so sure my luck was changing after all.</p> +<p>“What kind of a ship?” I asked. I hoped it wasn’t +too experimental. I had dived airplanes before. The +last one, six years before, I had dived to pieces. I +still remembered the exploding crack of those wings +tearing off. I remember the dazing blow of the instrument +board as my head had snapped forward +against it from the sudden lurch of the midair failure, +and dimly then the slow, limp slumping into unconsciousness. +I remembered how I had come to, +thousands of feet later, and leaped my way clear, +only to be threatened by the falling wreck on top +and the rushing-at-me earth beneath. I remembered +the tumbling, jerking stop as my chute had opened +after the long drop, and how startlingly close the +ground had looked. I remembered how white and +safe against the blue sky those billowing folds of that +chute had looked, and then immediately the awful +heart-pound, breath-stop fear that that milling +wreck would take a derelict pass at it. I remembered +the acute relief of hearing the loud report that told +me the wreck had hit the ground, and then the +“What if that had clutched me!” when they told me +afterward how close it really had come.</p> +<p>“It’s a bomber fighter, second model, first-production +job, a single-seater biplane with a seven-hundred-horsepower +engine,” the man at the other +end said. That was encouraging anyway. It wasn’t +the experimental job.</p> +<p>I had heard that another free-lance test pilot like +myself had recently jumped out of a ship he had +been diving. His prop had broken and torn his motor +clear out of his ship. He had got down with his +chute all right, but he had hit the fin as he had gone +past the tail surfaces getting out of the wreck. He +had broken a couple of legs and an arm and was in +the hospital at that moment. I knew he had been +doing some diving.</p> +<p>I wondered why they didn’t use one of their own +men. They had a very fine staff of test pilots right +there at the factory. “What’s wrong with your +pilots?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Well, to be frank about it,” was the answer, +“while we really don’t expect any trouble with this +ship, because we have taken every possible precaution +that we know about, still, you never can tell. +Our chief test pilot now, you know, has done seven +of these dive demonstrations. We feel that that is +about enough to ask one man to do on a salary, and +he feels that he has had about enough anyway. None +of the rest of our men have ever done any of this +work before. Besides, why should we take a chance +on breaking up our organization if we can call a free +lance in?” So that was it! After all, why shouldn’t +they look at it that way?</p> +<p>I thought of the already long absence of my +family. My wife and my year-and-a-half-old son +and my half-year-old daughter were still on my +father-in-law’s farm in Oklahoma, where I had sent +them in the spring to make sure they would be able +to eat during the summer. If I could make enough +money——</p> +<p>“How much is there in it for me?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Fifteen hundred dollars,” he said. “If the job +takes longer than ten days we will pay you an +additional thirty-five dollars a day. We will insure +your life for fifteen thousand dollars for the duration +of the demonstrations and provide for disability compensation. +We will also pay your expenses, of course. +So, if you are still free, white, and twenty-one—” +His voice trailed off, posing the question.</p> +<p>“Well, I’m still free and white,” I answered, “but +I am no longer twenty-one. I’m thirty now, you +know. Old enough to know better. But I’ll take your +job.”</p> +<p>“We will wire you as soon as the ship is ready,” +he said and hung up.</p> +<p>I came back to the gang at the table. They were +still sipping their coffee, smoking, talking, and undoubtedly +hoping for an odd job to come in.</p> +<p>“I’ve got a job,” I announced, beaming.</p> +<p>“What kind of a job?” they all piped up.</p> +<p>“Diving one of the new fighters for the navy,” +I replied as casually as I could.</p> +<p>“Boy, you can have it!” they chorused.</p> +<p>“I’ve got it,” I snapped. “And anyway,” I added, +“I won’t be dropping dead of starvation around here +this winter.”</p> +<p>They razzed me for a while, and I razzed them +back. They wanted to know what kind of flowers I +wanted. I wanted to know if they were planning on +just breakfast or just dinner when they got down to +that one meal a day this winter.</p> +<p>After a while, as soon as my elation in contemplation +of the fifteen hundred bucks wore off, I didn’t +feel so cocky. I really might get bumped off in that +crate. Maybe I could have got by without taking +the job.</p> +<p>I remembered that dive of six years before. It had +been different then. It hadn’t occurred to me at that +time that airplanes would fall apart. Oh, I knew +they would. I knew they had. It was something, +however, that had happened to other test pilots and +might happen to some more, but not to me.</p> +<p>I remembered the times I had jumped, startled +wide awake from sleep in the nights, not immediately +after that failure, but some months later. No special +dreams of horror. Just the delayed action of some +subterranean mechanism of fright in my subconscious +brain. I had been honestly convinced during +my waking hours up to that time that that failure +had not made much of an impression on me.</p> +<p>I remembered the subconscious fear of just normal +excess speed that had grown on me since then. I +wouldn’t nose an airplane down very much from level +cruising speed and open the throttle coming in from +a cross-country, for instance. A couple of times when +I had done it without thinking, I had found myself +practically bending the throttle backwards to kill +the speed when I had suddenly become aware of it.</p> +<p>These things convinced me that that failure had +made a deeper impression on me than I had thought. +I realized it the more when I contemplated these +new dives I was about to do. I knew I was more +afraid of them than I would admit.</p> +<p>“Death in the Afternoon, or Reunion in Oklahoma,” +I thought. You’ve got to take some chances. +I didn’t see how I was going to get the money to +bring the family back any other way.</p> +<p>Besides, I thought I could beat the game by being +smart. I knew a lot of boys who hadn’t been able to, +and I knew they had had good heads on their +shoulders.</p> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<p>Two weeks later I stepped out of a taxi in front of +the hangar at the airport. Some experimental military +airplanes were sitting outside. It was good to see +military airplanes again. There is something about +military airplanes—something businesslike.</p> +<p>I entered the hangar office. The engineers were +waiting for me. I knew most of them from working +with them before. They were all still just pink-faced +kids. But I knew they were bright kids. They knew +their stuff and had all had quite a lot of experience.</p> +<p>They greeted me with a queer sort of smile on their +faces, the way you greet somebody you know is being +played for a sucker. Maybe they were right. Undoubtedly +they were. But I resented that smile in +a mild sort of way.</p> +<p>Bill was there. I had known Bill since before he +had become their chief test pilot. He had that same +queer smile on his face.</p> +<p>“Hey, Bill,” I said to him, greeting him with a +quizzical smile answering his own, “why don’t you +dive this funny airplane?”</p> +<p>“I got smart and chiseled my way out of this +one,” he said.</p> +<p>“It is a sap’s game,” I agreed with him. “But +starvation is dangerous too.” He laughed, and we +all laughed.</p> +<p>He studied me for a minute. We hadn’t seen each +other in a couple of years. Finally he said soberly, +“You’ve grown older, Jim.”</p> +<p>“Yeah, I’ve grown older, Bill,” I answered him +banteringly, “and I want to grow a lot older too. I +want to have a nice long white beard trailing out in +the slip stream some day. So I hope you guys are +building good airplanes for diving. By the way, let’s +go out in the hangar and take a look at the crate. +After all, I’m mildly interested in it, you know.”</p> +<p>We all went out into the hangar. There was the +ship, suspended from a chain hoist with its wheels +just off the cement in the middle of a large cleared +area. It was silver and gleamed even in the somewhat +darkened interior. It looked sturdy and squat +and bulldoggish, as only a military fighting ship +can. I was glad it looked sturdy.</p> +<p>A group of mechanics were swarming around it +and over it and under it. They all looked up as we +approached the ship. I knew most of them. I was +introduced to the others. You could see that they +felt toward that ship as a brood hen feels toward +her eggs. They didn’t want me to break it. I didn’t +want to break it either.</p> +<p>I walked around the ship and looked it over. The +engineers pointed out special features and talked +metal construction and forged fittings and stress +analysis and safety factors, and I asked questions. +I was fascinated by the wires that braced the wings. +They looked big enough to hold up the Brooklyn +Bridge. I liked those wires.</p> +<p>I learned that a pilot had been up there and had +gone over the whole stress analysis with them and +had recommended only one little change in the ship, +which had been made. I learned that he had expressed +willingness to dive the ship after that, but +that he had been unable to because another job he +had contracted to do some time previously was coming +up at the same time this one was. I was glad to +hear this man had gone over the ship. He was not +only one of the most, if not the most, competent +test pilots in the country, but also a very good +engineer, which I was not.</p> +<p>I crawled into the cockpit. There were more +gadgets in it. Something for everything except putting +wings back on in the air. The racket had +changed, I decided. In the old days, dive demonstrating +hadn’t been so accurate a thing. You took +a ship up and did a good dive with it and came down +and everybody was happy. But now, as I could see, +they had developed a lot of recording as well as indicating +instruments. You used to be able to get away +with something. You couldn’t get away with anything +now. They could take a look at all those trick +instruments after you had come down and tell just +what you had done. They could tell accurately and +didn’t have to take your word for it.</p> +<p>There was one instrument there, for instance, that +the pilot couldn’t see. It was called a vee-gee recorder. +It made a pattern on a smoked glass of about +the size of one of those paper packets of matches. +This pattern told them, after the pilot had come +down, just how fast he had dived, what kind of a +dive he had made, and what kind of a pull-out he +had done.</p> +<p>There was another instrument there that I had +never seen before. It looked something like a speedometer +and was called an accelerometer. I was soon +to find out what that was for! Oh, they told me what +it was for then. They explained everything in the +cockpit to me, and I sat there and familiarized myself +with it as best I could on the ground before +taking the ship out. But I wasn’t really to find out +what that accelerometer was for until I used it. And +did I find out then!</p> +<p>We rolled the ship out that afternoon, after last-minute +adjustments had been made on it—an airplane +is like a woman that way: it always has to have +last-minute adjustments—and I made a familiarization +flight in it. I just took it off and flew it around +at first. Then I began feeling it out. I rocked it and +horsed it and yanked it and pulled it and watched. +I watched the wires, the wings, the tail. Any unusual +flexing? Abnormal vibration? Any flutter? I brought +the ship down and had it inspected that night.</p> +<p>The next day I did the same thing. But I went a +little bit further this time. I built up some speed. I +did shallow dives. I listened and felt and watched. +I did steeper dives. Anything unusual?</p> +<p>This went on for several days. Some minor +changes and adjustments were made. Finally I said +I was ready to start the official demonstrations, +and the official naval observers were called out to +watch.</p> +<p>I did five speed dives first. These were to demonstrate +that the ship would dive to terminal velocity. +Contrary to popular opinion, a falling object will +not go faster and faster and faster and faster. It will +go faster and faster only up to a certain point. That +point is reached when the object creates by its own +passage through the air enough air resistance to that +passage to equal in pounds the weight of the object. +When that point is reached, the object will not fall +any faster, no matter how much longer it falls. It is +said to be at terminal velocity. A diving airplane is +only a falling object, but it is a highly streamlined +one, and therefore capable of a very high terminal +velocity. A man falling through the air cannot attain +a speed greater than about a hundred and twenty +miles an hour. But the terminal velocity of an airplane +is a lot more than that.</p> +<p>I led up to it carefully. I went to fifteen thousand +feet to start the first dive. The ship dove smooth and +steady. I pulled out at three hundred miles an hour +and climbed back up to do the next dive. I dove to +three hundred and twenty miles an hour this time. +Everything was fine. Everything was fine as far as +I could tell, but when I had eased out of the dive I +brought the ship down for inspection before I did +the next two dives.</p> +<p>I did the next two dives to three hundred and forty +miles an hour and three hundred and sixty. I lost +seven thousand feet in the last one. It had me casting +the old fish eye around to see if everything was holding +before I got through it. Everything held, but I +brought the ship down for inspection again before +the final speed dive.</p> +<p>I went to eighteen thousand feet for the final one. +It was cold up there, and the sky was very blue. I +lined all up facing down wind and found myself +checking everything very methodically. Was I in +high pitch? Was the mixture rich? Was the landing +gear folded tightly? Was the stabilizer rolled? Was +the rudder tab adjusted? I was a little extra methodical +and extra deliberate. I knew that my mind +wasn’t normally clear. I was breathing harder than +usual. It was the altitude. There wasn’t enough +oxygen. I was a little groggy.</p> +<p>I was a little worried about my ears. I had always +had to blow my ears out when just normally losing +altitude. I had funny ears like that that wouldn’t +adjust themselves. I might break an eardrum.</p> +<p>I eased the throttle back, rolled the ship over in a +half roll, and stuck her down. I felt the dead, still +drop of the first part of the dive. I saw the air-speed +needle race around its dial, heard the roaring of the +motor mounting and the whistle of the wires rising, +and felt the increasing stress and stiffness of the +gathering speed. I saw the altimeter winding up—winding +down, rather! Down to twelve thousand feet +now. Eleven and a half. Eleven. I saw the air-speed +needle slowing down its racing on its second lap +around the dial. I heard the roaring motor whining +now, and the whistling wires screaming, and felt the +awful racking of the terrific speed. I glanced at +the air-speed needle. It was barely creeping around +the dial. It was almost once and a half around and +was just passing the three-eighty mark. I glanced at +the altimeter. It was really winding up now! The +sensitive needle was going around and around. The +other needle read ten thousand, nine and a half, nine. +I looked at the air-speed needle. It was standing still. +It read three ninety-five. You could feel it was terminal +velocity. You could feel the lack of acceleration. +You could hear it too. You could hear the motor at +a peak whine, holding it. You could hear the wires +at a peak scream, holding it. I checked the altimeter. +Eight and a half. At eight I would pull out.</p> +<p>Suddenly something shifted on the instrument +board and something hit me in the face. I sickeningly +remembered that dazing smack on the head of six +years before, and the old electric startle shock convulsed +me as I remembered the resounding crack of +those wings tearing off. I involuntarily took a fear-glazed +glance at my wings and instinctively tightened +up on the stick and began to ease out of the +dive. Through the half-daze pull-out and the dawning +ice-cold clearness always aftermathing fright I +dimly checked the trouble while I leveled out. When +I had got level and got things quieted down and my +head had cleared I saw that I was right. Only the +glass cover had vibrated off the manifold-pressure +instrument, and the needle had popped off the dial. +I was thoroughly shaken. And I was mad because I +had allowed so little a thing to upset me so much.</p> +<p>I checked my altimeter. It read five thousand feet. +I figured I had dived eleven thousand and taken +two for recovery.</p> +<p>My ears had a lot of pressure on them. I held both +nostrils and blew. The pressure inside popped my +ears out easily. They were going to stand the diving +all right.</p> +<p>I brought the ship down to be inspected that night +and decided to celebrate the successful conclusion of +the long dive. Cirrus clouds were forming high up +in the blue sky, so I figured maybe I could do it +safely. I went up to the weather bureau on the field +to check on it.</p> +<p>“How is the weather for tomorrow?” I asked. +“Terrible, I hope.”</p> +<p>“I think it will be,” the weather man said. He consulted +his charts further. “Yes, it will be,” he assured +me.</p> +<p>“Definitely?” I pressed him.</p> +<p>He looked his charts over again. “Yes,” he reassured +me, “definitely. You won’t be able to fly tomorrow.”</p> +<p>“Swell!” I exclaimed to the mildly startled man. +He didn’t quite get it.</p> +<p>It was lousy the next morning, all right. You +couldn’t see across the field. Even the birds were +walking. The engineers were dismayed. They wanted +to get on with the demonstrations. I was overjoyed. +I had a head. I had celebrated a little too much.</p> +<p>Along about the middle of the morning it began +to lift. The engineers began to cheer up. I watched +with gathering apprehension while it lifted still +further and began to break. In an incredibly short +time there were only a few clouds in the sky. I was +practically sick about it, but the engineers, with +beaming faces, were having the ship pushed out.</p> +<p>I went up to the field lunch wagon to get a cup of +coffee while the mechanics warmed up the ship.</p> +<p>I went back down to the hangar and crawled into +the ship to do the first two of the next set of five +dives. These were to demonstrate pull-outs instead +of speed. Here was where I found out what the accelerometer +was for.</p> +<p>I knew that the accelerometer was to indicate the +force of the pull-outs. I knew that it indicated them +in terms of <em>g</em>, or gravity. I knew that in level flight +it registered one <em>g</em>, which meant, among other things, +that I was being pulled into my seat with a force +equal to my own weight, or one hundred and fifty +pounds. I knew that when I pulled out of a dive, the +centrifugal force of the pull-out would push the <em>g</em> +reading up in exactly the same proportion that it +would pull me down into my seat. I knew that I had +to pull out of a ten-thousand-foot dive hard enough +to push the <em>g</em> reading up to nine, and pull me down +into my seat with a force equal to nine times my own +weight, or thirteen hundred and fifty pounds. I knew +that that would put a considerable stress on the airplane, +and that that was the reason the Navy wanted +me to do it; they wanted to see if it could take it. +But what I didn’t know was that it would put such +a terrific stress on me. I had no idea what a nine <em>g</em> +pull-out meant to the pilot.</p> +<p>I decided to start the dives out at three hundred +miles an hour and increase each succeeding dive in +increments of twenty miles an hour for the first four +dives, as I had in the speed dives. I decided to pull +out of the first dive to five and a half <em>g</em>, and pull out +of each succeedingly faster dive one <em>g</em> harder, until I +had pulled out of the fourth dive of three hundred +and sixty miles an hour to eight and a half <em>g</em>. Then +I would do the grand dive of ten thousand feet to +terminal velocity and pull out to nine <em>g</em>.</p> +<p>I took off and went up to fifteen thousand feet +and stuck her down to three hundred miles an hour. +I horsed back on the stick and watched the accelerometer. +Up she went, and down into my seat I went. +Centrifugal force, like some huge invisible monster, +pushed my head down into my shoulders and +squashed me into that seat so that my backbone bent +and I groaned with the force of it. It drained the +blood from my head and started to blind me. I +watched the accelerometer through a deepening haze. +I dimly saw it reach five and a half. I eased up on +the stick, and the last thing I saw was the needle +starting back to one. I was blind as a bat. I was +dizzy as a coot. I looked out at my wings on both +sides. I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t see anything. I +watched where the ground ought to be. Pretty soon +it began to show up like something looming out of a +morning mist. My sight was returning, due to the +eased pressure from letting up on the stick. Soon I +could see clearly again. I was level, and probably +had been for some time. But my head was hot with a +queer sort of burning sensation, and my heart was +pounding like a water ram.</p> +<p>“How am I going to do a nine-<em>g</em> pull-out if I am +passing out on five and a half?” I thought. I decided +that I had held it too long and that I would get the +next reading quicker and release it sooner, so I +wouldn’t be under the pressure so long.</p> +<p>I noticed that my head was completely cleared +from the night before. I didn’t know whether it was +the altitude or the pull-out. One or the other, or both, +I decided, was good for hang-overs.</p> +<p>I climbed back to fifteen thousand feet and stuck +her down to three hundred and twenty miles an hour. +I horsed back quick on the stick this time. I overshot +six and a half and hit seven before I released it. I +could feel my guts being sucked down as I fought +for sight and consciousness, but the quicker pull and +the earlier release worked, and I was able to read the +instruments at the higher <em>g</em>.</p> +<p>I brought the ship down for inspection. Everything +was all right. I went back up again and did +the next two. They sure did flatten me out, but the +ship took it fine. I brought it down for a thorough +inspection that night.</p> +<p>I felt like I had been beaten. My eyes felt like +somebody had taken them out and played with them +and put them back in again. I was droopy tired and +had sharp shooting pains in my chest. My back +ached, and that night I blew my nose and it bled. I +was a little worried about that nine-<em>g</em> business.</p> +<p>The next morning was one of those crisp, golden +autumn days. The sky was as blue as indigo and as +clear as a mountain stream. One of those good days +to be alive.</p> +<p>To my surprise, I felt fine. “Those pull-outs must +be a tonic,” I thought.</p> +<p>I went out to do the terminal-velocity dive with +the nine-<em>g</em> pull-out. I found that the last dive I had +done the day before had flattened out the fairing on +the belly of the ship. The sudden change of attitude +of the ship in the eight-and-a-half <em>g</em> pull-out had +pushed the belly up against that pretty solid three-hundred-and-sixty-mile-an-hour +blast of air and +crushed the metal bracings that held the belly fairing +in shape as neatly as if you had gone over it with +a steam roller. It was not a structural part of the +ship, however, as far as strength went, and could be +repaired that day. They decided to beef up the bracings +when they repaired it.</p> +<p>While I was waiting on the repair I talked with a +navy commander who had just flown up from Washington. +I told him my worry about the nine <em>g</em>. He +said to yell as I horsed back and it would help. I +thought he was kidding me. It seemed so silly. But +he was serious. He said it would tense the muscles +of the abdomen and the neck and preserve sight and +consciousness longer.</p> +<p>Somebody during that wait told me about an +army pilot who, several years before, in some tests +at Wright Field, had accidentally got too much <em>g</em>, +due to a faulty accelerometer. He got some +enormously high reading like twelve or fourteen. He ruptured +his intestines and broke blood vessels in his +brain. He was in the hospital about a year and finally +got out. He would never be right again, they told +me. He was a little bit goofy. I thought to myself +that anybody doing this kind of work was a little +bit goofy to begin with. I decided not to get any +more than nine <em>g</em> if I could help it.</p> +<p>That afternoon I went up to eighteen thousand +feet again and rolled her over and stuck her down. +Again the dead, still drop and the mounting roar. +Again the flickering needles on the instruments and +the job of reading them. You never see the ground in +one of those dives. You are too busy watching things +in the cockpit. Again the tensing fear for thirty +whining, screaming seconds while your life is a held +breath and the fear of your death is a crouching +shadow in a dark corner. Again the mounting racking +of the ship until it seems no humanly built thing +can stand the stress of that speed much longer.</p> +<p>At eight thousand feet on the altimeter I shifted +my gaze to the accelerometer and horsed. I used both +hands. I wanted to get the reading as quickly as +possible. That unseen violence, punishing this time, +fairly crunched me into my seat, so that I only +darkly saw the needle passing nine. I realized somehow +that I was overshooting and let up on the stick. +As my head unwound and my eyes cleared up I +noticed that I was level already and that the recording +needle on the accelerometer read nine and a half. +I checked my altimeter. It read six and a half thousand +feet.</p> +<p>When I got back on the ground the commander, +who had seen a lot of those dives, said, “Boy, I +thought you were never going to pull that out. You +had me shouting out loud, ‘Pull it out! Pull it out!’ +And when you did pull it out, did you wrap it!”</p> +<p>I felt I had. I felt all torn down inside. I had forgotten +to yell. My back ached like somebody had +kicked me. I was really woozy. I was glad I didn’t +have to do those every day.</p> +<p>I wasn’t through yet. During the rest of the afternoon, +under a variety of load conditions, I looped, +snap-rolled, slow-rolled, spun, did true Immelmanns, +and flew upside down.</p> +<p>I still wasn’t through. I flew the ship to Washington +the next day. The work at the factory had been +only the preliminary demonstration!</p> +<p>At Washington I had to do three take-offs and +landings, all the maneuvers over again under the +different load conditions, and two more terminal-velocity, +nine-<em>g</em> pull-out dives by way of final demonstration.</p> +<p>Just as I was getting ready to go out and do the +three take-offs and landings, the navy squadron +that was going to use these ships if the navy bought +any of them showed up in a flock of fighters. About +twenty-seven of them. They landed, lined up in a +neat row beside my ship, got out and clustered +around to watch me. I got stage fright. Here was a +group of the hottest experts in the country. I had +paid little attention to my landings at the factory, +being too intent on the other work. What if I bungled +those landings right there in front of that gang?</p> +<p>Three simple little take-offs and landings really +had me buffaloed, but I worked hard on them, and +they turned out all right. Doing the maneuvers +under the different load conditions during the rest of +the day was practically fun after that.</p> +<p>The next day I came out to do the final two dives. +I had to go to Dahlgren to do them. So many airplanes +had fallen apart over Anacostia and gone +through houses and started fires and raised hell in +general that the District of Columbia had prohibited +diving in that vicinity. Dahlgren was only about +thirty miles south and just nicely took up the climbing +time.</p> +<p>The first dive went fine, and I had one more to +go. I hated that one more. Everything had been so +all right so far, and I hated to think that something +might happen in that last dive.</p> +<p>I thought of the wife and kids as I climbed for +altitude. It was a swell day. I checked everything +carefully. I rolled over into the dive and started +down. I caught a glimpse of the blue earth far beneath, +so remote. Then to the instruments while I +crouched and hated the mounting stress of the terrific +speed. About mid-dive I saw something in front +of my face. It took me a second to recognize it. It +was the Very pistol, used for shooting flare signals +at sea. It had come out of its holster at the right side +of the cockpit and was floating around in space between +my face and my knees. I grabbed it with my +throttle hand and started to throw it over my left +shoulder to get rid of it, but quickly decided that +that wouldn’t be such a smart thing to do. A three +or four hundred mile an hour slip stream was lurking +just outside there. It would have grabbed that +pistol and dashed it into the tail surfaces, and it +would have been good-bye airplane. I fumbled it +from one hand to the other and finally kept it in my +throttle hand. I noticed that I had allowed the ship +to nose up out of the dive ever so slightly during +that wrestling match, and I spent the rest of the dive +nosing it ever so slightly back in. That nose-back-in +showed up as negative acceleration on the vee-gee +recorder. And in addition to that, although I pulled +out to nine and a half <em>g</em> on the accelerometer, something +had gone wrong with it, because the pull-out +turned out to be only seven and a half <em>g</em> on the vee-gee +recorder.</p> +<p>The navy threw that dive out, so I still had one +more to do. Still one more, and by then one more was +a mental hazard difficult to overcome. I have a morbid +imagination anyway. I knew that the motor and prop +had taken a severe beating so far. Maybe one more +would be just too much. Maybe something—something +that had eluded inspection, perhaps—was just +about ready to let go, and I was so damned near the +finish. Besides, although I am not superstitious, the +rejected dive made that last one the thirteenth.</p> +<p>They gave me a check for fifteen hundred dollars +the next day and canceled my insurance. My old car +wouldn’t have got as far as Oklahoma, and wasn’t +big enough anyway, so I had to break a new one in +on the way down. I was back with the family in good +shape, but they still had to eat, and fifteen hundred +dollars wouldn’t last forever, so I was looking for +another job. I thought I had one coming up ... a +diving job!</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="collision-almost"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id3">COLLISION, ALMOST</a></h1> +<p>I took off from Newark with about a seven-thousand-foot +ceiling after dark. The ceiling came down +as I went farther and farther into the mountains +toward Bellefonte, but it didn’t come down too much. +I got to Sunbury, about fifty miles from Bellefonte, +and started into the worst part of the mountains. +Then I hit snow.</p> +<p>I went over the first big ridge on the blinkers, +closely spaced red lights between beacons in bad +spots. It was thick in the valley beyond, but I could +just make out the beacon on the next ridge.</p> +<p>I flew up to it, couldn’t see the next beacon, went +on past from that beacon as far as I dared, but +couldn’t find the next beacon without losing that one. +So I went back to it.</p> +<p>I made several excursions out toward the next +beacon before I could find it without losing the one +I had. Then I couldn’t find the next one.</p> +<p>I circled and circled about fifty feet over that +beacon on the mountain top in the driving snow. I +couldn’t go backward toward the last one. I couldn’t +go forward toward the next. I was quite sure the next +was the field beacon at Bellefonte, but I didn’t dare +go out far enough to find it.</p> +<p>I knew I couldn’t sit there and circle all night. +The snow was not abating. I had to do something. +Finally I pulled off the beacon in a climbing spiral, +headed off blind in what I thought was the direction +of the next beacon—what I hoped it was!—and +hoped to see it under me through the snow if I flew +over it, and if not, to keep on going, blind, until I +flew out of the mountains, the snow, or both.</p> +<p>I was lucky, flew right over it, saw dimly down beneath +me through the driving snow the Bellefonte +Airport boundary lights, spiraled down and landed.</p> +<p>Not five minutes later an air-mail ship came in +from the same direction and landed. I asked the pilot +how close he had come to the beacon I had been circling. +He said he had flown right over it. Can you +imagine what would have happened if I had still +been sitting there circling that beacon when he came +barging along through the snow right over it? He +said he was flying on his instruments for the most +part. He undoubtedly wouldn’t have seen me. I +wouldn’t have seen him. Our meeting probably +wouldn’t have been so pleasant!</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="he-had-what-it-took"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id4">HE HAD WHAT IT TOOK</a></h1> +<p>Eddie Stinson, that colorful and beloved figure of +American aviation, has gone West. But the many +stories that cluster around his almost legendary +name, live on.</p> +<p>Dick Blythe, the man who handled Lindbergh’s +publicity just after Lindbergh’s return from Paris, +tells me this one about Eddie. Eddie told it to him.</p> +<p>Eddie was working with a crowd that was representing +the German Junkers plane in America. One +of the things they were trying to do was sell it to the +Post Office Department for use on the air-mail lines.</p> +<p>To attract attention to the superior performance +of the ship Eddie decided to make a non-stop flight +from Chicago to New York. He decided to fly +straight over the Alleghanies.</p> +<p>Flying the Alleghanies is common nowadays, what +with modern equipment, lighted airways, blind flying +instruments and radio. But in those days it was +a feat.</p> +<p>Eddie was delayed in taking off and didn’t get +over the mountains until after dark. Then his imagination +began to work overtime.</p> +<p>That happens to a great many of us many times. +A motor can be running along perfectly until you +get over a spot where you can’t afford to have it +quit. Then you begin worrying about it and can invariably +find something wrong. If all the motors quit +under the conditions that all pilots fear, there would +be as many wrecked ships scattered over the country +as there are signboards.</p> +<p>Anyway, Eddie got to thinking his motor was +rough. But he was prepared for the situation. He +reached down under his seat and pulled out a bottle +of gin. He took a long swig and listened to his motor +again. It had smoothed right out.</p> +<p>Every once in a while the motor would get rough +again, and Eddie would reach down and take another +swig. He said it took him the whole quart of gin to +smooth that motor out and get the ship over the +mountains and onto Curtiss Field.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="dry-motor"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id5">DRY MOTOR</a></h1> +<p>One of the customs in the army, if you were out on +a cross-country flight, was not to look at the weather +map to see if the weather was all right to go home, +and not to look at your ship to see if it was in good +enough shape to make the trip, but to look in your +pocket and see if you had enough money to stay any +longer.</p> +<p>I didn’t have, so I piled into my old wing-radiatored +PW-8 and took off from Washington for Selfridge +Field. I knew I was going to have trouble with +the radiators.</p> +<p>I climbed slowly on reduced throttle, reaching for +the cold air of altitude. I watched the water temperature +indicator, but before it registered boiling +I was surprised to see steam coming from the radiators. +I remembered then. Water boils at a lower +and lower temperature the higher you go. I still +thought the lower temperatures of altitude would +offset that, so I throttled my motor to the minimum +necessary for level flight until the radiator stopped +steaming, then opened it a little and tried to sneak a +little more altitude before it steamed again.</p> +<p>I worked myself up to six thousand feet like that. +I was watching for steam for the umpteenth time, +hoping to make Pittsburgh before I ran out of water, +when I saw white smoke coming out of the exhausts. +I was out of water and was burning the oil off the +cylinder walls.</p> +<p>I cut the switches. The speed of my glide kept the +prop turning over like a windmill. I picked a field +in the country and started talking to myself: “Take +it easy—Slow her down—Come around—Don’t undershoot +whatever you do—Hold it now, you’re overshooting—Slip +it—Not too much—You’re undershooting +again—Kick those switches on—Gun it—All +right, kick him off—Watch those trees—The +fence now—You’re slow—Let ’er drop, the field’s +small—Wham!—Watch your roll—Ground loop at +the end if you have—You don’t—You made it.” I +always talk to myself like that in a forced landing.</p> +<p>I don’t remember how much water I put in the +thing. I do remember that there was only a pint in +it when I had landed. And I had kept from burning +up the motor!</p> +<p>I took off again and made Pittsburgh, Akron, +Cleveland, and Toledo, steaming, but without running +clear dry. I probably had a few more gray hairs +when I finally landed at Selfridge, but everything +else was all right.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="imagination"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id6">IMAGINATION</a></h1> +<p>A friend of mine got an aërial mapping job last +summer. He had to fly at twenty thousand feet to +take the pictures. Some pilots can stand more altitude +than others, but my friend didn’t know how +much he could stand because he had never flown that +high. He decided he had better take oxygen with +him, just in case.</p> +<p>His mechanic got a cylinder of oxygen for him, +and he took off. He felt pretty groggy at eighteen +thousand feet, reached down, got the hose, put it +in his mouth, turned on the valve, and took a whiff +of oxygen. He couldn’t hear the hissing of the stuff +escaping because the motor noise drowned it out.</p> +<p>He perked up immediately. The sky brightened, +everything became clearer to him, and he went on up +to twenty thousand feet. Every once in a while he +would feel low and reach down and get himself another +whiff of oxygen and feel all right again for a +while.</p> +<p>He didn’t say anything to his mechanic, but his +mechanic decided for himself a few days later that +the oxygen was probably getting low in that tank +and that he would need another soon. He decided to +put a new one in ahead of time to forestall the possibility +of running completely out in the air.</p> +<p>He brought a new tank out and decided to test it +before he put it in the ship. He opened the valve and +nothing happened. The tank was empty.</p> +<p>He took it back to the hangar and discovered that +the previous tank my friend had been flying on had +come out of the same bin and had been empty all +along.</p> +<p>He got a good one and put it in the ship and +didn’t say anything about the incident. My friend +said that the next time he took a whiff of oxygen it +almost knocked him out of his seat.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="i-spin-in"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id7">I SPIN IN</a></h1> +<p>I had been spin testing a Mercury Chic for several +weeks, doing everything at a safe and sane altitude, +being very scientific. I finally spun it in from an altitude +of about three feet. And I mean spun it in too. +The ship was a complete washout.</p> +<p>There was a strong wind that day, and a very +gusty one. When I taxied out for the take-off the +wind was on my tail. There were no brakes on the +ship. It was very light, and in addition, a high wing +job—always a top-heavy thing in a wind.</p> +<p>The wind kept swinging me around into it, and I +wanted to go the other way. I should have called a +couple of mechanics from the line to come and hold +my wings and help me taxi. But I was proud or stubborn +or dumb or something that day.</p> +<p>I adopted a little strategy. I’d get the ship all +lined up down wind and when the wind would start +swinging me around the other way I’d just let it +swing until the nose was headed almost into the wind. +Then I would gun it, kick rudder with the swing, +thus aggravating it instead of checking it, hoping +to get my way by going with it instead of fighting +it, and then, when it was headed down wind again, +try to hold it there until the next gust started swinging +me around again.</p> +<p>It worked fine, and I was making a certain amount +of headway down the field until, on one of the swings, +a particularly heavy gust of wind picked up my +outside wing as I was swinging. The ship tipped up +very slowly, and I thought I was going to tip a wing. +Then a larger and heavier gust hit it. It picked that +ship off the ground, turned it over on its back and +literally threw it down on the ground.</p> +<p>It was the worst crack-up I had ever been in. All +four longerons were broken, the wings crumpled, the +motor mount was twisted, the prop bent, the tail +crushed, and the ship looked like it had spun in from +at least ten thousand feet.</p> +<p>I crawled out from under it unhurt except for my +feelings. I never felt so foolish in my life. I had +cracked up a ship without even flying it.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="business-before-fame"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id8">BUSINESS BEFORE FAME</a></h1> +<p>Clyde Pangborne, of Pangborne and Herndon +fame, the two flyers who were first to fly non-stop +from Japan to America over the Pacific Ocean, and +also of Pangborne and Turner fame, the flying team +that won third place in the London-Australia Air +Derby in 1934, was operations manager for the +famous Gate’s Flying Circus for many years. He +flew into Lewiston, Mont., in October, 1923, with his +aërial circus. He had a contract with the fair association +of that town, giving him exclusive rights to all +the passenger carrying and flying to be done at the +local fair then in progress.</p> +<p>He landed an hour before he was supposed to put +on his first performance of stunting, wing-walking +and parachute jumping, the preliminary crowd-attracting +procedure before the money-making of +passenger carrying, which was one of the attractions +the fair had advertised. He found another pilot and +plane, with chute jumper, there ahead of him, all set +to do business in his place.</p> +<p>Pangborne told the other pilot to get out. The +other pilot said, “So what?” Pangborne said: “I got +a contract, and I’m going to town to see about it.”</p> +<p>He went to town and told the fair association +about it. He said he would sue the city if they didn’t +get that other guy and his chute jumper off the +field by the time he was ready to put on his exhibition.</p> +<p>The fair association went out to the field. They +got hold of the other pilot and his chute jumper. +They reminded the pilot that he had flown out of +that field the previous year, and, in departing, had +overlooked the small matter of paying a certain +amount of rent he had agreed to pay for the field. +They told him to get out or go to jail by four o’clock +that afternoon.</p> +<p>It was a conclusive argument. The pilot cranked +his ship, got in his cockpit, called to his chute +jumper, a long, slim, gangling kid who was obviously +disappointed at the turn affairs had taken, because +he had been all set to have some fun jumping that +day, and took off.</p> +<p>The chute jumper was Charles Augustus Lindbergh, +who had not yet learned to fly.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="everything-wrong"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id9">EVERYTHING WRONG</a></h1> +<p>On my first solo in a Martin bomber, I started to +take off and started swinging to the left. I put on +right rudder but kept on swinging to the left. I ran +out of right rudder and was still swinging to the left +into a line of mesquite trees. I eased the right motor +off a little, but it didn’t help much. I couldn’t cut the +gun and stop before I hit the trees. I could only +hope to get into the air before I got up to them.</p> +<p>Suddenly my left wing started to lift, and it +dawned on me like a flash of shame what was wrong. +I had had the wheel rolled to the right and my left +aileron down. The resistance of that down aileron +had swung me to the left at slow speeds, and I had +fought it with right rudder, but now at high speeds +it was banking me to the right, and I still had on +right rudder. I was taking off in a right-hand bank +with the controls set fully for it. The left-hand +motor was pulling stronger than the right.</p> +<p>I never kicked and pulled so many things so fast +before as I did right then. By some miracle I found +myself fifty feet in the air instead of in a heap. But +I was flying exactly at right angles to the direction +I had originally planned.</p> +<p>Everything seemed to be all right, so I went +around and landed. I gave it the gun immediately +on touching the ground and went around and landed +again.</p> +<p>This time I saw a lot of cars coming out toward +me. Maybe that take-off had looked pretty good. +Maybe they thought I knew what I had been doing. +The two landings had been good. Maybe they were +coming out to congratulate me.</p> +<p>My instructor got there first. He ran over and +started inspecting the right wing tip. He was looking +underneath it. “Hey, you,” he shouted at me +when he looked up, “don’t you ever get out and take +a look after you crack up a ship?”</p> +<p>I had dragged the right wing for several hundred +feet. The under side of the wing was badly torn up, +and the aileron was just barely hanging on.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="a-showy-stunt"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id10">A SHOWY STUNT</a></h1> +<p>An upside-down landing is one of the showiest +maneuvers a stunting pilot can perform. He doesn’t +really land upside down. He comes all the way in in +his glide upside down until he is about ten or twenty +feet off the ground. Then he rolls over and lands +right side up.</p> +<p>Jack, who had got pretty hot at this maneuver, +hit a telephone pole coming in like that one day and +woke up in the hospital.</p> +<p>Some time before that I had almost done practically +the same thing. I had dived low over the field +down wind at the end of a show I had been putting +on at a little air meet and had pulled up until I was +on my back at about eight hundred feet. I decided I +would not only glide in upside down but would make +it really fancy and slip both ways in the glide. I +started to slip but forgot and did it the same as I +would have had I been right side up and produced +a bank instead. No, no, I told myself, coördinate, +don’t cross controls. There. I tried one to the other +side. That’s fine, I told myself. I got so absorbed +in this little maneuver that I completely forgot the +ground until I was almost too low and too slow to +turn right side up again. I actually missed the +ground by inches as I rolled over, and only some +kind fate presiding over absent-minded stunt pilots +enabled me to do it then.</p> +<p>I saw Jack in the hospital, when he was well +enough.</p> +<p>“Hey, Jack,” I started kidding him, “I hear that +you practiced upside-down landings for months, and +that finally you made one. Is there any truth to +that?”</p> +<p>He clamped his jaws but grinned back at me. +“That’s all right,” he said, “but if I remember correctly +I saw a pilot by the name of Jimmy Collins +just miss landing upside down once.”</p> +<p>“Yeah, Jack,” I said, “but—” I hesitated: this +was too good not to emphasize—“but I missed,” I +said.</p> +<p>Jack just glared at me. There wasn’t any answer.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="death-on-the-gridiron"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id11">DEATH ON THE GRIDIRON</a></h1> +<p>It’s funny how things turn out sometimes. Fate +gives you a capricious little tweak, and there you +are. I often think of the case of Zep Schock.</p> +<p>Zep and I were fraternity brothers at college. I +was crazy about aviation, and Zep was crazy about +football. I had been too poor to fly up till then, and +Zep had been too little to play football. He weighed +only about ninety-five pounds when he came to college. +They had even used him as a sort of a mascot +on the high-school teams.</p> +<p>Near the end of my freshman year I discovered +quite accidentally, through reading an aviation +magazine which I had repeatedly promised myself +not to read because it took my mind off my work, +that the army would teach me to fly for nothing. +They would even pay me for it! And Zep suddenly +started to grow.</p> +<p>I passed my entrance examinations for the Army +Primary Flying School at Brooks Field, San +Antonio, Tex., that fall, and prepared to quit school +after the mid-term exams—which would mark the +end of my freshman year, because I had started +college in January instead of March—to go to flying +school the following March. Zep had made the +freshman football team in the meantime.</p> +<p>There wasn’t much flying outside of the army in +those days, and nobody knew much about it except +that it was dangerous. None of the fellows could understand +why I was doing such a fool thing. They +tried to talk me out of it, discovered they couldn’t, +decided I was nuts, and started kidding me. Zep was +the best of the bunch.</p> +<p>Every night at dinner he used to propose a toast +to me. “Here’s to Jimmy Collins,” he used to say. +“The average life of the aviator is forty hours.” He +had picked those figures up some place reading about +war pilots.</p> +<p>That was eleven years ago, and I’m still flying. +Poor Zep made the regular team the next year and +got killed playing football.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="novice-near-death"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id12">NOVICE NEAR DEATH</a></h1> +<p>One flight test I gave, when I was an inspector +for the Department of Commerce, was almost my +last.</p> +<p>I went up with a guy, saw in three minutes he +couldn’t fly, took the controls away from him, +landed, and told him to come back some other day. +He pleaded with me that I hadn’t given him a chance, +that if I would only let him go further through the +test without taking the controls away he would show +me he could fly.</p> +<p>So I took him up again. I let him slop along without +interference until we came to spins. I told him +to do a spin, and he started a steep spiral. I took the +controls away from him, regained some altitude, told +him to do a spin again, and he started a steep spiral +again—a lousy spiral, too!</p> +<p>I thought maybe he was afraid to do a spin, so I +said the mental equivalent of “Skip it” to myself +and told him to do a three-sixty. He should have +gone to fifteen hundred feet, cut the gun, turned +around once in his glide and landed on a spot under +where he had cut the gun. He went to two thousand +feet instead, put the ship in a steep, skidding spiral +verging on a spin—he was death on steep spirals—and +held it there. Round and round we went. I let +him go. I wanted to convince him this time.</p> +<p>I had been watching for it, but at two hundred +feet the ship beat me to it even so and flipped right +over on its back. I made one swift movement, knocking +the throttle open with my left hand in passing, +and grabbed the stick with both hands. The guy was +frantically freezing backward on it, but my sudden, +violent attack on it gave me the lead on him and I +managed to get the stick just far enough forward +to stop the spin we had begun. I was sure we were +going to hit the ground swooping out of the resultant +dive, but by some miracle we missed it.</p> +<p>I landed immediately and was so mad I started to +walk off without saying anything. But the guy followed +me, bleating, “Please, Mr. Collins. Please, Mr. +Collins,” until I relented and turned to speak.</p> +<p>Before I could say anything he broke in on me +with: “Please, Mr. Collins, please don’t grab the +controls from me like that just because I make one +too many turns. I could bring the ship down all +right.”</p> +<p>My mouth opened and closed speechlessly. Bring +it down! Bring us both down in a heap! But how +could I say it and make myself understood? The guy +didn’t even know we had been in a spin. He didn’t +know we had almost broken our necks in one. He +thought I was impatient!</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="hungrys-ship-burned"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id13">HUNGRY’S SHIP BURNED</a></h1> +<p>Lieutenant Hungry Gates’ ship caught fire in the +air. He pulled his throttle and worked carefully but +fast. He undid his belt and started to raise himself +out of the cockpit. He started to leap but remembered +something. That swell bottle of pre-war liquor +that a friend had given him just before he took off +was in the map case. He’d need that if he got down +alive. He made a quick grab back into the cockpit +for it and leaped head foremost, clear of the burning +wreck.</p> +<p>He missed the tail surfaces and waited a moment, +thankful for that much. He didn’t want the ship to +fall on him. He didn’t want any of the burning +débris to fall on his chute when he opened it.</p> +<p>When he had waited long enough, he started to +pull his rip cord to open his chute, but discovered +both hands already engaged. He let go of the bottle +of liquor with his right hand and hugged the bottle +tightly with his left arm. He grabbed his rip-cord +ring with his freed right hand, yanked hard, grabbed +his bottle to him with both hands again, and waited. +The sudden checking of his speed when his chute +opened jolted him up short in his harness, but he +didn’t drop the bottle.</p> +<p>He thought of the flaming wreck above him. He +looked up but saw only his white chute spread safely +above him, etched cold against the clear blue sky. He +looked around the sky. He saw a long trailing column +of black smoke and followed it with his eyes downward +until he saw the hurtling ship at the end of it. +It was beneath him now and no longer a threat to his +chute. He watched it nose violently into a wooded +patch off to his left just before he settled down into +a pasture. He hit hard, fell down, but held on to his +bottle. His chute toppled over into a limp heap in +the still air.</p> +<p>He sat up and decided he needed a drink before +he even got out of his harness to gather up his chute. +He hauled his bottle out from under his arm and +gazed at it in consternation, licking his lips.</p> +<p>It wasn’t a bottle at all. It was the fire extinguisher!</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="back-seat-pals"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id14">BACK-SEAT PALS</a></h1> +<p>Back-seat driving is taboo in the ethics of the flying +game. But occasionally you get a case of it when +you get two pilots together in the same cockpit.</p> +<p>Two pilots were flying a pretty heavily loaded +bomber on a cross-country trip, one time. They were +both fast friends and both equally good pilots. +Maybe that’s why the thing happened as it did.</p> +<p>They landed at Love Field, Tex., gassed up, and +taxied out to take off again. Part of the field was +torn up. They didn’t have any more field than just +enough from where they began their take-off.</p> +<p>Their heavily loaded ship with its two Liberty +motors, its acres of wings, and its forest of struts +started lumbering down the field. The pilot who was +flying the ship used most of the space in front of +his obstacles before he got the ship off the ground. +He did a nice job after he got it off the ground by +not climbing it more than just enough to clear the +wires which were in front of him. He figured he was +just going to clear them nicely when apparently the +other pilot, sitting alongside him in the other cockpit, +figured he wasn’t although why the other pilot +did what he did at that second I could never figure +out, except that it was one of those dumb things that +we are all apt to do under duress if we don’t watch +ourselves.</p> +<p>Anyway, both motors suddenly quit cold, and the +ship smacked into the wires and piled up in a heap +on the far side of the road across the airport.</p> +<p>Both pilots came out of the wreck running. The +one who had been flying the ship had the wheel, +which evidently had broken off in the crash, raised +above his head in his right hand. He was brandishing +it wildly, running after the other pilot and shouting +at the top of his voice, “Cut my switches, will you! +Cut my switches just when I was going to make it! +If I ever catch you I’ll cut your throat!”</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="watch-your-step"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id15">WATCH YOUR STEP!</a></h1> +<p>At Anacostia Naval Air Station, the river flows on +one side of the hangars, and the airport stretches +on the other. They fly boats out of the river side +and land planes out of the airport side.</p> +<p>One pilot down there had been flying land planes +exclusively for several months. Then one day he flew +a boat. One of the enlisted pilots went along with +him as co-pilot.</p> +<p>After flying around for a while he started in for +a landing. But instead of coming in for a landing +on the river he started to land on the airport.</p> +<p>The enlisted pilot with him let him go as long as +he thought he dared. Then he nudged him in the +ribs, pointed out that he was about to land a boat on +land, and suggested that maybe it would be a better +idea to go over and land in the river.</p> +<p>The pilot agreed that it certainly would. He gave +it the gun and went around again and came in for +a landing on the river. He made a good landing and +let the ship slow down. When they were idling along +he turned around to the enlisted pilot and started to +apologize for almost landing him on land. He undid +his belt as he talked.</p> +<p>“That was a dumb thing for me to do,” he said. +“I’ve been flying land planes for so long that I guess +I just started coming in there from habit without +thinking. It sure was dumb.” He was obviously +humiliated and confused.</p> +<p>“Well,” he said finally, “it sure was dumb,” and +got up and climbed out of the cockpit onto the wing.</p> +<p>“So long,” he said, and stepped down off the wing +into the water.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="flyer-enjoys-worry"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id16">FLYER ENJOYS WORRY</a></h1> +<p>Gloomy Gus got his name at Brooks Field, the army +primary flying school. He was always going to get +washed out of the school the next day. When he +graduated from Brooks he wasn’t going to last three +weeks at Kelly, the advanced school, because he had +got through Brooks by luck anyway. When he +graduated from Kelly, the hottest pilot in his class, he +would never get a job in commercial flying, so he +might just as well have been washed out at Kelly.</p> +<p>I saw him several months later in Chicago. He was +flying one of the best runs on the western division +of the mail. He was sure it wouldn’t be very long +before he cracked up, night flying, and disabled himself +for life, so what good was his mail job?</p> +<p>I saw him several years after he had been transferred +to the eastern run over the Allegheny Mountains. +He didn’t know what good the additional +money he was making was going to do him when he +was dead. Didn’t all the hot pilots get it in those +mountains?</p> +<p>He took a vacation from the passenger lines and +went on active duty with the army. I saw him at +Mitchell Field. He said he was taking his vacation +flying because he wanted to fly some army ships for +a change and have some fun. “But you know, I +shouldn’t have done it,” he said. “I’ve been flying +straight and level too long. I almost hit a guy in +formation this morning. I probably won’t live long +enough to get back to the lines.”</p> +<p>I saw him a few days after he had gone back to +the lines.</p> +<p>“How they going, Gloomy?” I greeted him.</p> +<p>“Oh,” he said, “that bit of army flying made me +careless. I almost hit a radio tower this morning. +Carelessness is what kills all old-timers, you know.”</p> +<p>“Gus,” I said. “You’d be miserable if you didn’t +have something to worry about. You will probably +live to have a long white beard and worry yourself +sick all day long that you are going to trip on it +and break your neck.”</p> +<p>Only a faint flicker of humor lit up his gloomy +eyes.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="weather-and-whither"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id17">WEATHER AND WHITHER</a></h1> +<p>Archer Winsten writes that “different” column in +the <em>Post</em>, In the Wake of the News. I met Archer +for the first time in San Antonio in 1927. He was +down there for his health, and I was instructing at +Brooks Field for my living. We both had ideas of +writing even at that time. We became fast friends +before Archer went home to Connecticut and I went +to March Field, Riverside, Cal.</p> +<p>I resigned from the army the next year and went +with the Department of Commerce. I was assigned +to fly Bill McCracken, head of the department, on +about a seven-thousand-mile tour of the country. I +kept asking Bill if his itinerary was going to take +us to Westport, Conn., or anywhere near it, because +if it was I wanted to go see my friend Archer Winsten, +who lived there. He said he didn’t know where +the place was, and I began looking for it on the map. +I couldn’t find it and told Bill that. I remarked how +strange it was several times later that I couldn’t find +Westport on the map. A couple of times Bill asked +me if I had found it yet, and I said no.</p> +<p>I was strange to the East at that time, and when +we got to Hartford I was sure we were going to go +right past Westport without my ever finding out +where it was. I complained to Bill about it and we +both looked over a map and couldn’t find the place.</p> +<p>The next day we started down to New York from +Hartford and ran into lousy weather. It got so low +finally that, although I was following railroads and +valleys, I decided that I couldn’t go any farther. I +milled around, dodging trees and hills for about ten +minutes before I found a place to sit down.</p> +<p>I landed in a small field surrounded with stone +fences. A man came wading through the wet grass +toward us after we had stopped rolling. Bill asked +me where we were, and I said I had only a vague +idea after all that milling around but would ask the +man. The man said Westport.</p> +<p>Bill howled with delight. Part of his delight undoubtedly +was relief at getting down out of that +soup without breaking his neck, but I was never able +to convince him that I didn’t know I was landing at +Westport.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="i-see"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id18">I SEE</a></h1> +<p>A man came up to me for flight test once when I +was an inspector for the Department of Commerce. +He flew terribly, so I sent him away and told him to +come back in a couple of weeks, after he had practiced +a little more. He came back a couple of weeks +later, and I turned him down again.</p> +<p>The third time he came in he said, “I think we’ll +get along all right this time. Can I take the test +today?”</p> +<p>“I’m too busy today,” I told him. But he pleaded +so hard that I finally said, “All right, I’ll squeeze +you in this afternoon. Come at three o’clock.”</p> +<p>“Thank you, thank you,” he said, and held out his +hand.</p> +<p>I reached out my hand to grip his and felt something +in my palm. I pulled my hand away and found +a piece of paper in it. I unfolded it and discovered +a ten-dollar bill.</p> +<p>I stood there and looked at it, puzzled and amazed +for a few seconds. Then the full import of it dawned +on me. He thought I had been holding out for something. +He thought he would fix me up. He didn’t +know he could never fix me up if I put my stamp of +approval on him when he was unfit and he should +then go out and kill some passenger because of my +leniency.</p> +<p>It started at the top of my head, that raging +anger. It burned like flaming coals and raced +through my veins like fire. I began to tremble violently, +and when I looked up the man was a red flame +in a red room.</p> +<p>I hurled the paper bill at him as though it were a +javelin and shouted, “Get out! Get out and don’t +ever come back!”</p> +<p>Have you ever thrown a piece of paper at anybody?</p> +<p>The bill fluttered ineffectually down to the floor +halfway between us. I rushed at it and kicked at it +until it was out of the door. I kicked him out too.</p> +<p>I wondered, sitting at my desk afterward, why I +had got so mad. It wasn’t honesty. I hadn’t had time +to think of honesty. I wondered if it was because he +had implied that I was worth ten dollars. I wondered +what I would have done if he had offered me ten +thousand dollars. I began to understand graft.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="won-argument-lost"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id19">WON ARGUMENT LOST</a></h1> +<p>“That student is dangerous. You’re crazy if you +fly with him again,” I harangued my friend, Brooks +Wilson.</p> +<p>“Don’t be that way,” Brooks answered. “He’s not +dangerous. He’s goofy.”</p> +<p>“That’s why he’s dangerous,” I countered. “You +tell me that he froze the controls in a panic today +and you lost a thousand feet of altitude before you +were able to get the ship away from him. The next +time you may not have a thousand feet.”</p> +<p>“I won’t need a thousand feet the next time,” +Brooks argued. “I wrestled the controls away from +him today, but the next time he grabs them like that, +I’ll just beat him over the head with the fire extinguisher +and knock him out.”</p> +<p>“If you are high enough to do that, you won’t +be in any danger,” I pointed out. “And if you are +low enough to be in danger when he freezes, you +won’t have time to knock him out.”</p> +<p>Brooks and I were both very young army instructors, +and Brooks was stubborn with the confidence +of youth. He only growled, “Don’t be a sissy +all your life. I can handle this guy.”</p> +<p>The next day a solo student spun in, in a field of +corn beside the airport. Brooks had just landed with +his goofy student and was crawling out of his cockpit +when he saw the ship hit. He jumped back into +his cockpit, gave his still idling motor the gun and +took off, his goofy student still in the rear seat.</p> +<p>He flew over the wreck, circled it, dove on it, +pulled up, wing-it, dove on it, pulled up, wing-overed, +and dove on it again. He was a beautiful +pilot. He was pointing out to the ambulance where +the wreck was in the tall corn. He pulled up and +started another wing-over, flipped suddenly over on +his back, and spun in right beside the wreck.</p> +<p>When they pulled Brooks out of his wreck he was +unconscious but was muttering over and over again +in his Southern vernacular, “Turn ’em loose. Turn +’em loose. Turn ’em loose before we crash.”</p> +<p>The goofy student was hardly even scratched. +Brooks died that night.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="monk-hunter"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id20">MONK HUNTER</a></h1> +<p>Monk Hunter was a dashing aviator, the only really +dashing aviator I have ever known. There was dash +to the cut and fit of his uniforms, dash to the shine +and the fit of his boots, dash to the twirl and flip +of the cane he carried. There was dash to the set +of his magnificently erect and darkly handsome head, +dash in the flare of his nostrils and the gleam of his +flashing black eyes, dash in his violently dynamic +gestures and in his torrential, staccatoed, highly +inflected speech which he aimed at you as he had aimed +machine guns at enemy flyers during the war when he +had shot down nine of them.</p> +<p>There was especial dash to Monk’s mustache. Only +Monk could have worn that mustache. I saw him +once without it, and something seemed to have gone +out of him as it went out of Samson when they +clipped his hair. He looked naked and helpless.</p> +<p>It was a big mustache, the kind you see in tintypes +of swains of long ago. It bristled, and Monk had a +way about him in twirling it that you should have +seen.</p> +<p>Poor Monk took off at Selfridge one day in an +army pursuit ship. He even did that with dash. He +held it low after the take-off and then started a +clean, left, sweeping climb into the blue sky.</p> +<p>We all saw the white smoke start trailing out +behind his ship. Then with bated breath we watched +the ship slump slowly over from its gestured climbing +and nose straight down inexorably toward the +ice of Lake St. Clair. Monk’s chute blossomed out +behind the diving ship just before it disappeared +behind the trees.</p> +<p>We all jumped into cars and rushed madly over +to where we thought it had hit. We found Monk, +unhurt, except for the jar from landing on the ice, +waving his arms, wildly shouting that the ship had +caught fire and to look what the damned thing had +done. We looked at the ship, but Monk was still +gesticulating excitedly, so we looked at him. He +meant to look what it had done to him.</p> +<p>We all started laughing like hell. We were really +laughing with Monk, not at him. He appreciated +it, too.</p> +<p>His mustache had been burnt clear off on one side.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="couldnt-take-it"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id21">COULDN’T TAKE IT</a></h1> +<p>I was testing an airplane one day. Its wings came +off, and I jumped out in my chute. I am convinced +that the people on the ground watching me got a +bigger thrill out of it than I did. I was too busy.</p> +<p>For one thing, Admiral Moffett, who was later +killed in the <em>Akron</em>, rushed home to his office in an +emotional fit and wrote me a very nice letter about +what a hero I was. I wasn’t any hero. I had just +been saving my neck.</p> +<p>And for another, my mechanic came up to see me +in the hospital right afterward. I wasn’t in the +hospital because I was hurt, but because the military +doctor on the post made me go there. After I +had got into the hospital I discovered that my heart +was beating so violently that I couldn’t sleep, so +when Eddie, my mechanic, came up they let him in.</p> +<p>He didn’t say anything at all for a while. He just +sat on the bed opposite mine and twirled his cap, +looking down at the floor. Finally he said, “When +your chute opened, I fell down.”</p> +<p>I pictured him running madly across the field, +watching me falling before I had opened my chute, +and then stumbling just as my chute opened. “Why +didn’t you watch where you were going?” I said +banteringly.</p> +<p>He kept looking at the floor, twirling his cap, his +face expressionless. “I wasn’t going any place,” he +said.</p> +<p>The conversation wasn’t making much sense to me. +“Didn’t you say that when my chute opened, you +fell down?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he said, as if he were talking to the floor. +He was in a sort of trance.</p> +<p>“Well,” I said, puzzled, “then you must have been +running across the field watching me. You must have +stumbled and fallen.”</p> +<p>“No,” he said, like a man in a dream, “I didn’t +stumble on anything. I was just standing there looking +up, watching you.”</p> +<p>I was getting frantic. “Well, how in the hell did +you fall down, then?” I asked.</p> +<p>“My knees collapsed,” he said.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="good-luck"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id22">GOOD LUCK</a></h1> +<p>Soon now, he would be flying out over the ocean. +Soon he would be famous and rich. Lindbergh had +made it. Why shouldn’t he?</p> +<p>His ship was almost ready. Its belly bulged with +new tanks. Its wings stretched with new width to take +the added gas load. Its motor emitted a perfect +sound that his trained ears could find no fault with.</p> +<p>Only the final adjusting of his instruments remained. +Lindbergh had taken great pains with his +instruments. He would too. When the ground crew +had finished with them, he flew his ship on a short +cross-country trip to check the instruments in flight. +They worked fine.</p> +<p>He brought his ship down to put it in the hangar +until he got his break in weather. He lingered in the +cockpit for a few moments, contemplating his instruments +in anticipation of the weary hours he would +have to watch them during the long flight.</p> +<p>A thought occurred to him. Lindbergh had been +lucky. He would be too. His girl (sweet kid—maybe +when he came back ... but he would do the job +first) had already wished him luck. She had given +him a token of her wish. It was only a cheap thing +she had picked up in some novelty shop, but he +treasured it. He took it out of his pocket. He tied it +to the instrument board and fashioned its bright +red ribbon into a neat bow knot that reminded him +of the way she fastened her apron when she made +coffee for him in her kitchen late at night. There. +Yes, he too would have luck now.</p> +<p>Several days later his break in the weather hadn’t +come yet. He got worried about his instruments. +There were no landmarks in the ocean. Maybe he had +better check his compass again.</p> +<p>He went out to the field and flew his ship. The +compass was off! It was way off! When the ground +crew checked it again it was off twenty degrees on +the first reading.</p> +<p>They soon found the trouble. As everybody knows, +metal near a compass will throw it off. They found +a metal imitation of a rabbit’s foot suspended on a +red ribbon tied to the bottom of the compass case.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="will-rogers-in-the-air"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id23">WILL ROGERS IN THE AIR</a></h1> +<p>I was flying as a passenger on one of the airlines +once, going out to Wichita to take delivery of a ship +I had sold. Will Rogers was a passenger on the same +ship.</p> +<p>When we stopped at Columbus, I managed to engage +Rogers in conversation. I had always been +curious about whether he talked in private life as he +does on the stage and radio, and if the poor grammar +in his writing was deliberate or natural. He talked +to me exactly as he does on the stage and radio, and +his grammar was just as bad as it is in his writing. +So I decided that, if it was an act, he was carrying +it pretty far.</p> +<p>I noticed that he made certain movements with +difficulty. He seemed to be crippled up a little. I +asked him what was the matter. He said he had fallen +off his horse before he left California and had broken +a couple of ribs. I thought that was kind of funny, +because I had always supposed he was a good horseman. +I told him that, and he said it was a new horse +and he wasn’t used to it. I still thought it was kind +of funny, but I let it pass.</p> +<p>I managed to bring out a little later in the conversation +that I was a professional pilot myself and +that being a passenger was a rare experience for +me. He said he could tell me the truth then. He said +he really had had an airplane accident the day before. +An airliner he had been riding in had made +a forced landing, had nosed over pretty hard, and +had banged him up a little. That’s how he had +broken his ribs.</p> +<p>He said it hadn’t been the pilot’s fault that they +had cracked up, that the motor had quit, and that +the pilot had done a good job considering the country +he had to sit down in. He said that only a good +pilot could have kept from killing everybody in the +ship, and that he was the only one who had been +hurt.</p> +<p>He said he had told me that story about the horse +in the first place because he thought I was a regular +passenger. He said not to tell any of the rest of the +passengers, because it might scare them and spoil +their trip.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="he-never-knew"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id24">HE NEVER KNEW</a></h1> +<p>Pilots often play jokes on each other when they +fly together.</p> +<p>Two pilots I knew at Kelly Field had been up to +Dallas on a week-end cross-country trip. They +started back on a very rough day and were bouncing +all around the sky.</p> +<p>About fifty miles out of San Antonio, the pilot +who was flying the ship turned around to ask the +other one in the rear seat for some matches. He +couldn’t see him, so he figured he was slumped down +in the cockpit, napping. He looked back under his +arm inside the fuselage. The rear cockpit was empty!</p> +<p>He was only flying at about five hundred feet, +hadn’t been flying any higher than that on the whole +trip, and at times had been flying even lower.</p> +<p>Scared to death that his passenger had loosened +his belt to stretch out and sleep and had been thrown +out of the cockpit in a bump, perhaps even failing +to recognize his predicament in time to open his +chute, the pilot swung back on his course and started +searching the route he had covered for signs of a +body. He searched back over as much of it as he +dared and still have enough gas left to turn around +again and go on into Kelly Field.</p> +<p>He found nothing and was worried sick all the +way back to Kelly. But when he landed, there was +the other pilot, grinning a greeting at him.</p> +<p>The pilot who had been in the rear seat explained +that he had undone his belt to stretch out and sleep +and that the next thing he knew he felt a bump and +woke up with a start to discover the cockpit about +four feet beneath him and off to one side. He said he +reached, but only grabbed thin air. The tail surfaces +passed by under him, and he saw the airplane +flying off without him.</p> +<p>He was too astounded at first, but quickly realized +he ought to do something, sitting out there in space +with no airplane or anything, so he pulled his rip +cord. His chute opened just in time.</p> +<p>He walked over to the main road he had been +flying over so recently and thumbed himself a ride to +Kelly Field. He said he had seen the ship turn +around and start back looking for him.</p> +<p>The pilot who had been flying the ship never knew +if the other one had really fallen out of the ship, or +if he had jumped out as a joke.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="bonnys-dream"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id25">BONNY’S DREAM</a></h1> +<p>Bonny had a dream. His inventor’s eyes gleamed +with the light of it. His days lived with the hope of +it. His nights moved with its vision.</p> +<p>Because of his dream we called him Bonny Gull. +He dreamed of building an airplane with metal, wood +and fabric to emulate the sinewed, feathered grace of +a soaring gull.</p> +<p>He studied gulls. He studied them dead and alive. +He studied their wonderful soaring flight alive. He +killed them and studied their lifeless wings. He +wanted their secret. He wanted to recreate it for +man.</p> +<p>He might have asked God. He might have asked +God and heard a still small voice answer: “Render +unto Cæsar what is Cæsar’s and unto God what +is God’s. Render unto man his own flight and leave +to the gulls their own. Man’s flight is different because +his destiny is different. He doesn’t need the +gulls’ flight.”</p> +<p>But Bonny envied the gulls. He killed hundreds +of them, yes, thousands, and buried them in the +field. He built an airplane from what he thought +he had learned from their dead bodies.</p> +<p>He built an airplane and took it out to fly. Engineers, +who had never studied gulls but who had +studied man’s flight, told him he shouldn’t do it. +They pointed out to him how the center of pressure +would shift on his wings. But Bonny glared his glittering +faith at them, snuggled his dream in close, +and flew.</p> +<p>He took off all right. He roared across the field, +and if he didn’t sound quite like a gull, he looked the +part. He rose into the air for all the world like a +giant gull. He pulled off in a steep climb, and the +wise men wondered if again they were proved wrong +by an ignorant fanatic.</p> +<p>Their wonder didn’t last long. When Bonny tried +to level out, he nosed over and dove straight into the +ground, like a gull diving into the ocean for a fish. +We rushed out to the wreck. Bonny was quite +dead. There was scattered around him not only the +remains of his own gull wings, but thousands of the +feathered remains of other gull wings. He had dived +straight into the shallow grave of all the gulls he +had killed.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="cob-pipe-hazards"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id26">COB-PIPE HAZARDS</a></h1> +<p>Silly little things are apt to crack you up sometimes.</p> +<p>I did an outside loop at Akron once. I came up +over the top of the loop and started right down +into another. I didn’t want to do another, so I pulled +back on the stick to stop it. It wouldn’t come all the +way back. It was jammed some way.</p> +<p>The ship was nosing steeper and steeper into the +dive. I rolled the stabilizer, and that enabled me to +pull the nose up. I couldn’t keep it up if I cut the +gun more than halfway. I knew I would have a tough +time landing like that. Besides, although I had a +chute, I knew that when I got down low to make a +landing the stick might jam even farther forward +and nose me in before I had a chance to jump. Or +the engine might quit down low and do the same +thing. It wasn’t my ship, however, and I didn’t want +to jump and throw it away if I didn’t absolutely +have to.</p> +<p>I tried the stick a few more times. Each time I +yanked it back hard it came up against the same +obstacle at the same point. I decided to take a chance +that it would stay jammed where it was.</p> +<p>I came in low ’way back of the field with almost +all of the back travel of the stick taken up, holding +the nose up with the gun. I had to land with the tail +up high, going fast. I bounced wildly, used all the +field, but made it all right.</p> +<p>I made an immediate inspection to find out what +had jammed the stick. I couldn’t imagine what it was +because I had taken all the loose gadgets out of the +ship before I had gone up.</p> +<p>I found a corncob pipe that the ship’s owner had +been looking for for weeks. He had left it in the +baggage compartment and had never been able to +find it. It had slipped through a small opening at +the top of the rear wall of the compartment and had +evidently been floating around in the tail of the +fuselage all that time.</p> +<p>When I did the outside loop it had been flung +upward by centrifugal force and wedged into the +wedge ending of the upper longerons at the end of +the fuselage. The flipper horn was hitting it every +time I pulled the stick back, preventing me from +getting the full backward movement.</p> +<p>Only the bowl of the pipe was left. It was lodged +sidewise. Had it lodged endwise it would have jammed +the stick even farther forward, and I would have had +to jump or dive in with the ship. I would have had +to jump quickly, too, because I didn’t have much +altitude when I started that second involuntary outside +loop.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="whoopee"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id27">WHOOPEE!</a></h1> +<p>A friend of mine was once chased and rammed in +midair by a drunken pilot. If you have ever been +approached on the road by a drunken driver you +have some idea of the predicament he found himself +in when this drunk started chasing him. Of course, +he didn’t know this guy was drunk, but he knew he +was either drunk or crazy.</p> +<p>My friend was an army pilot. He was flying an +army pursuit ship from Selfridge Field, Mich., +to Chicago and was circling the field at Chicago +preparatory to landing when he was set upon by the +drunk, who, evidently still living in the memory of +his war days, was trying to egg my friend on to a +sham battle, trying to get him to dogfight.</p> +<p>He saw the DH, which was a mail ship of those +days, approach him first from above and head on. +He had to kick out of the way at the last moment, +or he would have been hit on that first pass the guy +took at him. The guy pulled up and took another +pass at him. He kicked out of the way again and +started wondering since when had they turned lunatics +loose in the sky. He didn’t have much time for +wondering, because the guy kept taking passes at +him. Finally, the guy took to diving down under him +and pulling up in front of him. He seemed to think +that was more fun than just diving on my friend, +and he kept it up.</p> +<p>My friend saw him disappear under the tail of his +ship this time, and he didn’t know what to do about +it. He didn’t know which way to turn, because he +didn’t know which way the goof was going to pull up.</p> +<p>Suddenly he saw the nose of the other ship. It +came up directly in front of his own nose. He knew +the guy had overdone it this time and come too close. +He pulled back on his stick, but felt the jar of the +collision just as he did. It threw him up into a stall, +and when he came out his motor was so rough he had +to cut his switches. He had raked the tail of the +other ship with his propeller, and it was bent all out +of shape. He had also cut the tail off the drunk’s +ship.</p> +<p>The drunk was evidently too drunk to get out of +the cockpit because he cracked up with his ship. My +friend managed to get his ship down without jumping. +It was only a wonder, plus some neat flying on +my friend’s part, that he wasn’t killed too.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="building-through"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id28">BUILDING THROUGH</a></h1> +<p>A pilot should never be too stubborn with an airplane. +I learned that early, fortunately, without +coming to grief in the process.</p> +<p>Another pilot criticized my flying once. He criticized +the way I was making my take-offs. Kidlike +and cocky, just out of flying school, I took a foolish +way of proving he was wrong. But he had me so +riled by his caustic and nasty remarks about how I +was going to kill myself if I kept that up that I +flung out a challenge to him and felt I had to keep +my attitude even when I saw I was overdoing the +thing and thought I was going to crack up.</p> +<p>“If you think my take-offs are so dangerous,” I +told him, “I’ll just go out there and cut my gun in +the most dangerous spot of this dangerous take-off +and land safely back in the airport.” And I stalked +out, fuming, and got in the ship.</p> +<p>I took off toward the high trees at the end of the +field, didn’t let the ship climb very steeply approaching +the trees, and banked just before I got to them—exactly +like I had been doing on the take-offs he +had been criticizing. But I also pulled up sharply, +just to make it worse. I didn’t want him to have any +comeback. I cut the gun and started dropping back +in over the trees into the airport. I should have put +the nose down a little to cushion the drop, but I was +mad. I’d show him the worse way. I wanted to gun +it because I was dropping hard, but I wouldn’t give +him the satisfaction.</p> +<p>I hit like a ton of bricks. The ship groaned and +bounced as high as a hangar. Luckily, it was a square +hit and a square bounce. That’s the only reason I +didn’t spread the ship all over the field. It hit and +bounced again and rolled to a very short stop for a +down-wind landing.</p> +<p>“All right,” I told the guy when I crawled out +of the ship, “you go out now and cut your gun just +over the trees on one of your safe, straight take-offs. +You won’t have a turn started and already pretty +well developed, and you won’t have room enough to +start one. You’ll pile into the trees in a heap, and if +that’s safer than landing on the airport in one piece, +then I’ll admit that your take-offs are safer than +mine.”</p> +<p>He didn’t dare and he knew it. So he just glared +at me, knowing damned well, as I knew myself, that +I should by all rights have cracked up on that landing. +But I had him, and he shut up and didn’t make +any more cracks about me.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="much"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id29">MUCH!</a></h1> +<p>Somebody asked me one day what kind of an airplane +I flew. I told him any kind anybody was willing +to pay me for flying.</p> +<p>“But don’t you own an airplane?” the man asked.</p> +<p>“No,” I answered. “And furthermore,” I added, +“I have never owned an airplane, although I have +been a professional pilot for eleven years.”</p> +<p>Why?</p> +<p>Well, I can best explain that as I explained it to +a little boy once out in California.</p> +<p>I was at the Lockheed factory. I had been there +several months, supervising the construction of an +airplane I had sold to a rich sportsman pilot in the +East. It was a Lockheed Sirius plane and at that +time a ship which was taking everybody’s eyes as the +latest and sleekest thing yet developed by the engineers. +Lindbergh had just popularized it by flying +himself and his wife across the country in it and +establishing a new transcontinental record.</p> +<p>They rolled my ship out on the line one bright, +sunny day and I must say that in its shiny new red-and-white +paint job and its clean, sweeping lines it +certainly was a beautiful sight sitting there glistening +in that California sunshine.</p> +<p>A little boy who had crawled over the factory +fence despite the “No Trespassing” sign evidently +thought so too, for he was standing there gazing +raptly at it with eyes as big as silver dollars when +I stalked out toward the ship to make a first test hop +in it. He intercepted me neatly as I rounded the wing +tip and approached the cockpit.</p> +<p>“Ooh, mister,” he said, “do you own that ship?”</p> +<p>“No, sonny,” I answered. “I merely fly it. I find +that that is less expensive and more fun.”</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="cross-country-snapshots"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id30">CROSS-COUNTRY SNAPSHOTS</a></h1> +<p>I take off from March Field, Calif., head north +and climb steeply. At ten thousand feet on the altimeter +I see the green fir trees skimming only a couple +of hundred feet beneath me. I see the deep snow between +their trunks, brilliant in the sun. I am clearing +the San Bernardino range.</p> +<p>I come out at ten thousand feet over the Mohave +Desert, my altimeter still reading ten thousand feet. +The floor of the Mohave is high.</p> +<p>I look ahead to the railroad, thirty miles away. I +look behind. The green-sloped, snow-capped Bernardinoes +form a backdrop for the desert underneath.</p> +<p>On beyond the railroad, beyond Barstow, into the +Granite Mountains, low, rolling, black, barren, lava-formed.</p> +<p>Into the Painted Hills. They are not named that +on the map. They are not named at all, and at first +I can’t believe them. But there they are beneath me. +No atmospheric trick. No effect of distance. No +subtle color either. They are really painted. There +is one over there. It sweeps out of the desert upward +into green and ends in a peak of white. There is +another, sweeping through purple to red. Others +through red to yellow. It is as if God had been playing +with colored chalks, picking up purple, perhaps, +powdering it through his fingers to drop in a purple +heap, picking up another color then to drop on top +of that in powdered brilliance, powdering then on +top of that another color still to form a brilliant, +pointed tip. Fantastic, unreal, true!</p> +<p>For a long time now I have seen no life. The brilliant +land is barren. I look back. I can still make +out where the railroad runs. Far, far behind, the +white Bernardinoes rise, low on the horizon now in +the distance. It is not a long flight back to the railroad, +or even a very long one back to the mountains +and over them into the green San Bernardino Valley +and March Field. But it is a long walk. It is a long +walk back even to the railroad. What if my motor +quits? I had intended to go on to Death Valley, just +to see it, circle, and return.</p> +<p>I bank reluctantly around and assume a reverse +compass course for home. I have seen enough for an +afternoon’s jaunt, anyway.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="reminiscence"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id31">REMINISCENCE</a></h1> +<p>I taxi out and turn my ship into the wind at the +end of the snow-plowed runway at Hagerstown Airport, +Maryland. The white hangar looms too close. +Deep snow on the rest of the field prohibits its use. +Can I get over the hangar? I give it the gun and try. +Just miss the hangar. Too close!</p> +<p>Head off on a compass course for New York. +Strong drift to the right from northwest wind. Head +a little more to left.</p> +<p>Blue Ridge Mountains pass under me. On into the +friendly undulating valley country beyond, snow +covered.</p> +<p>Gettysburg under my left wing. They were fighting +down there once. Hard to believe, looking down +on the peaceful fields now. Wonder what they would +have done if they could have looked up and seen me +and my airplane?</p> +<p>Low hills before the Susquehanna River. Their +brown contours reach like dusky fingers out into the +snow-filled valleys.</p> +<p>Over the river, and Lancaster off to my left. Reform +school there. That’s where they were always +going to send me when I was a bad little boy.</p> +<p>More valley country. Ridge-like hills. The Schuylkill +River and Norristown. Philadelphia, blue laws, +and no movies on Sundays far off to my right.</p> +<p>More valley. The Delaware River. Washington +crossed the Delaware. I cross it in half a minute.</p> +<p>The Sourland Mountains and Lindbergh’s sad +white house. I see Flemington and know the trial is +going on down there. I remember walking with Lindbergh, +ten years ago, from San Antonio, Tex., to +Kelly Field, where we were both advanced flying students. +“What are you going to do when you graduate?” +he asked. “What are you going to do?” I asked +him. Yes, what were we going to do? And now he +was down there in that courtroom, and the world +stretching out around him as far as I could see and +much, much farther was a cocked ear listening again +to his tragedy. And I was circling above in the clean +blue sky, remembering many things and thinking.</p> +<p>I shuddered a last long unbelieving look at Lindbergh’s +empty, lonely house, perched up on its hill, +circled and flew on. Half an hour later, on Long +Island, I kissed the chubby cheek of my own first-born +son in greeting and pitied Lindbergh somewhat +for his fame.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="mexican-whoopee"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id32">MEXICAN WHOOPEE!</a></h1> +<p>I hadn’t seen Darr Alkire since I had resigned +from the army several years before, so when I +dropped into March Field, Calif., to say hello +and he told me that he and a couple of the other +officers were flying three ships down to Mexacali on +the Mexican border that afternoon to return the next +and asked me to go along, I said yes.</p> +<p>I flew down in the rear seat of Darr’s ship, and +when we landed and crossed the border everybody +proceeded to get drunk. Everybody but Yours +Truly. I had been on a party the night before I had +dropped in to see Darr and didn’t feel up to it.</p> +<p>The next morning we met a Mexican captain, and +everybody had to drink a lot of drinks to each other. +I still threw mine over my shoulder.</p> +<p>That afternoon the Mexican captain had to escort +us to the airport, just to say good-bye to us. The +leader of our formation then, no sooner had we taken +off, had to lead us in some diving passes at the Mexican +captain, just to say good-bye to him.</p> +<p>They were having a lot of fun dusting their wings +on the airport, saluting the captain, but I wasn’t! +Darr was sticking his wing in too close to the leader’s +for comfort. I had a set of dual controls in the rear +cockpit and couldn’t resist just a little pressure on +them to ease his wing away from the leader’s in some +of the passes or to pull him up just a little sooner in +some of the dives. It was a heluva breach of flying +ethics, but after all I was sober!</p> +<p>We got back to March, and Darr, sobered by +then, began telling me what a swell guy I had been +to sit back there and take it. He said he would have +taken the controls away from me, had I been flying +drunk, and he sitting back there sober. I thought he +was razzing me for a moment, but saw that he really +meant it. My pressure on the controls had been so +subtle that he hadn’t noticed it.</p> +<p>I didn’t bother to tell him the truth. I liked the +idea that he thought I had had enough sand to sit +there and not interfere with him. I didn’t have +enough nerve to set him straight on the matter.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="its-a-tough-racket"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id33">IT’S A TOUGH RACKET</a></h1> +<p>The hazards of a pilot’s life are sometimes different +than some people suppose.</p> +<p>For instance, I flew some people to a ranch in +Mexico once. I fought bad weather most of the way +from New York to Eagle Pass on the Border, skimming +mountains and swamps, and then flew eighty +miles of barren mountain and desert country to the +ranch house.</p> +<p>They insisted the next day that I go out hunting +with them. That meant that I had to ride a horse. I +had ridden a horse once before in my life and remembered +it as the most uncomfortable means of transportation +ever invented by man.</p> +<p>But I went with them. I even began to like it after +we had been out a while. I discovered that you could +wheel the horse around in a running turn and that it +was almost like banking an airplane around. I was +having pretty good fun experimenting until I +noticed that a certain portion of my anatomy was +getting very warm, and then, soon, that it was getting +very tender. Pretty soon I began to think that +we would never get back to the ranch house. When +we finally did, my pants and my anatomy were brilliantly +discolored. And when I went to take the pants +off, I noticed that quite a bond had developed between +me and them, quite an attachment indeed! +They were stuck fast and could be persuaded away +from me only with their pound of flesh.</p> +<p>I decided that I would stick to my airplane after +that. But the next day, I discovered that my airplane +was uncomfortable too—and I had to make a +five-hour flight to Mexico City.</p> +<p>When I got to Mexico City everything was uncomfortable, +and I had to eat my dinner off the +mantelpiece that night. There was an additional +humiliation. The doctor had to undress me. He had +to use plenty of hot oil and go very easy.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="almost"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id34">ALMOST</a></h1> +<p>Bunny had trusted me on the outward trip, so now, +returning to March Field, Calif., I comforted myself +in the rear cockpit of our army DH with the +thought that Bunny could fly as well as I.</p> +<p>San Francisco lay behind us. The Diablo Mountains +were beneath. Snug around us, familiar and +friendly, was our ship.</p> +<p>But beyond, strange and ominous by now to +Bunny and me because we had hardly ever flown in +it before, and never for so long, stretched like a +white, opaque, and directionless night the fog.</p> +<p>The ship felt as if it were flying straight, but +when I peeked over Bunny’s shoulder I saw the +needle on his bank and turn indicator leaning halfway +over to the right. I watched it start back then—Bunny +was all right—to the center. But slowly then, +inexorably—Bunny! Bunny!—the needle leaned +over to the left. The ball was centered, so the turns +were good. But that was not enough. Where were we +going? Were we weaving? Circling? Which way +were we turning mostly? The ocean was not far off +to our right.</p> +<p>Then something else—ice! Its white hands gripped +the front of wings, the leading edge of struts and +wires. The prop got rough. The motor beat and +strained. Once the ship shivered. I saw one aileron +go down. Bunny was trying to hold a wing up. I saw +the needle straighten. He had held it. But I saw +something else too! I saw the altimeter losing. No +hope for blue sky now. No hope to ride on top until +we found a hole, as our weather report had indicated +that we would. How far were the mountain tops beneath +us? Would the ice melt off before we sank too +far?</p> +<p>I saw the throttle moving backward, heard the +motor taper off its friendly roar, heard Bunny’s +voice sound out like thunder in white doom.</p> +<p>“Let’s jump,” he shouted, turning his head halfway.</p> +<p>Were there mountains to land on and walk on in +the depths of that white down there? Or had we +circled out over the ocean?</p> +<p>“Let’s not. Let’s wait. Let’s try once more,” I +shouted back.</p> +<p>Then I shouted again, scraped my fingers on the +windshield, reaching, grabbed Bunny’s shoulder, but +too late. Even as I shouted, reached, and grabbed, +the ship banked on its ear, wheeled over, and dove +safely through a brown passage tunnel to the earth. +Bunny had seen it too—a hole in the fog, and +through it, ground.</p> +<p>The warmer lower air flowed over us. The ice +dripped from our wings in glistening drops. We +came out in the San Joaquin Valley with plenty of +ceiling, and it was plain sailing from there on.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="run-run-run"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id35">RUN! RUN! RUN!</a></h1> +<p>It is a bright, golden day in Texas. A little +Mexican boy is working in a field of sugar cane just +back of Kelly Field. The airplanes from the field +are droning in the sleepy air above his head. Occasionally +he pauses in his work to glance half curiously +at one of them. He is not much interested in +them. They are like the automobiles swishing +endlessly past on the highway near by. He is accustomed +to them. And besides, they are not of his world.</p> +<p>Sometimes the long motor roar of a ship coming +out of a dive attracts his half-hearted attention. +Occasionally an intricate formation maneuver over +his head warrants his momentary gaze. Often he +stares, half abstractedly, skyward while he works. +Like a shoe cobbler in a window watching the crowds +passing in the street.</p> +<p>This time, however, a curious interruption in the +steady beating drone of a three-ship formation of +DHs passing over him makes him involuntarily +raise his head from his work. It is a strange sound, +somehow ominous to him. He is accustomed to hearing +the motors run. Even their tapering off for a +landing is a different noise than this one. His unknowingly +trained ears and maybe some strange +premonition tell him that.</p> +<p>He sees two of the three ships locked together in +collision. He sees them, startlingly silent and arrested +in their flight, falling in their own débris. He sees +two black objects leave the wrecks. He sees a white +streamer trail out behind each of them and then +blossom open into two swinging, slowly floating +parachutes. He stands with his head thrown back, +his Indian eyes rapt in his Asiatic face.</p> +<p>Suddenly he is alarmed, then full of fear. The two +milling wrecks, black harbingers of doom by now, +are going to fall on him. He begins to run. Any way, +any direction at all. He runs as fast as his little +brown legs will carry him. He covers a considerable +distance from where he was standing by the time +the wrecks hit.</p> +<p>The spot he runs from, unruffled, undisturbed, lies +warming, sleeping in the sun. The wrecks don’t hit +that spot. They hit him, running.</p> +<p>The world that was not his has folded darkened +crumpled wings of death around him.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="high-fight"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id36">HIGH FIGHT</a></h1> +<p>One of the briefest and most amusing family +fights I have ever listened in on occurred in an airplane. +I was flying its owner and his wife to the +coast.</p> +<p>We came in over the Mohave Desert, crossed the +mountains at the desert’s western edge, and started +out over the valley, where I knew Los Angeles lay +thirteen thousand feet beneath us. The valley and +the ocean beyond were covered with fog, and I could +see nothing but the white, billowed stretch of it and +the tawny mountains rising out of it behind us.</p> +<p>I spiraled down and went through a hole in the +fog near the foot of the mountains. It was lower and +thicker underneath than I had hoped. I picked up a +railroad and started weaving my way along it into +the airport.</p> +<p>The owner of the ship, sitting on my right, was +helping me with my map, holding it for me. His wife, +sitting behind me, was squirming anxiously in her +seat and peering tensely out of the windows through +the low mists.</p> +<p>Soon she tapped me on the shoulder and said, +“Aren’t we flying awfully low?”</p> +<p>I half turned my head and shouted, “Yes, the ceiling +is awfully low.” I wanted to add, “You fool,” +but didn’t dare.</p> +<p>“Isn’t it dangerous?” she whined.</p> +<p>“We’re all right,” I shouted. “I’ve flown stuff +like this before. I can handle it.”</p> +<p>Pretty soon she tapped me on the shoulder again. +“Where are we?” she inquired.</p> +<p>“I can’t tell you the exact spot,” I shouted, “but +we are still on the right railroad and will be coming +into the airport in a few minutes.”</p> +<p>We passed over a town section just then, and the +railroad branched three ways under us. I made a +quick jump at my map to check which of the three +I should follow. The wife saw me jump and must +have seen that I looked worried. She tapped me on +the shoulder again.</p> +<p>“Oh, are you sure we are going the right way?” +she whimpered.</p> +<p>I started to turn around to explain to her what I +was doing and why, realized my flying required all +my attention right then, cast an appealing glance at +her husband, clamped my jaws tight, and started +studying landmarks. We were in close to the airport, +and I didn’t want to miss it.</p> +<p>I heard the husband shout one of the funniest +mixtures of supplication and command I have ever +heard.</p> +<p>“Now listen, honey,” he shouted at her. “You keep +your damn mouth shut, sweetheart.”</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="gesture-at-reunions"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id37">GESTURE AT REUNIONS</a></h1> +<p>It is the year before Lindbergh becomes famous. +I have graduated in the same class with him from the +army flying school the year before and have seen him +only twice since. I am on an army cross-country trip, +bound for St. Louis, when I land at Chicago and +run into him. He is just taking off with the mail, +bound for St. Louis too, and we decide to fly down +together in formation.</p> +<p>It is getting dark when we sight the river at St. +Louis in the distance. Lindbergh shakes his wings. +He is calling my attention. I pull my ship in close to +his. I see him pointing from his cockpit. I look ahead +and see a speck. It grows rapidly larger. I make it +out as another DH approaching us head on from +the deepening dusk. It comes up, swings around into +formation with us, and sticks its wing right up into +mine. Its pilot peers at me, and I peer at him. We +recognize each other. It is Red Love. Red, Lindbergh, +and myself were three of the four cadets in +our pursuit class at flying school. Looks like a class +reunion in the air.</p> +<p>But no. Lindbergh is shaking his wings. He is +banking. He is pointing down. He spirals down, +circles a field, flies low over it several times, dragging +it, looking it over carefully, and lands. Red and I +follow.</p> +<p>Lindbergh and I crawl out of our ships with +parachutes strapped to us. Red crawls out of his +without one. Lindbergh takes his off as the three of +us converge for greetings.</p> +<p>“You will need this getting the mail on into Chicago +the rest of the way in the dark tonight,” he +says to Red, holding the chute out to him.</p> +<p>“It’s the only one in the company,” he says, turning, +explaining to me, “and I won’t need it for the +few miles on into St. Louis from here.”</p> +<p>We say hasty greetings and good-byes, crawl +back into our still idling ships, and take off. Lindbergh, +chuteless now, heads off south for St. Louis, +and I follow. Red swings off in the opposite direction +for Chicago.</p> +<p>I look back. I see Red disappearing into the darkening +north. I know he feels better now, sitting on +that chute.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="as-i-saw-it"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id38">AS I SAW IT</a></h1> +<p>I had to go to Cleveland to bring back a ship that +a student of mine had left there in bad weather. I got +on an airliner, with a parachute. The chute was for +use on the way back.</p> +<p>The airline porter wanted to put my chute in the +baggage compartment. My argument was: “What +good would it do me there?” The porter looked offended, +but I kept my attitude and took my chute +to my seat with me.</p> +<p>We took off from Newark after dark. The weather +was bad, and we went blind three minutes after we +took off.</p> +<p>I tried to console myself with the thought that +the pilots were specially trained in blind flying, that +they had instruments, had two motors, had radio, +that everything was just ducky. But I couldn’t even +see the wing tips.</p> +<p>I tried to read my magazine. I found myself peering +out of the windows through the darkness to see +if we had come out on top yet.</p> +<p>I tried to nap. I found myself hearing the motors +getting slightly louder, knowing we were nosing +down; feeling myself getting slightly heavier in my +seat, knowing the pilot was correcting; hearing the +motors begin to labor slightly, knowing we were +nosing up; feeling myself getting ever so slightly +lighter in my seat, knowing the pilot was correcting +again; telling myself repeatedly that he knew his +stuff and that there wasn’t anything I could do +about it anyway, but sitting there going through +every motion with him just the same.</p> +<p>Two hours later we were still blind, and my nose +was pressing up against the windowpane almost constantly. +The other passengers probably thought I +had never been in a ship before.</p> +<p>Half an hour later we were still blind and only +half an hour out of Cleveland. We broke out of the +stuff finally just outside of Cleveland. We were flying +low, and the lights were still going dim under +us as we skimmed along not very far above them. +There wasn’t much ceiling when we landed, and it +closed in shortly after that.</p> +<p>Most of the passengers roused themselves from +sleep when we landed. I was plenty wide awake. I +knew that ship hadn’t had much gas range. If we +had got stuck, we would have had to come down +someway before very long. If those passengers could +have read my mind, or I think even the pilot’s, there +probably would have been a battle in the cabin over +my chute.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="was-my-face-red"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id39">WAS MY FACE RED!</a></h1> +<p>I took off at Buffalo one time to do a test job. I +had been called up there as an expert and was supposed +to be pretty hot stuff.</p> +<p>I took the ship off and started rocking it violently +from side to side. I kept this up through a variety +of speed ranges, watching the ailerons closely all the +time. I wanted to find out first of all if the ailerons +had any tendency to flutter under a high angle of +attack condition. Then I began horsing on the stick +to see if anything unusual happened to the ailerons +when I introduced the high angle of attack condition +that way.</p> +<p>I interrupted my observations of the ship’s behavior +after a while to look around for the airport. I +couldn’t find it! I had forgotten that I was in a high-speed +ship and could get far away from the field in +a very short time. Furthermore, the country was +unfamiliar to me, and I had no map. Gee, if I had +only thought to stick a map in the ship before I took +off.</p> +<p>I knew the airport was somewhere on the west side +of town. I thought it was somewhat north. But how +far north I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember even +if it was close in to town or far out. I had a vague +idea it was far out, but how far out I didn’t know. If +I had only thought to bring a map! Or if I had only +kept the airport in sight. Good old hindsight!</p> +<p>I was panic-stricken. There I was, a supposedly +high-powered test pilot, lost over the airport. What +a dumb position for me to be in!</p> +<p>Before I found the airport by just cruising +around looking haphazardly for it, I might be forced +down by the weather, which was none too good and +getting worse, or I might run out of gas. What if I +was finally forced to pick a strange field, a pasture +or something, and cracked up getting into it? How +would I explain that?</p> +<p>I decided to cruise north and south, up and down, +in ten- or fifteen-mile laps, starting far enough out +of town to be sure to fly over the airport on one of +the laps as I moved closer in on each one. That would +be at least an orderly procedure.</p> +<p>I found the field on my fourth lap. But was I in a +sweat! And did I keep my eye on that field after +that!</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="co-pilot"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id40">CO-PILOT</a></h1> +<p>Dick Blythe, who handled Lindbergh’s publicity +not only after Lindbergh came back from Paris but +also, as Dick stated to me, just before Lindbergh +went to Paris, is a bit of aviation folklore in himself.</p> +<p>I just ran into Dick over at the Roosevelt Field +restaurant, and he told me this one about Dean +Smith. Dean is one of the oldest air-mail pilots. He +started flying the mail ’way back in the postoffice +days, just after the war. He is a lean six-foot-two, +easy-going guy who would never talk much about his +flying.</p> +<p>Dick caught him just after he had returned from +one of his crackups in the Alleghanies in the old days +when Roosevelt Field was called Curtiss Field and +the mail went out of there instead of out of Newark +as it does now. Dean was just pouring his long self +into the cockpit of another DH to take the night +mail out again.</p> +<p>“Where in the hell have you been?” Dick greeted +him.</p> +<p>“Oh,” Dean said, “I had a hell of a time the other +night. Just got back.”</p> +<p>“What happened?” Dick asked him.</p> +<p>“Aw, I got tangled up with a load of ice after +dark. She started losing altitude, and I eased a little +more gun to her. She kept on losing, so I eased a +little more gun to her. She still kept on losing, so I +eased all the gun she had. She was squashing right +down into the trees. I had done everything I knew +and couldn’t hold her up. So I said, ‘Here, God, you +fly it awhile,’ and turned her loose and threw my +arms up in front of my face.</p> +<p>“I guess it must have been tough, because He +cracked her up. He piled into that last ridge just +outside of Bellefonte.”</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="orchids-to-me"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id41">ORCHIDS TO ME!</a></h1> +<p>The late Lya de Putti, German screen actress, paid +me the nicest compliment of all.</p> +<p>She was up front in the two-place passenger compartment +of a Lockheed Sirius. The owner of that +plane was in the pilot’s open cockpit just back of +her. And I was behind him in the rear cockpit.</p> +<p>He had insisted, against my better judgment, +upon getting into that pilot’s cockpit in the first +place. But, after all, he owned the ship, I was only +his pilot, and there was a set of dual controls in the +rear cockpit.</p> +<p>The motor quit cold over Whitehall, N. Y., because +we ran out of gas in one of the six tanks in the +ship. I shouted back and forth with the ship’s owner, +halfway to the ground, trying to tell him how to turn +on one of the other five tanks. There was a complicated +system of gas valves in the ship, and I couldn’t +make him understand what to do, and I couldn’t +reach the valves myself.</p> +<p>Finally I shouted, “You play with them. I’ll +land,” and stuck my head out and looked around. +We were already low. I picked a small plowed field, +the only likely-looking one in the mountainous country, +and started into it.</p> +<p>I was coming around my last turn into the field +when I discovered high-tension wires stretching right +across the edge of it. I was too low to pick another +field. The field was too small to go over the wires. I +had to go through a gap in the trees to get under +them.</p> +<p>I kicked the ship around sidewise. The trees +flashed past me on either side, and I hit the ground. +The wires flashed past over my head. I used my +brakes and stopped the fast ship very quickly in the +soft ground. If we had rolled fifty feet farther we +would have hit an embankment that rose sharply at +the far end of the field.</p> +<p>I crawled out of my cockpit and started to help +Lya out of her cabin. She was already emerging, +fanning herself with a handkerchief. She spoke with +a German accent.</p> +<p>“Oh, Jeemy,” she said, “all the way down I pray +to God. But I thank you, Jeemy. I thank you.”</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="recovery-act"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id42">RECOVERY ACT</a></h1> +<p>Johnny Wagner came up to me for his transport +pilot’s license test. I was the inspector for the Department +of Commerce. Johnny knew I was “tough.” +As a matter of fact, he figured I was much tougher +than I was.</p> +<p>I knew Johnny and liked him. He was crazy about +flying and had worked hard to get his flying training. +He had pushed ships in and out of hangars, +washed them, acted as night watchman and office +boy, done anything and everything to pay for his +flying time. But I didn’t have the slightest idea +how he flew. And after all, you may be a swell guy +but not be able to fly worth a cent, and a transport +test is supposed to determine whether you are safe +to carry passengers.</p> +<p>I found out three minutes after Johnny got in the +ship how he flew. Nevertheless, I made him go all +through the test. When he came to steep banks I +made him pull them in tight. He was reluctant to do +it, so I took the ship to do it myself to show him. I +could see right away why he was reluctant. It was +the way the ship was rigged. It had a tendency to +roll under in a tightly pulled in steep bank. But I +wanted to see what he would do with it, so I made +him do it. He did, and rolled right under into a +power spin. He had gone into an inadvertent spin, +the unforgivable sin in a flight test.</p> +<p>I started to reach for the controls but let him go. +When he had pulled out of the spin I told him to +land.</p> +<p>He got out of the ship with his face as long as a +poker. He couldn’t even talk, the test had meant so +much to him. I didn’t say anything for a moment, +then with a stern face I said roughly, “Well,” and +waited a moment. The poor kid was getting all set +for the worst. I could tell by his face.</p> +<p>“Well,” I went on, “you passed,” and I smiled +broadly at him.</p> +<p>His mouth fell open. “But—but—” he stuttered—“but +I spun out of that steep bank!”</p> +<p>“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But you also recovered. +It was the way you recovered. You stopped that spin +like that and recovered from the resultant dive +neatly and smoothly, with a minimum loss of altitude +and still without squashin’ the ship. It was a beautiful +piece of work and told me more about your flying +than anything else you did, although I could tell in +the first three minutes that you could fly.” I never +saw a kid beam so much.</p> +<p>Johnny is now flying a regular run over the Andes +in South America for Pan American Grace.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="a-rose-by-any-other-name"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id43">“A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME....”</a></h1> +<p>I delivered a plane at a ranch in Mexico a few +years ago for Joe and Alicia Brooks. I was to take +back the ship they had been using. The ranch was +about eighty miles over the border from Eagle Pass. +The Brookses planned to leave with me and fly +formation to New York. Both planes had approximately +the same cruising speed. Alicia and I flew in +one ship. Sutter, the mechanic, flew with Joe in the +other.</p> +<p>The day we started didn’t look too good. Thick +gray clouds were rolling in from the northeast. There +was no way we could check our weather till we got to +Eagle Pass. We had to take a chance on the eighty +miles.</p> +<p>Joe led the way, and everything went fine at the +start, but the nearer we got to Eagle Pass the worse +the weather got. We were flying on top of a jerkwater +railway, just missing the tops of the trees, +when we bumped into a solid wall of fog. Joe disappeared +into it. I stuck my nose in the stuff and +pulled out: there was no percentage in two planes +milling around blind. Too much chance of collision. +I picked out a spot in between the cactus and landed. +There was nothing to do but wait. If Joe came out +he would come out on the railway and we would see +him. Ten uncomfortable minutes passed. We heard a +motor. Joe reappeared. He circled and landed alongside +of us.</p> +<p>By this time the planes were surrounded by a herd +of angry shrieking Mexicans. There must have been +over a hundred of them. They didn’t seem to like us, +but we couldn’t find out why. None of us spoke +Spanish. Finally an official-looking fellow appeared +with a lot of brass medals on his coat. He made us +understand through the sign language that he +wanted to see our passports. We couldn’t find them. +The atmosphere was most unpleasant. We had visions +of spending the next few days in a flea-bitten +Mexican jail.</p> +<p>Then it occurred to me that I did know one Spanish +word. Might as well use it, I thought, and see +what happens. “Cerveza” I commanded. The Mexicans +looked startled. “Cerveza” I commanded again. +The Mexicans started to laugh.</p> +<p>The next thing we knew, we were sitting at a Mexican +bar drinking beer with a lot of newfound +friends. Cerveza is the Spanish for beer.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="yes-sir"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id44">“YES, SIR!”</a></h1> +<p>Our jenny hit the ground wheels first and bounced +dangerously. My instructor in the cockpit in front +of me grabbed his controls, gave the ship a sharp +burst of the gun, and set her down right. We were +in a little practice field near Brooks Field in Texas.</p> +<p>My instructor turned around to me: “Damn it, +Collins,” he said, “don’t run into the ground wheels +first like that. Level off about six feet in the air and +wait until the ship begins to settle. Then ease the +stick back. When you feel the ship begin to fall out +from under you, pull the stick all the way back into +your guts and the ship will set itself down. Go +around and try it again.”</p> +<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> +<p>I came in the next time, hit the ground wheels +first, and bounced. My instructor righted the ship.</p> +<p>“No, Collins. No,” he fumed. “Six feet. Look, I’ll +show you what six feet looks like.”</p> +<p>He took the ship off and flew over the open fields, +then came around and landed.</p> +<p>“Now do you know what six feet looks like?” he +shouted back to me.</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” I lied. I was afraid to tell him that I +could not see the ground right. He might send me to +the hospital to have my eyes examined. They might +find some slight defect in my eyes that they had overlooked +in the original examination and wash me out +of the school.</p> +<p>“Well, then, go around and make a decent landing +for me,” my instructor said.</p> +<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> +<p>I leveled off too high the next time. My instructor +grabbed his controls and prevented us from cracking +up.</p> +<p>“Damn it, Collins,” he shouted when the ship had +stopped rolling, “don’t run into the ground wheels +first. And don’t level off as high as the telegraph +wires. Level off at about six feet. Then set her down. +Now go round and try it again.”</p> +<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> +<p>“Damn it, Collins, don’t sit back there and say +‘Yes, sir’ and then do the same damned thing again.”</p> +<p>“No, sir.”</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="moonlight-and-silver"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id45">MOONLIGHT AND SILVER</a></h1> +<p>Pat paints. She also flies.</p> +<p>Pat and I landed at Jacksonville, Fla., late one +night in Pat’s Stearman biplane. Pat was taking +cross-country instruction from me. We gassed hurriedly +and took off again. We left the glare of the +floodlights behind us as we headed our ship along the +line of flashing beacons stretching southward toward +Miami. The stars were brilliant in the cloudless sky, +but the night was very dark. There was no moon.</p> +<p>Soon we were flying down the coast. White breakers +rolled in under us from the Atlantic Ocean on +our left and dimly marked the coast line. Swamps +stretched away to the inland on our right but were +invisible in the black night. Beacons flashed brilliantly +out of the darkness in a long line far behind +us and far ahead. Blotches of lights slipped slowly +past under us when we flew over towns.</p> +<p>We saw clouds ahead. We nosed down under them. +We had to fly uncomfortably low to stay under the +clouds. We nosed up to get above them.</p> +<p>We flew into them. The lights beneath us dimmed +and disappeared. We climbed in opaque blackness, +flying by instruments.</p> +<p>We emerged into an open space where the clouds +were broken. The lights reappeared. The stars became +visible.</p> +<p>The clouds spread out under us to the horizon in +all directions. They were lit a dim silver by the stars. +They softly undulated like a mystic, limitless sea +beneath us.</p> +<p>Now and then we saw a break in the clouds and +caught the flash of a beacon through it or saw the +lights of a town. We caught glimpses of dim +breakers rolling in on the beach far down under the clouds.</p> +<p>Something I couldn’t explain was happening. The +sky in the east was getting lighter. It was only about +midnight. I looked at the western sky and then +looked back at the eastern sky. Yes, the sky was +definitely getting lighter in the east. Half an hour +later the eastern sky was much lighter than the +western sky.</p> +<p>I watched toward the east.</p> +<p>I saw a thin, blood-red tip of something rise up +from the eastern horizon. The top of the object was +rounded. The bottom of it was irregular in shape. +The object got larger rapidly.</p> +<p>“The moon!” I shouted out loud to myself.</p> +<p>It rose rapidly. Invisible clouds far out at sea, +silhouetted against the moon, gave the bottom of it +its irregular shape.</p> +<p>The moon got up above the clouds in an incredibly +short time. It was a full moon, golden and glorious. +It made the clouds between me and it seem darker. +It made the sea beneath the clouds silver. Through +the large breaks in the clouds I saw a beam of moonlight +like a golden path from the moon across the +sea to the beach beneath us. The beam traveled with +us. It raced across the sea under the clouds at the +same speed that we flew through the air above the +clouds.</p> +<p>I eased the throttle back and slowed the ship +down.</p> +<p>“Paint that some day,” I shouted to Pat.</p> +<p>Pat was gazing out across the ocean toward the +moon. She didn’t say anything. I knew she had heard +me.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="five-miles-up"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id46">FIVE MILES UP</a></h1> +<p>I was stationed at Selfridge Field after I graduated +from the Advanced Flying School at Kelly. The +Army Air Corps’ First Pursuit Group was at Selfridge. +The officers used to gather every morning at +eight-fifteen in the post operator’s office. We would +be assigned to our various functions in the formation. +Then we would fly formation for an hour or so, +practicing different tactical maneuvers. After flying +we would gather at the operations office again for a +general critique, which was supposed to conclude the +official day’s flying. We would separate from there +and go about our various ground duties. I discovered +I could quickly finish my ground duties and have a +lot of time left over for extra flying. I used to bother +the operations officer to death asking him for ships. +He usually gave me one, and I would go up alone +and practice all sorts of things just for fun. It was +no part of my work. It was pure exuberance.</p> +<p>One day I was flying around idly in a Hawk. I +decided I would take the Hawk as high as I could, +just for the hell of it.</p> +<p>I opened the throttle and nosed up. I gained the +first few thousand feet rapidly. The higher I went +the slower I climbed. At 20,000 feet climbing was +difficult. The air was much thinner. The power of +my engine was greatly diminished. I began to notice +the effect of altitude. Breathing was an effort. I +didn’t get enough air when I did breathe. I sighed +often. My heart beat faster. I wasn’t sleepy. I was +dopey. I was very cold, although it was summer.</p> +<p>I looked up into the sky. It was intensely blue, +deep blue; bluer than I had ever seen a sky. I was +above all haze. I looked down at the earth. Selfridge +Field was very small under me. The little town of +Mount Clemens seemed to be very close to the field. +Lake St. Clair was just a little pond. Detroit seemed +to be almost under me, although I knew it was about +twenty miles from Selfridge Field. I could see a lot +of little Michigan towns clothing the earth to the +north and northwest of Selfridge. Everything beneath +me seemed to have shoved together. The earth +seemed to be without movement. I felt suspended in +enormous space. I was 23,000 feet high by my altimeter.</p> +<p>I was dopey. My perception and reaction were +ga-ga. I was cold, too. To hell with it. It said 24,500 +feet. I eased the throttle full and nosed down.</p> +<p>I lost altitude very rapidly and with very little +effort at first. After that it got more and more normal. +I didn’t come down too fast. It was too loud on +my ears. I came down fairly slowly, so as to accommodate +myself to the change in air pressure as I +descended.</p> +<p>It was warm and stuffy on the ground.</p> +<p>I saw the Flight Surgeon at dinner that evening.</p> +<p>“I worked a Hawk up to 24,500 feet today,” I +told him proudly. “Gee, it sure felt funny up there +without oxygen.”</p> +<p>“Without oxygen?” he asked.</p> +<p>I nodded my head.</p> +<p>“You’re crazy,” he said. “You can’t go that high +without oxygen. The average pilot’s limit is around +15,000 to 18,000 feet. You’re young and in good +shape. Maybe you got to twenty. But you just imagined +you went higher than that.”</p> +<p>“No, I didn’t imagine it,” I said. “I really went +up that high.”</p> +<p>“You went ga-ga and imagined it,” he said.</p> +<p>He added: “Don’t fool around with that sort of +business. You’re likely to pass out cold at any moment +when you’re flying too high without oxygen. +You’re likely to pass out cold and fall a long way +before regaining consciousness. You might break +your neck.”</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="aerial-combat"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id47">AËRIAL COMBAT</a></h1> +<p>I was flying in a student pursuit formation of +SE-5s. Another student pursuit formation of +MB3As was flying several thousand feet above us. +The formation above us was supposed to be enemy +pursuit on the offensive. My formation was supposed +to be on the defensive. We were staging a mimic +combat. Kelly Field, the army Advanced Flying +School, lay beneath us.</p> +<p>I had to watch my flight leader, the other ships in +my formation, and the enemy formation.</p> +<p>I saw the enemy formation behind us and above +us in position to attack. I saw it nose down toward +us.</p> +<p>I looked at my flight leader’s plane. He was signaling +a sharp turn to the left. He banked sharply to +the left. Everybody in our formation banked sharply +to the left with him. The attacking formation passed +over our tails and pulled up to our right.</p> +<p>I saw the attacking formation above us to our +right, banking to the left, nosing down to attack us +broadside.</p> +<p>I looked at my flight leader. He was signaling +a turn to the right. He turned sharply to the right. +Our whole formation turned with him. We were +heading directly into the oncoming attack of the +other formation.</p> +<p>Just as I straightened out of my turn my ship +lurched violently and I got a fleeting impression of +something passing over my head. I couldn’t figure +out what had happened. My leader was signaling +for another turn. I followed him through several +quick turns in rapid succession. We were dodging +the enemy formation. I kept trying to figure out +what had happened when my ship had lurched.</p> +<p>Then it occurred to me: Somebody in the attacking +formation, when the formation had been diving +head on into ours, had pulled up just in time to keep +from hitting me head on. I had passed under him +and immediately behind him as he pulled up, and +the turbulent slip stream just back of his ship was +what had caused my ship to lurch.</p> +<p>I felt weak all over. God, how close he must have +come, I thought!</p> +<p>Later, on the ground, we stood around our instructors, +listening to criticism of our flying. I +wasn’t listening very much. I was looking around +at the faces of the other students. I saw another +student looking around too. It was Lindbergh. He +had been flying in the attacking formation. After the +criticism was over I walked up to Lindbergh.</p> +<p>“Say,” I said, “did you come close to anybody in +that head-on attack?”</p> +<p>He grinned all over.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he said. “Was that you?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Did you see me?” he asked.</p> +<p>“No,” I said. “I <em>felt</em> you.”</p> +<p>“It is a good thing you didn’t see me,” Lindbergh +said, “because if you had seen me you would have +pulled up, too, and we would have hit head on.”</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="wings-over-akron"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id48">WINGS OVER AKRON</a></h1> +<p>Tom was flying in front of me to my left. We both +had PW-8s. We were heading toward Uniontown, +Pa. They were opening a field there. We were going +to stunt for them. We were flying 7,000 feet high in +a milky autumn haze. The rolling Ohio country beneath +us was visible only straight down and out to +an angle of about 45 degrees. Beyond that the earth +mingled with the haze and was invisible.</p> +<p>I saw a town over the leading edge of my lower +right wing. I recognized it as Akron, O. I pushed my +stick forward and opened my throttle. I had always +wanted to jazz the fraternity house in a high-powered +fast ship.</p> +<p>Down I came. Roaring louder and louder. I +couldn’t see a soul in the yard of the fraternity +house.</p> +<p>I missed the house by inches as I pulled sharply +out of my dive and zoomed almost vertically up for +altitude. I looked back as I shot up into the sky. The +yard was full of fellows.</p> +<p>I kicked over and nosed down at the house again. +I came as close to it as I could without hitting it as +I pulled back and thundered up into the air.</p> +<p>I nosed over into a third dive at the house. As I +pulled up this time I kicked the ship into a double +snap roll as I climbed. I didn’t look back. I just kept +on climbing, heading for Uniontown. I overtook +Tom a little while later.</p> +<p>On my return trip from Uniontown I was forced +down at Akron owing to bad weather. Tom had gone +back a day earlier than I. I was alone.</p> +<p>Friends of mine at the airport came up to me as +I climbed out of my ship. They asked me if I had +flown over Akron in a PW-8 a few days before. I said, +“No. Why?” They showed me a clipping from a +local newspaper. It said:</p> +<p class="align-center">AIRMAN STARTLES AKRON—MANY LIVES ENDANGERED</p> +<blockquote> +<p>At noon today a small fast biplane appeared +over Akron and proceeded to throw the populace +into a panic by performing a series of zooms and +dives and perilous nose spins low over the business +section of town. Onlookers said that the plane narrowly +missed hitting the tops of the buildings and +that it several times almost dove into the crowds +in the streets.</p> +<p>Hospital authorities complained to city officials +that the plane roared low over the hospital, frightening +many of their patients and endangering the +lives of others. Other complaints have rolled in +from all over the city.</p> +<p>City officials told reporters that the name of +the pilot is known. He was a former resident of +Akron and was a student at Akron University. At +present he is on duty with the Army Aviation +Service. Officials said they had reported the outrageous +act to the military authorities at the +pilot’s home station.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“I wonder who that damned fool could have been,” +I said as I handed the clipping back to my friends. +I grinned.</p> +<p>I was staying with my uncle. I didn’t have much +appetite for dinner that night. I didn’t sleep very +well.</p> +<p>“What is the matter, Jim?” my uncle asked me at +breakfast the next morning. “Why don’t you eat +more?”</p> +<p>“I don’t feel very well,” I said.</p> +<p>I got back to Selfridge that afternoon. Nobody +there had heard of my escapade.</p> +<p>I ate a big dinner that evening.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="tears-and-acrobatics"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id49">TEARS AND ACROBATICS</a></h1> +<p>“Go around and try it again,” I shouted.</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” the cadet in the rear cockpit behind +me shouted back.</p> +<p>I felt the throttle under my left hand go all the +way forward with a jerk. I pulled it back.</p> +<p>“Open that throttle slower and smoother,” I +shouted back. I didn’t look round. I just turned my +head to the left and put my open right hand up to +the right side of my mouth. That threw my voice +back.</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” came the cadet’s voice from the rear +cockpit.</p> +<p>I felt the throttle under my left hand move forward +slowly, smoothly. The engine noise rose louder. +The ship rocked and bumped slowly forward over the +rough ground. The tail of the ship came up, and +the nose went down. The nose of the ship veered to +the left. I wanted to kick right rudder to bring the +nose back. I just sat there. The nose swung back +straight and then veered badly to the right. I wanted +to kick left rudder and bring the nose back. I didn’t +move. The nose stopped veering. We were going +pretty fast. We bumped the ground once more and +bounced into the air. We stayed there. I took my +nose between my left thumb and forefinger and +turned my head to the left so the cadet behind me +could see my profile.</p> +<p>The ship banked to the left. I felt a blast of air +strong on the right side of my face and felt myself +being pushed to the right side of my cockpit. We +were skidding. I wanted to ease a little right rudder +on and stop the skid. Instead, I patted the right side +of my face several times with my right hand so the +cadet could see it. I felt the rudder pedal under my +right foot jerk forward. We stopped skidding. The +ship straightened out of the bank and flew straight +and level for a little way. It made another left-hand +bank, leveled out again, and flew straight again for +a little way. It did it again. I felt the throttle under +my left hand come all the way back. The engine noise +quieted down, and the engine exhaust popped a few +times. The ship nosed down into a glide. It made +another left turn in the glide and then straightened +out. We were gliding toward the little field we had +just taken off from. It was a little field near Brooks +that the Army Primary Flying School used as a +practice field.</p> +<p>“That was lousy,” I shouted back. “You jerked +your throttle open. You veered across the field on +your take-off like a drunken man. Are you too weak +to kick rudder? You skidded on your turns. You +landed cross-wind. Go around and try it again. See +if you can do something right this time.” It was +about the twentieth speech like that I had shouted +back to the cadet that morning.</p> +<p>I felt the throttle under my left hand jerk forward. +I pulled it back.</p> +<p>“Damn it, open that throttle slower and——”</p> +<p>A voice from the rear cockpit broke in on me:</p> +<p>“I hope you never get anyone else as dumb as I +am, Lieutenant.”</p> +<p>The voice was choked. The kid was crying.</p> +<p>“Hey, listen here,” I said, “I give you a lot of hell +because I’m as anxious for you to get this stuff as +you are to get it. I wouldn’t even give you hell if I +thought you were hopeless. Sit back and relax and +forget it a while now. You’ll do better tomorrow.”</p> +<p>The cadet started to open his mouth. I turned +hastily around and sat down in my cockpit and +opened the throttle wide open. The engine roared. I +didn’t hear what the cadet said.</p> +<p>I took off in a sharp climbing turn. I dove low at +the ground, flew under some high-tension wires. I +pulled up and dove low at a cow in a pasture. The +cow jumped very amusingly. I pulled up and did a +loop. I came out of the loop very close to the ground. +It was all against army orders. It was all fun. I +pulled back up to a respectable altitude and flew sedately +over Brooks Field. I cut the gun to land. I +looked back at the cadet. He was laughing. There +were little channels in the dust on his face where the +tears had run down.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="across-the-continent"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id50">ACROSS THE CONTINENT</a></h1> +<p>It was 1:45 a. m. The lights of United Airport at +Burbank, Calif., where I had left the ground fifteen +minutes before, had disappeared. I knew the low +mountains were beneath me, but I couldn’t see them. +I knew the high mountains several miles east of me +were higher than I was, but I couldn’t see them. I +could see the glow of the luminous-painted dials in +my instrument board in front of me. I could see the +sea of lights of Los Angeles and vicinity south of me, +stretching southeastward. I could see the stars in the +cloudless, moonless sky above. I was circling for altitude +to go over the high mountains.</p> +<p>At 13,000 feet I leveled out and assumed a compass +course for Wichita, Kan. I passed over the high +mountains without ever seeing them. I saw only an +occasional light in the blackness beneath me where +I knew the mountains were. I knew from my map +that there were low mountains and desert valleys +beyond.</p> +<p>Greener country. Fertile valleys. Mountains looming. +The Sangre de Cristo range loomed high in +front of me. Twelve thousand feet. I passed over it +into the undulating low country beyond it. Soon I +was flying over the flat fertile plains of western +Kansas.</p> +<p>Gas trucks were waiting for me at Wichita Airport. +Reporters asked me questions. They took pictures. +They told me I was behind Lindbergh’s time. +A woman out of the crowd jumped up on the side +of my ship and kissed me. I was off the ground, +headed for New York, fifteen minutes after I had +landed.</p> +<p>It was very rough. It was hot. I was miserable in +my fur flying suit. I ached like hell from sitting on +the hard parachute pack and wished I could stand +up for a while. I hadn’t had a chance to step out of +the ship at Wichita.</p> +<p>Clouds gone. Towns closer together. Towns larger. +Farms smaller. More railroads and paved roads. Industrial +towns. On into the rolling country of eastern +Ohio.</p> +<p>Pittsburgh was covered with smoke. The Allegheny +Mountains were dim in a haze. It was getting +dark.</p> +<p>Mountains beneath me in the dusk like dreams +floating past. Stars appearing in the clear sky. +Lights coming on in the houses and towns.</p> +<p>It was dark now. The flashing beacons along the +Cleveland-New York mail run were visible off to my +left.</p> +<p>New York. An ocean of shimmering light in the +darkness, spreading immensely under me. Beyond +stretched Long Island. I could see where the field +ought to be. Did I see the Roosevelt Field beacon? +Was that it? What was that beacon over there? I +saw hundreds of beacons. Beacons everywhere. +Every color of flashing beacon. Then I remembered +it was Fourth of July night. I would have a hell of +a time locating the field. Finally I distinguished +Roosevelt Field lights from the fireworks, and dove +low over the field. The flood lights came on. My red-and-white +low-wing Lockheed Sirius glided out of the +darkness, low over the edge of the field, brilliantly +into the floodlight glare, landed and rolled to a stop.</p> +<p>There was a crowd at the field. Roosevelt was giving +a night demonstration. People ran out of the +crowd toward me. George jumped up on the wing +and leaned over the edge of my cockpit. I was taxiing +toward the hangar.</p> +<p>“That did it,” Pick shouted over the noise of my +engine.</p> +<p>“Did what?” I shouted back.</p> +<p>“Broke the record, boy!”</p> +<p>“You’re crazy as hell,” I answered. It took me +sixteen and a half hours. Lindbergh made it in fourteen +forty-five.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="the-flyer-hikes-home"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id51">THE FLYER HIKES HOME</a></h1> +<p>I was hanging around Roosevelt Field one afternoon +with nothing much on my mind when a couple +of friends came up and said they were just taking +off for the South. They wanted to catch the Pan-American +plane from Miami the next day. They were +amateur pilots. The weather was lousy toward the +South and they hadn’t had much experience in blind +or night flying. I said I would fly with them as far as +Washington and maybe by that time the weather +would clear. When we got to Washington the +weather had pretty well closed down. I didn’t like +to see them start off in a fog bank with the sun +already setting, so I volunteered to go to Greensborough. +The stuff grew thicker. We were flying at +two hundred feet and getting lower all the time. So +when we landed at Greensborough there was nothing +to do but stick with the ship. We took off for Jacksonville +after a scanty supper. It was one o’clock in +the morning. By that time I could barely make out +the beacon lights. I turned to the girl sitting next to +me and told her that if we lost the beacon behind us +before we saw the one ahead of us we would have to +turn back. At that moment both beacons disappeared. +I started to bank the ship towards home. +And then suddenly the whole sky lightened up. It +looked as though a huge broom had gone to work +to tidy up the clouds.</p> +<p>We landed at Jacksonville at five in the morning +without further mishap. I said good-bye to plane +and passengers and then started wondering how I +was going to get back to New York. I decided to +hitch-hike and save the train fare. It took me three +days. When I appeared at the house with a straw +behind each ear and a suit full of holes my wife +thought I had gone crazy.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="killed-by-kindness"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id52">KILLED BY KINDNESS</a></h1> +<p>Earle R. Southee was so good-hearted he killed a +guy. I don’t mean that he actually killed him, but +you can see for yourself from the following story +that, nevertheless, he killed him.</p> +<p>Southee was a civilian flying instructor to the +army before the war, when the Signal Corps was the +flying branch of the army. He was also an instructor +during the war, after the Air Service had been +created.</p> +<p>It was while he was instructing at Wilbur Wright +Field during the war that he met up with this guy. +The guy had come down there to learn to fly and +then go to France and shoot Germans—or get shot +by them. For some reason or other he couldn’t pick +the stuff up. Some people are like that. They simply +can’t get going when they first start to learn to fly. +Most of them actually have no flying ability and +ought to quit trying. It’s not in their blood. But +occasionally you run across one who later gets going +and is all right.</p> +<p>This guy came up to Southee for washout flight. +He was so obviously broken up over the idea that he +was going to get kicked out of the Air Service into +some other branch of service, he loved flying so +much, that Southee took pity on him, held him over +a while, gave him special instruction, and finally got +the guy through. The guy even became an instructor +himself, and a very good one.</p> +<p>Later, most of the gang was transferred to Ellington +Field, Houston, Tex. At Ellington, this guy had +such a tough time at first, got so hot, that he was +made a check pilot and put in charge of a stage or +section.</p> +<p>One day one of the students came up to him for +washout check. The kid was just as broken up about +it as he was. He gave the kid a chance, like Southee +had given him. Three days later the student froze +on him, spun him in, and lulled him.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="the-first-crack-up"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id53">THE FIRST CRACK-UP</a></h1> +<p>I sat in the cockpit of an army DH, high over +southern Texas. I was heading toward Kelly Field, +the Army Advanced Flying School. I was returning +from a student trip to Corpus Christi.</p> +<p>I was looking behind me. Beyond the tail of the +ship I could see the Gulf of Mexico. Far out over the +Gulf was a low string of white clouds. The sky was +very blue. The water flashed in the sun.</p> +<p>Occasionally I turned to scan my instrument +board, but mostly I looked behind me. Purple distance +slowly swallowed up the Gulf.</p> +<p>I turned around and faced forward and lit a cigarette. +I looked at my instrument board. I looked at +my map. The course line on my map lay between two +railroads. I looked down at the earth. I was directly +over a railroad, flying parallel to it. To my right a +little distance ran another railroad, parallel to the +one I was flying over. Another railroad lay off to my +left. I could not decide which two of the three railroads +I should be flying between.</p> +<p>I saw a little town on the railroad under me. I +throttled back and nosed down. I circled low over the +town and located the railroad station. I dove low past +one end of the station and tried to read the name of +the town on the station as I flashed past it. I didn’t +make it out. I opened the throttle to pull up. The +engine started to pick up, then sputtered, then picked +up all right. I paid no attention to its sputtering. It +had done that when I took off from Kelly Field that +morning. It had done it when I had circled the field +at Corpus Christi on the Gulf. There was a dead +spot in the carburetor. The engine was all right. It +was airtight above or below that one spot on the +throttle. I continued to pull up. I went around and +dove low at the station again. Again I failed to read +the sign. I opened the throttle to pull up. The engine +started to pick up, then sputtered, then picked up +beautifully. I went around and dove at the station +again. I got it that time. It was Floresville, Tex. I +knew where that was. I opened the throttle to pull +up. The engine started to pick up, then sputtered, +then died. The prop stood still.</p> +<p>I swung my ship to the left. I held it up as much +as I dared. I headed toward the open space. I was +almost stalling. I barely cleared the last house. I was +dropping rapidly. I eased forward on the stick. No +response. I eased back. The nose dropped. I was +stalled. I was about ten feet above the ground. There +was a fence almost under me. Maybe I would clear it.</p> +<p>I heard a loud rending of wood and tearing of +fabric. I felt a sensation of being pummeled and +beaten. Something hit me in the face. Then I was +aware of an immense quietness.</p> +<p>I just sat there in the cockpit. The dust settled +slowly in the still air. The hot Texas sun filtered +through it. I still held the stick with my right hand. +My left hand was on the throttle. My feet were +braced on the rudder bar.</p> +<p>I was on a level with those fences. I stepped over +the side of the cockpit onto the ground. I looked at +the wreck. The wings and landing gear were a complete +Washout. The fuselage wasn’t damaged.</p> +<p>I looked into the gasoline tanks. The main tank +was empty. The reserve tank was full. I looked into +the cockpit at the gas valves. The main tank was +turned on. The reserve tank was turned off. I turned +the main tank off and turned the reserve tank on.</p> +<p>I phoned Kelly Field from a house near by.</p> +<p>An instructor flew down to get me. He landed his +ship and then walked over and looked at my ship. +He looked at the gas tanks. He looked in the cockpit +at the gas valves. He turned to me. His eyes +twinkled.</p> +<p>“What was the matter, wouldn’t your reserve tank +take?” he asked.</p> +<p>“No, sir, it wouldn’t take,” I lied.</p> +<p>“That’s the first tough luck you’ve had during the +course, isn’t it?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Yes,” I said. “I have never cracked up before.”</p> +<p>He flew me back to Kelly Field.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="a-poor-prophet"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id54">A POOR PROPHET</a></h1> +<p>“What is the weather to New York?” I asked +the weather man at the air-mail field at Bellefonte, +Pa.</p> +<p>“Clear and unlimited all the way,” he told me.</p> +<p>I took off in my low-wing Lockheed Sirius at dark +and flew along the lighted beacons through the mountains. +Half an hour later I ran into broken clouds at +4,000 feet. I flew under them. Soon they became +solid and I couldn’t see the stars overhead. I saw +lightning ahead of me flashing in the darkness.</p> +<p>Water began to collect on my windshield. The air +got very rough. A beacon light that had been flashing +up ahead of me disappeared. I noticed the lights +of a town beneath me getting dim. For a second I +lost sight of them entirely. I nosed down to get out +of the clouds.</p> +<p>A brilliant flash of lightning lit the darkness +around me. I saw the rain driving in white sheets and +caught the flash of a beacon through it. I nosed down +toward the beacon and started circling it. I knew +by my altimeter that I was down lower than some of +the mountain ridges around me. I looked for the +next beacon but couldn’t see it through the raging +thunderstorm. I didn’t dare strike out in the general +direction of the next beacon in the hope of finding it. +I might hit a mountain top.</p> +<p>Another blinding flash of lightning surrounded +me with glaring light. I saw the dark bottoms of the +clouds and the black top of the next ridge I had to +pass over. Then blackness and the slashing rain with +only the friendly beacon under me.</p> +<p>I fought my way from beacon to beacon for an +hour. The lightning flashes receded farther and +farther behind me. I began to see from beacon to +beacon. Stars appeared overhead. They were very +dim. I was flying in a haze.</p> +<p>I passed over Hadley Field, New Jersey, and saw +its boundary lights burning cheerfully. I continued +on toward Roosevelt Field. I was almost home now.</p> +<p>I noticed the lights of the towns beneath me +getting dimmer. I looked up. The stars were gone. I +looked down again. The lights had disappeared! +I was flying blind in a thick fog. I began to fly by +instruments. I pulled up. At 3,000 feet I saw the +stars. I was on top of the fog.</p> +<p>I swung around to go back to Hadley Field. Its +lights were covered. I saw the lights of what I figured +was New Brunswick. I started circling them. +I knew Hadley Field was only a few miles from +there. The lights of New Brunswick began to blot +out. Hey, what the hell! I said out loud to myself.</p> +<p>I saw a segment of the rotating beam of a beacon +break through a hole in the fog and make about a +quarter of a turn in the darkness before it disappeared. +That’s the beam from Hadley beacon! I +was saying all my thoughts out loud now. I flew over +to where I figured the center of the beam was and +started circling. The top of the fog looked pretty +bright there. I decided that Hadley had heard me +and had turned on its floodlights.</p> +<p>I eased back on my throttle, settled into a spiraling +glide, and sank down into the fog, flying by +instruments. The opaque white fog got more and +more luminous. Individual bright spots, greatly +blurred, began to appear. I figured they were the +boundary lights of the field. My altimeter read very +low. I broke through the bottom of the fog at about +two hundred feet. I was over Hadley. I flew low into +the blackness back of the field and came around and +landed.</p> +<p>“What the hell are you flying in this stuff for?” +the Hadley weather man asked me.</p> +<p>“Because I was damned fool enough to take Bellefonte’s +weather report seriously,” I said.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="too-much-knowledge"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id55">TOO MUCH KNOWLEDGE</a></h1> +<p>When I was in Cleveland at the air races a couple +of years ago four so-called flyers asked me to fly with +them in their Bellanca to the Sky Harbor airport +near Chicago. I agreed. We took off after the last +race with just enough gas to make the field nicely. +We hit a head wind, but I still figured we were okay. +I didn’t know where the field was, but one of the girls +in the plane had been taking instruction at Sky +Harbor and the other three claimed that they had +lived in Chicago all their lives and knew Sky Harbor +as well as their own mother.</p> +<p>When we got to Chicago it was already dark. I +followed instructions. We flew north. Someone yelled +I should turn east. I turned east. Someone else +shouted that was all wrong, we were already too far +east. I turned west. The next fifteen minutes were +bedlam. "<em>East, north, west, and south,"</em> they yelled. +I lost my temper. "<em>Do you or do you not know where +this field is?"</em> I exploded. "<em>There it is!"</em> they chorused. +I heaved a sigh of relief and got ready to land. +It wasn’t the field. I looked at my gas, and my gas +was too low. I took matters into my own hands and +flew back to the municipal airport and gassed up. +We started out again. The situation started to strike +me as funny as soon as the tanks were full. I let them +have their fun, and eventually they did find the field. +I called back to the girl who had been taking +instruction and asked if there were any obstructions around +the field. “Absolutely not!” she vowed. I looked the +field over as carefully as I could. There were no floodlights +(they had also told me the field was well +lighted). I cut the gun and glided in for a landing. +A high-tension post whizzed by my left ear. We had +missed the wires by just two inches. And there were +no obstructions around the field!</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="hidden-faults"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id56">HIDDEN FAULTS</a></h1> +<p>Nearly every time that a big money race comes +along a lot of new planes put in an appearance. +Some of them haven’t been properly tested (you can +get a special license for racing), and none of them +are the type you would want to give your grandmother +a ride in. But they are all fast, and when you +are flying in a race for money you want speed, a lot +of it.</p> +<p>I pulled up in front of the hangar late one summer +afternoon and saw a brand-new, speedy type +cantilever monoplane standing on the line. The wing +had large L-shaped gashes in it. The plane belonged +to Red Devereaux, who was going to fly it in the +National Air Race Derby. As I sat there Red came +over. He told me that on the way in from the factory +in Wichita a terrific wing flutter set in every time he +passed through rough air. The oscillations were so +bad that the stick would tear itself from Red’s hands. +He asked me to try it out and see if it were possible +to race the plane.</p> +<p>I put on my parachute and climbed in. As I +warmed the motor up I decided to have the door +taken off the ship. Easier to get out that way. I put +the ship in a shallow climb and held it to six thousand +feet. Feeling it out, I dived, banked, rolled, looped, +and spun it. It seemed to be fine. I landed and told +Red that everything was okay.</p> +<p>The next day diving over the Boston airport, in +the lead, the wing broke off. The plane plunged into +the marsh, killing Red and his bride of a few months.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="death-takes-a-holiday"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id57">“DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY”</a></h1> +<p>A friend of mine knew a doctor who had an old +skeleton. The skeleton wasn’t of any use to the +doctor. It had been hanging in a closet for almost a +year. I decided to have some fun with it. I wired the +head and jaws with fine wire. I attached two strings +to the wire in such a way that by pulling one I could +make the skeleton’s head turn left or right. When I +pulled the other the jaws clacked up and down. I tied +the skeleton in one of the dual-control seats of a +cabin Travelair. I flew the ship from the other seat. +By bending way down nobody from the outside could +see me. It looked as though the skeleton were doing +the flying. Jim Drummond, flying mechanic, lay on +the floor of the plane and took charge of the skeleton’s +behavior.</p> +<p>I knew that Eric Wood and Pete Brooks were flying +formation over Floyd Bennett Field that day. +They had just joined the army reserve corps and +were all steamed up trying to make a success out of +it. I decided they would be my first victims of the +day. We had no trouble finding the formation. There +was Pete just behind the leader, looking very conscientious +and pleased with himself. He was doing +everything just right. I eased up beside him. He +didn’t notice me for a second. When he glanced +around I gave Jim the signal. The skeleton looked +right in his face and jabbered. Horror and amazement +flooded Pete’s face. He turned back to the +formation—he had to unless he wanted to bump into +the other planes. But he couldn’t stand it for long. +He had to look again. Jabber, jabber, went the +skeleton. This went on a third and a fourth time, +till I finally felt sorry for Pete. He was getting walleyed, +one eye on the formation, the other on the +skeleton. I gave him one final superb jabber, dipped +my wings, and went in search of other game.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="confession"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id58">CONFESSION</a></h1> +<p>Jimmie Doolittle has demonstrated American airplanes +all over the world. He landed on one of his +tours at Bandoeng, Java, headquarters of the Dutch +East Indian Air Corps. They had some American, +Conqueror-powered, Curtiss Hawks there. They +asked Jimmie to take one of them up and put on a +show for them.</p> +<p>After turning the ship inside out for the better +part of an hour, Jimmie really got into the spirit of +the thing. He decided to dive straight down from +about 6,000 feet and conclude the show by showing +them how close he could come to the ground, pulling +out of the dive.</p> +<p>He turned over and started down. Straight down, +closer and closer to the ground, wide open, he roared. +He yanked back on the stick to just clear the ground +and discovered there were several little considerations +he had overlooked. One was that he had just +stepped out f a Cyclone-powered Hawk, much +lighter than the Conqueror-powered one he was desperately +trying to clear the airport in at that moment. +The other was that he was accustomed to flying +the lighter ship out of a sea-level airport, much +heavier-aired than the 2,500-foot-high airport that +he was at that moment trying to avoid. The heavier +ship squashed in the thinner air and hit the ground +in the pull-out. Just kissed it and skimmed into the +air again.</p> +<p>Jimmie wondered if his landing gear had been +swiped off, came around, landed, and discovered +that it hadn’t.</p> +<p>The Dutch officers rushed out to him when he +crawled out of his cockpit. “My God, Jimmie,” they +chorused, slapping him on the back, “that was the +most delicate piece of flying we have ever seen!”</p> +<p>“Huh,” Jimmie grunted, still thinking how lucky +he had been to get away with it, “delicate piece of +flying, hell! That was the dumbest piece of flying +I ever did in my life!”</p> +<p>They knew it too, of course, despite the polite +way they had put it. So from then on Jimmie was +ace-high with them, because he had admitted the +boner instead of trying to lie out of it.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="gone-are-the-days"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id59">GONE ARE THE DAYS</a></h1> +<p>George Weiss, one of the boys that kick the <em>Daily +News</em> photographic ship around into position for +the aërial photographs that appear in New York’s +picture paper, told me this funny one he experienced +with the late Commander Rogers of the navy:</p> +<p>Commander Rogers had flown way back in the +early days of Wright pushers. He saw George in +Washington several years ago and asked him if he +could fly him up to his home at Havre de Grace, Md. +He assured George that there was a field there right +beside his house that they could land in. He said +that he had landed in it himself.</p> +<p>George took him up in his Travelair cabin ship. +He arrived over the Commander’s house and the +Commander pointed out the field. “It’s full of cows,” +George objected. “That’s all right,” the Commander +told him, “just buzz the field a couple of times +and somebody will come out and chase the cows +away.”</p> +<p>George did, and sure enough somebody came out +and chased the cows off the field.</p> +<p>“I still can’t land there,” George remonstrated. +“The field is too small.”</p> +<p>“Sure you can,” the Commander assured him; +“I’ve done it.”</p> +<p>George circled the field again. He said it looked +like a good-sized pocket handkerchief to him and +was surrounded by tall trees.</p> +<p>“Are you sure you’ve landed there?” George insisted.</p> +<p>“Sure, I have,” the Commander reassured him. +“Go ahead, you can get in it.”</p> +<p>George thought to himself that if the Commander +had got in there, by golly, he could too. He said he +finally squashed down over the trees, falling more +than gliding, and dropped into the field with a smack +that should have cracked the ship up but didn’t. He +stopped fifty feet from the row of trees by standing +on his brakes and cutting the switches. He said he +didn’t know how the hell he was going to get out of +the place without dismantling the ship.</p> +<p>That night, in the Commander’s house, over a +drink, George asked him, “Come, now, Commander, +tell me the truth. Did you really land in that field?”</p> +<p>“Certainly I did,” the Commander said. “It was +back in 1912, and I was flying a Wright pusher.” +George sneezed into his drink. The Wright pushers +land so slow they can be flown off a dining-room +table.</p> +<p>“And do you remember those trees around the +field?” the Commander asked. George remembered. +“Well, they were only bushes in 1912.”</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="look-who-taught-her"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id60">“LOOK WHO TAUGHT HER”</a></h1> +<p>I was trying to teach my wife to fly. I thought every +flyer’s wife should know something about flying. It +would be so convenient on cross-country trips if Dee +could spell me off on the controls. I was having very +little success. In the first place, Dee’s eyes weren’t +good, which is a decided disadvantage, and in the +second place she just couldn’t seem to catch on. She +had no coördination. I sweated and struggled and +cursed. “Don’t skid on the turns,” I moaned. “The +rudder and the stick must be used together. If you +put the stick to the right, push the right rudder. If +you put the stick to the left, use the left rudder.” +And the ship would grind around on another skid.</p> +<p>Dee didn’t take her flying as seriously as I did. +She didn’t particularly want to learn to fly except +to please me. I thought if I could instill in her a sense +of shame at her lack of coördination maybe she would +improve. I picked a day when she was more than +usually bad. The plane had been in every conceivable +position but the right one. She had skidded and +slipped and wobbled all over the sky. My temper +was getting the best of me.</p> +<p>“Dee,” I said, “haven’t you any pride about learning +how to fly? Other women learn how. Look at all +the girls who fly, and fly damn well. Look at Anne +Lindbergh, for instance. She has been doing a wonderful +job on that Bird plane. She solos all over the +place, and she only took it up a little while ago.”</p> +<p>Dee looked at me a minute and said, “Well, look +who taught her.”</p> +<p>I gave up teaching my wife how to fly.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="a-faulty-rescue"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id61">A FAULTY RESCUE</a></h1> +<p>Eddie Burgin, one of the oldest pilots on Roosevelt +Field, tells me this one about how they used the last +remaining outdoor “outbuilding” on Roosevelt Field +as a homing device to lead a troubled pilot down into +the airport.</p> +<p>Russ Simpson, American flying instructor in the +Gosport School in England during the war and at +present an airplane broker on Roosevelt Field, took +off in one of the old Jennies to fly the first electric +sign ever flown over New York City at night. While +he was gone a ground fog rolled in over the airport.</p> +<p>Pretty soon the fellows on the ground heard him +coming back. They could hear his motor, but they +couldn’t see his ship. They knew he couldn’t see the +airport. He was stuck on top of the fog.</p> +<p>They decided to help him. They got cans of gasoline +and poured them on the old outbuilding which +stood a little way out from the hangars and set fire +to the rickety structure. They tore up all the spare +motor crates they could find and piled them on top +of the blaze. They got the fire so big they were afraid +for a while that the hangars were going to catch. +They were trying to make a red glow in the fog so +Russ could tell where the field was.</p> +<p>Finally they heard Russ’s motor cut. They heard +the ship glide in and heard it hit. They could tell +from the noise it made when it hit that it had +cracked up.</p> +<p>They jumped into a car and went rushing all over +the airport in the darkness and the fog looking +for the wreck. It took them half an hour to find it, +so Eddie says.</p> +<p>When they did, they found Russ sitting on top +of it, smoking a cigarette. Their almost burning +the hangars down had all been in vain. Russ hadn’t +seen any red glow at all. He had simply mushed +down through the stuff and hit the airport by luck.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="helping-the-army"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id62">HELPING THE ARMY</a></h1> +<p>After I was graduated from Brooks and Kelly, the +army transferred me to Selfridge Field in Detroit. +There was nothing much doing around Selfridge, +and I was getting a little bored. I heard they were +giving an air show at Akron, right near my home +town. I thought it would be fun to go out there to +see my old friends and give a stunt exhibition. I got +the necessary permission from the higher-ups and +started out in a Tommy Morse. The Morse planes +were pretty near obsolete by that time, and the service +was trying to replace them as fast as possible +with newer models. There were only a few of them +left.</p> +<p>When I got to Akron there was a lot of excitement +going on over the air show. I told myself I was +going to give them the works—show them what a +local boy could do. The first part of my program +went off fine. I looped, barrel-rolled, dove, etc. I had +figured out a trick landing as the grand finale that +would pull the customers right out of their seats. +The landing didn’t turn out so well. I misjudged my +distance and ended up on one wing. It was pretty +humiliating. There was nothing to do but wire Selfridge +Field to ship me another wing. They wired +back to the effect that there were no more wings +available at the moment and that I should crate the +ship home. That stumped me. I had no idea how to +dismantle a plane. I studied the old Morse from every +angle, but I couldn’t find the solution. I had to get +the plane in a crate, and I had to do it quickly. I +used a saw. I sawed off the good wing, the damaged +wing, and the tail surfaces. I crammed them into a +crate and sent them on their way. The plane of +course had to be junked.</p> +<p>I had helped the army to get rid of one more +Tommy Morse.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="apology"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id63">APOLOGY</a></h1> +<p>I was sitting alone in a movie not long ago. The +newsreel came on. Jimmie Doolittle’s capable but +impish face flashed upon the screen. Behind him +was the fast, low-wing, all-metal Vultee plane in +which he had just failed to better by more than a +few minutes the Los Angeles—New York record for +transport planes.</p> +<p>“I’m sorry I didn’t make faster time,” his picture +spoke. “I didn’t do justice to the ship I flew. I wandered +off my course during the night and hit the +coast 200 miles south of where I should have hit it. +It was just another piece of bum piloting.”</p> +<p>I saw Jimmie in Buffalo not long after that.</p> +<p>“What was the matter, Jimmie?” I asked him, +referring to the flight he had spoken about in the +newsreel. “Were you on top of the stuff for a long +time?” I continued, generously implying that of +course he had had enough bad weather to force him +to fly on top of the clouds and out of sight of land +for so much of the trip that naturally he got off his +course.</p> +<p>“No,” he explained, “I wasn’t on top. I was in it +for ten and a half hours. I couldn’t get on top because +I picked up ice above sixteen thousand feet. +I couldn’t go under for several reasons. I had high +mountains to clear. I would have made even slower +time and run out of gas before I got to New York +if I had flown low, because my supercharged engine +required 15,000 feet to develop its full power and +its most efficient gas consumption. So I had to fly in +it. Also I got mixed up on some radio beams. Some +of them are stronger than others. I figured the +strongest ones the closest, which wasn’t always true. +I learned a lot on that trip. I think I could hit it on +the nose the next time.”</p> +<p>He was talking shop to a fellow professional. I +could immediately see that 200 miles off under the +conditions he had had to contend with had not been +bad at all. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had explained +to the public a little more than he did. But +when he said to them, without the shadow of an +alibi, “It was just another piece of bum piloting,” I +thought it was pretty swell.</p> +</div> +<hr class="docutils" /> +<div class="section" id="i-am-dead"> +<h1><a class="toc-backref" href="#id64">I AM DEAD</a></h1> +<p><em>This is the testament of Jimmy Collins, the test +pilot.</em></p> +<p><em>It is, as he himself phrased it, “The word of my +life and my death. The dream word that breathed +into my nostrils the breath of life and destroyed me +too.”</em></p> +<p><em>The body of Jimmy Collins was found on Friday +in Pinelawn Cemetery, near Farmingdale, L. I., beneath +the wreckage of the Grumman ship he had +tested for the navy. That body was broken, mangled, +twisted, in a 10,000-foot crash.</em></p> +<p><em>His testament, the utterance of a poet who flew, +first in search of beauty, then in search of bread, is +bravely, lyrically alive, straight and whole, as was +the spirit of the man who wrote it.</em></p> +<p><em>He wrote it—laughingly, he said; grimly, we believe—nine +months ago. This is how it happened:</em></p> +<p><em>In October Collins went to Buffalo to test a new +Curtiss bomber-fighter for the navy. Before he left +he took dinner with his old friend Archer Winsten, +who conducts the In the Wake of the News column +for the</em> Post. <em>Winsten wrote a column about Collins +and his spectacular job, begged the flyer to do a +guest column for him on his return, telling of the +Buffalo feat.</em></p> +<p><em>What happened after that is best told in Collins’s +own words.</em></p> +<p><em>He wrote to his sister, out West: “I got to thinking +it over and thought maybe I wouldn’t come back +because it was a dangerous job, and then poor +Archer would be out of a column.... So I playfully +wrote one for him in case I did get bumped off. +Thoughtful of me, don’t you think?... I never +got bumped off. Too bad, too, because it would have +been a scoop for Arch....”</em></p> +<p><em>Last Friday’s job was to have been Jimmy’s last +as a test pilot. He took it because he needed the +money, for his wife and children. Soon he was to have +started on a writer’s career.</em></p> +<p><em>Jimmy’s writing career ends today with his testament. +He prefaced it with the following:</em></p> +<p><em>“The next words you read will be those of James +H. Collins, and not ‘as told to,’ although you might +say ghost-written.”</em></p> +<p class="align-center">I AM DEAD.</p> +<p>How can I say that?</p> +<p>Do you remember an old, old story? I shall tell +you just the beginning of it: “In the beginning was +the word, and the word was God....” That’s +enough for you to see what I mean.</p> +<p>It is by the word that I can say that.</p> +<p>Not by the spoken word. I cannot say to you by +the spoken word, “I am dead.”</p> +<p>But there is not only the spoken word. There is +also the written word. It has different dimensions +in space and time.</p> +<p>It is by the written word that I can say to you, “I +am dead.”</p> +<p>But there is not only the spoken and the written +word. There is also the formless, unbreathed word of +mood and dream and passion. This is the word that +must have been the spirit of God that brooded over +the face of the deep in the beginning. It is the word +of life and death.</p> +<p>It was the word of my life and my death. The +dream word that breathed into my nostrils the breath +of life and destroyed me too.</p> +<p>Dreams. And life. And death.</p> +<p>I had a dream. Always I had a dream. I cannot +tell you what that dream was. I can only tell you +that flying was one of its symbols. Even when I was +very young that was true. Even as long as I can remember.</p> +<p>When I became older, it became even more true.</p> +<p>So deep a dream, so great a passion, could not be +denied.</p> +<p>Finally I did fly.</p> +<p>“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy +youth, when the evil days drew not nigh....” Part +of the same old story.</p> +<p>I remembered the dream of the days of the youth +of my flying, that burst of glory, and how the world +and my shining youth itself shone with the radiance +of it.</p> +<p>It was my creator. It created life for me, for man +shall not live by bread alone. Man cannot. Only his +dreams and his vision sustain him.</p> +<p>But the evil days drew nigh. The glow died down, +and the colors of the earth showed up. Ambition, +money. Love and cares and worry. Curious how +strong the strength of weakness is, in women and +their children, when you can see your own deep +dreams, unworded, shining in their eyes. I grew +older too, and troublous times beset the world.</p> +<p>Finally there came a time when I would rather +eat than fly, and money was a precious thing.</p> +<p>Yes, money was a precious thing, and they offered +me money, and there was still a small glow of the +deep, strong dream.</p> +<p>The ship was beautiful. Its silver wings glistened +in the sun. Its motor was a strong song that lifted it +to high heights.</p> +<p>And then...</p> +<p>Down.</p> +<p>Down out of the blue heights we hurtled. Straight +down. Faster. Faster and faster. Testing our +strength by diving.</p> +<p>Fear?</p> +<p>Yes, I had grown older. But grim fear now. The +fear of daring and courage. But tempered too with +some of the strong power of the old dream now +too.</p> +<p>Down.</p> +<p>Down.</p> +<p>A roar of flashing steel and a streak of glinting ... oh +yes, oh yes, now ... breaking wings. Too +frail ... the wings ... the dream ... the evil +days.</p> +<p>The cold but vibrant fuselage was the last thing +to feel my warm and living flesh. The long loud diving +roar of the motor, rising to the awful crashing +crescendo of its impact with the earth, was my death +song.</p> +<p>I am dead now.</p> +</div> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Test Pilot, by Jimmy Collins + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEST PILOT *** + +***** This file should be named 34589-h.htm or 34589-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/5/8/34589/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Test Pilot + +Author: Jimmy Collins + +Release Date: December 8, 2010 [EBook #34589] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEST PILOT *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net + + + + + + + + + +TEST PILOT + +JIMMY COLLINS + +[Illustration] + +THE SUN DIAL PRESS + +Garden City -- New York + +----- + + PRINTED AT THE _Country Life Press_, GARDEN CITY, N. Y., U. S. A. + + COPYRIGHT, 1935 + BY DELORES LACY COLLINS + + COPYRIGHT, 1935 + BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + +----- + + HAPPY LANDINGS + TO + + CAPTAIN JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON (_The News_) + GEORGE HORACE LORIMER (_Saturday Evening Post_) + J. DAVID STERN (_New York Post_) + + for permissions to reprint such parts of this book + as appeared serially in their newspapers + and periodicals. + + --THE PUBLISHERS. + +----- + +FOREWORD + + Jimmy Collins used periodically to try to change his name to Jim + Collins, but he never could make it stick. There was something + about him that made everybody call him Jimmy. He did sign his + wonderful article in the _Saturday Evening Post_ about dive + testing "Jim Collins," but his friends kidded him so much about + wanting to be a "he-man" that he went back to Jimmy in his + articles for the New York _Daily News_. + + The article from the _Saturday Evening Post_, "Return to Earth," + which is printed in this book, is the most extraordinary flying + story I have ever read, and as a newspaper and former magazine + editor I have read hundreds of them, from _The Red Knight of + Germany_ down. + + Jimmy wrote his own stuff--every word of it. Not one line has + been added to or taken from any of the stories that appeared in + the _Daily News_. If a story had any unkindness in it, or + reflected on any other pilot's ability, Jimmy omitted or changed + the name of the person under reproach. + + Jimmy graduated from the army training schools of Brooks and + Kelly fields, in the same class as Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh. + Collins and Lindbergh were two of the four selected for the + pursuit group, which means they were considered to have the + greatest ability in their class. Jimmy afterwards became the + youngest instructor at Kelly Field. + + I was privileged to receive some instruction from Jimmy. He was + a fine teacher, making you know precisely what he wanted and + why. He told me promptly that I lacked coordination. He said, + "Every student lacks coordination, but you lack more of it than + any student I ever saw." In driving a car, you can go forward or + backward, left or right. An airplane cannot go backward. It can + go forward, right, left, up, down. The coordination that Collins + kept talking about meant that when, for instance, you were going + up and to the right, you should do it in one perfect arc between + the two desired points, not in a wavering line that sometimes + bulged and sometimes flattened itself out. + + Pretty near any dub can be taught to fly some if he has patience + enough and can afford to pay for two or three times as much + instruction as the ordinary man gets. But nobody not born for it + can learn to fly like Collins. His rhythm and reflexes were like + a good orchestra. He was just a natural aviator. He had the + wings of an angel all right, and he was more at home, more + comfortable, more at peace with himself and the world in the air + than he was on the ground, where he sometimes thought himself to + be a misfit. + + Jimmy talked as well as he wrote, drank less than most aviators, + and that's not so much, and smoked a considerable number of + cigarettes. + + Until the last couple of years, when the depression and his + trade had deepened the lines in his face, he might almost have + been called "pretty," though it would have been better not to + say that to him. He had light wavy hair, blue eyes, fine white + teeth, smiled a good deal, and as far as his appearance went he + could have been a romantic hero in Hollywood. + + He was the most fearless man I ever knew. No, I take that back. + I have known other aviators whom I considered to be without + fear. Collins was as brave as any of them. Even at best, in + spite of what its adherents say, flying is not a particularly + safe business, and Collins chose the most dangerous branch of + it, that is, dive testing. "Return to Earth," in this book, + explains that. He said he did it for the money, which was partly + true, but I don't think entirely so. I think he liked to pull + the whiskers of death and see if he could get away with it. + Anyhow, he had made a resolution that the dive that killed him + should be his last one. Whether he would have kept that + resolution, I doubt. I think he liked the thrill of having + everybody on the field say, "Jimmy is dive testing a bomber this + afternoon." + + The story, as told by McCory, the photographer, who had a desk + near to him, is that he said to Collins, "Jimmy, you are making + some money now out of your newspaper articles. Why don't you + stop this test racket?" And Collins answered, "I will. I was + under contract to do twelve dives on this navy ship, and I have + done eleven. The next one is going to be my last." Then he + paused, smiled his bright smile, and said, "At that, it might + be." + + --JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON + +----- + +CONTENTS + + TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN + RETURN TO EARTH + COLLISION, ALMOST + HE HAD WHAT IT TOOK + DRY MOTOR + IMAGINATION + I SPIN IN + BUSINESS BEFORE FAME + EVERYTHING WRONG + A SHOWY STUNT + DEATH ON THE GRIDIRON + NOVICE NEAR DEATH + HUNGRY'S SHIP BURNED + BACK-SEAT PALS + WATCH YOUR STEP! + FLYER ENJOYS WORRY + WEATHER AND WHITHER + I SEE + WON ARGUMENT LOST + MONK HUNTER + COULDN'T TAKE IT + GOOD LUCK + WILL ROGERS IN THE AIR + HE NEVER KNEW + BONNY'S DREAM + COB-PIPE HAZARDS + WHOOPEE! + BUILDING THROUGH + MUCH! + CROSS-COUNTRY SNAPSHOTS + REMINISCENCE + MEXICAN WHOOPEE! + IT'S A TOUGH RACKET + ALMOST + RUN! RUN! RUN! + HIGH FIGHT + GESTURE AT REUNIONS + AS I SAW IT + WAS MY FACE RED! + CO-PILOT + ORCHIDS TO ME! + RECOVERY ACT + "A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME...." + "YES, SIR!" + MOONLIGHT AND SILVER + FIVE MILES UP + AERIAL COMBAT + WINGS OVER AKRON + TEARS AND ACROBATICS + ACROSS THE CONTINENT + THE FLYER HIKES HOME + KILLED BY KINDNESS + THE FIRST CRACK-UP + A POOR PROPHET + TOO MUCH KNOWLEDGE + HIDDEN FAULTS + "DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY" + CONFESSION + GONE ARE THE DAYS + "LOOK WHO TAUGHT HER" + A FAULTY RESCUE + HELPING THE ARMY + APOLOGY + I AM DEAD + + + + +TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN + + +I am an American citizen. I was born in Warren, O., U. S. A., on April +25, 1904. I am the youngest of the three remaining children of a family +of seven. My paternal grandfather came to this country from Ireland. He +was a basket weaver by trade and a Protestant by religion. My father was +a bricklayer by trade. He died when I was five. My mother, whose people +hailed largely from Pennsylvania, scrubbed floors, took in washings, +sewed, baked, made handiwork and sold it, worked in restaurants, and so +managed, with the help of charity, relatives, and my older sister when +she got old enough to help, to send me to grammar school and through two +years of high school. Then she died. + +I was sixteen. My sister was unable to carry me further. I went to work +in the boot-and-shoe department of the Goodrich Rubber Factory at Akron, +O. + +I worked there a year and found conditions and my prospects intolerable. +I applied for permission to work a part shift at night. It was granted. +This reduced my income but allowed me to go to school in the daytime. + +For three years I worked at night in the factory and went to school by +day. I completed my high schooling and a year of college (Akron, O.) in +this manner. + +Then I applied for entrance to the United States Army Air Service +Primary Flying School, was examined, found qualified, and admitted. One +hundred and four others were admitted to this same class. Charles A. +Lindbergh was one of them. Our status, as well as that of the other 104, +was that of an enlisted man with a flying cadet rating. + +A year later, in March, 1925, I was one of eighteen who graduated from +the Army Advanced Flying School, Kelly Field, San Antonio, Tex. The rest +of the 104 had been disqualified during the course, only the eighteen +most apt being kept. Of these eighteen who graduated, four had been +chosen to specialize in pursuit flying. Lindbergh and myself were two of +these four. Upon graduating from the Advanced Flying School, I was +discharged from the army, and commissioned a second lieutenant in the +United States Army Reserve Flying Service (now Air Corps). + +I went back to Akron after getting my commission as a reserve flyer and +discovered that there was no market for my newly acquired ability. I +tried to get a job as mail pilot with N. A. T. in Cleveland but was told +I didn't have enough experience. I tried to get a job with Martin +Airplane Company in Cleveland and couldn't. I was almost broke. I +decided to return to the rubber factories and go back to school the next +fall. I got a job with the Goodyear Company, in the factory. + +But I couldn't take it any more. I quit the job in two months and took +my one bag and my eighty dollars and went to Columbus, O., where there +was a reserve flying field. I flew a couple of weeks there, sleeping in +a deserted clubhouse and eating at the gas station across the street. I +was earning no money, of course, the ship being available to me for +practice only. So I applied for a two weeks' tour of active duty at +Wright Field and got it. I was paid for that. While there I applied for +a six months' tour of active duty at Selfridge Field, and also got that. +I was paid an officer's (second lieutenant) salary on this duty. + +At the expiration of the active duty tour at Selfridge I applied for +another six months but couldn't get it because there was no more money +available for that purpose, but I was told that there was some cadet +money left over and that if I was willing to reenlist as a cadet they +could keep me there in that status for another six months. I decided I +would try to get on with Ford first, and if that failed to accept the +cadet status. + +Ford was just getting under way with his tri-motor aviation venture at +that time. He had an airplane factory at Dearborn Airport. Selfridge +Field is just outside of Detroit, so I moved into Detroit and applied +for a job as pilot at Ford's Dearborn Airport. I was told that the only +way I could get on as pilot was first to get a job in the automobile +plant, and that I would later be transferred to the airplane plant, and +still later to the airline between Detroit and Chicago as pilot. After +standing in long lines every morning for a week I finally got a job in +the automobile factory. I was given a badge with a number and told to +report to such and such a department the next morning. + +Early on the morning I was to start work at the Ford factory I got on a +street car and started for the plant. I had on work clothes and my +badge. Long lines of workers sat on either side of me. Across the aisle +another long line sat facing me. They sat with hunched shoulders and +vacant faces, dinner pails on their laps, eyes staring lifelessly at +nothing. The car lurched and jolted along, and their bodies lurched and +jolted listlessly like corpses in it. A sense of unspeakable horror +seized me. I had forgotten the rubber factories. Now I remembered them +again, but I didn't remember anything as horrible as this. These men +impressed me as things, not men, horribly identical things, degraded, +hopeless, lifeless units of some grotesque machines. I felt my identity +and my self-respect oozing out of me. I couldn't become part of that. I +couldn't. Not even for a short time. Not even long enough to get into +the airplane factory and then to become pilot. Not even for that. I +wouldn't. Not for anything. Life was too short. Even cadet status in the +army was better. I got off the car at the factory. I watched the men +file into the factory. I shuddered across the street. I caught the next +car back to town. It was like getting away from a prison I had almost +been put into. I went out to Selfridge Field and enlisted as a cadet. + +I began to think. What would I do when the six months was up? Go back to +Akron, the factories, and school? I couldn't stand the thought of the +factories. A college degree wouldn't be worth it. Besides, I would drop +out of aviation. But how? Stay in aviation? Stay in the army? How? As an +enlisted man? I didn't like that thought. As an officer? It would be +difficult to get a regular commission, and even so, where would I get in +the army? Go outside and take my chances? The outside was a cold +unfriendly place. I was afraid of it by then. Your percentage chance was +small outside. The army was warm and secure. O. K. I'd try to get a +commission. + +Two months after my sudden decision not to work in a factory I passed my +army exams and got my commission. But unfortunately I began to read. I +had made up my mind to get the equivalent of a liberal college degree by +reading. And I accidentally ran across Bernard Shaw. I was twenty-one +years old. All my life I had been keenly aware of contradictions in life +all around me, and all my life they had worried me and I had wrestled +with them, attempting to resolve them in my own way. Shaw opened a whole +new world to me which I explored eagerly. I was transferred to Brooks +Field, Tex., as an instructor. I had a lot of fine times. I continued to +read Shaw. The idea of socialism struck me immediately as eminently +just. I agreed with the wrong of capitalism. I had already thrown over +religion. But I remember that the whole experience left me unsatisfied. +The question of what to do about it kept arising in my mind. And I +remember the inadequacy I felt for the only implied answer in Shaw's +works I could find, that to preach was the answer, and hope that the +other preachers in other generations would take up the good work, until +some hazy future generation, in the dim and distant, the beautiful, and +perfect beyond, would benefit from the preaching and start living by +it--or maybe it would just happen gradually, evolutionarily, as lungs +develop out of gills. + +By 1928 I was still in the air corps, instructing, and reading Shaw. +Early in that year I was transferred from Brooks Field, San Antonio, +Tex., to March Field, Riverside, Calif., and again assigned to work as +instructor. I considered myself a Socialist by then. I also considered +myself a pacifist. To find one's self a convinced Socialist and a +pacifist and at the same time a professional soldier, at the age of +twenty-four, places one, if one is conscientious, as I was, in a +considerable dilemma. + +In the days when I was instructing army flyers and reading socialism I +still had something that I fondly and innocently called morals, an evil +left-over from my early and vigorous religious upbringing. So I decided +that the only moral thing I could do was to get out of the army. Several +other practical considerations supported my "morality" in this decision. +One was the fact that I had had four years of military training as an +aviator. The other was the fact that Lindbergh had flown to Paris, and, +as a result of the stimulus that aviation received from the publicity +given Lindbergh upon his return, there existed a commercial market for +my flying ability, in which I could at that time sell that ability for a +much higher wage than the army was paying me for it. + +Accordingly I resigned my commission in the Air Corps in April, 1928, +and accepted a job as airplane and engine inspector for the newly found +aeronautic branch of the Department of Commerce, and, after a little +schooling at Washington on the nature of my new duties, and after flying +Secretary McCracken on a long tour around the country, I was assigned +the charge of the Metropolitan area and headquartered at Roosevelt +Field. + +I found the post very uncongenial because I found myself with no +assistant, swamped with more work than I could adequately have handled +even with a couple of assistants, and because there was too much paper +work and office work and too little flying. So, six months later, after +receiving a pay raise and a letter of commendation, I resigned from the +department and I took a job with Curtiss Flying Service, which I found +much more congenial because it was almost purely a flying job. + +My work there soon attracted the attention of the Curtiss Airplane and +Motor Company, and I was asked to become their chief test pilot, which I +did in November, 1928. + +I worked for them for six months, mostly on military stuff, and when I +resigned to take what I thought was going to be a better job, I was +asked to stay on with them. + +For almost a year after that I was vice president of a little aviation +corporation. The company didn't do well. The depression was in full +swing. I didn't agree with the company policies. Early in 1930 I +resigned. + +After my resignation from the vice presidency of the aviation concern I +did private flying--flying for private owners of aircraft, rich men--and I +experienced wide gaps of unemployment between jobs. But since I left the +army I had been reading and thinking about "social" matters. I ran +across the "radical" press in New York. I began reading Walter Duranty +in the _Times_. I read books on Russia. I fought against the idea of +communism. It seemed stupid and crude to me. But step by step--I +stubbornly fought all the way--the beautifully clear logic of communism +broke down all my barriers, and I was forced to admit to myself that the +Bolsheviks had the only complete and effective answer to the riddle of +the world I lived in. + +I began to consider myself a Communist. My bourgeois friends, and they +ranged from the very elite to the petty, thought I was nuts. I, in turn, +thought they were unreasonable and talked myself blue in the face trying +to convince them of it. I became quite a parlor pink. It took me a +couple of years to realize the futile ridiculousness of my antics, of +attempting to turn the bourgeoisie to communism. It took me that long +because I didn't at first grasp the full implications of the class basis +of my convictions and did not realize that, like a fish out of water, I +was a born and bred proletarian justified by peculiar circumstances with +a position of isolation from my class and with contact with an alien +class. + +And when that realization began to dawn on me--dimly at first--the +question of what to do about it again arose in my mind. + +I pondered the matter a long time. I was already over the romantic +notion that the thing to do was to go to Russia, as I had had a spell of +thinking. I sensed that that, in a way, would be running away. It +occurred to me to join the party, but I didn't know exactly how to go +about it or even if I could. I furthermore didn't get a very clear +picture of just what good I could do even if I did. I was also, having +got married and begun a family in the meantime, pretty much absorbed in +personal adjustment and just the plain economic details necessary to +existence. + +It finally occurred to me that I could do something for the radical +cause right where I was, in aviation, instead of going to Russia. But +what? And how? I didn't know. I decided that there were undoubtedly +people in the party who did. If you want to build a house, go to an +architect. If you want to build an airplane, go to an aeronautical +engineer. If you want to build a revolutionary organization, go to a +revolutionary leader. It was a naive but a direct, an honest, and a +logical method of reasoning, you must admit. So I found out from the +_Daily Worker_ where headquarters was and went down. + +I felt a little ridiculous and abashed when I got there. I sensed, +rather than reasoned, that I was suspected because of my approach. It +didn't bother me enough to stop me, because I was sincere, but it did +embarrass me. + +Shortly after that, at Roosevelt, I accidentally ran across a +mimeographed four-page paper, the organ of a club of aviation students. +I picked it up and idly began reading it. It sat me bolt upright in my +chair. It expressed everything that I felt. I had thought I was an +exception, that nobody else in the whole game felt as I did about +economic, social, and political matters. But this paper indicated that I +wasn't a complete exception. It excited me terrifically. I noted the +name of the paper and the name of the club that had issued it. I had +never before heard of either one. I ran around madly asking everybody I +knew what the club was, where it was, who it was. I couldn't find out +much, but I did find where the club rooms were and when meetings were +held. I went down to the next meeting. I joined up. + +Out of that organization grew another, on a broader basis, planned to +move adequately to meet the needs of the workers as a whole in the +industry, which was still small, and of which I was an active member. + +Word of my organizing activities with this group got around to my boss, +and that, together with other things, was the reason for my being fired +from my job of private pilot for a certain very rich man. + +After being discharged for radical activity by my rich boss I learned +discretion, which, somebody said long ago, is the better part of valor. +And I did not lose my valor: I continued to work with the disapproved +group. But I was out of a job, and I had a wife and two small children +to support. I had also learned a few things, so that I knew them now +utterly, and not only intellectually, as I did a while ago. One of them +is the class basis of my convictions. I began inquiring, and I learned +that I was the only pilot of my training and experience that I knew of +who had a working-class background. All others that I knew, and also a +good many mechanics, had middle-class background. That accounted for the +different way I saw things. + +I was now face to face with a peculiar problem. Unemployment was rampant +in this industry as in every other. In looking for a job, I discovered +that the Chinese government (Nationalist-Nanking and Canton) was looking +for a few men. I submitted qualifications to a high-ranking Chinese in +this country and was answered by him that owing to my military and +testing experience I was eminently qualified, and that he would set +machinery in motion immediately to get me a job. China, of course, was +very busy building up a Nationalist air force. I would be used as an +adviser in their school and factories. + +But I was a Communist. Would the Chinese Nationalist Air Force, which I +would be helping to build up, be used against the Chinese Soviets? +Against the U. S. S. R.? And still I must earn a living. What if several +prospects I had for jobs failed to materialize before the Chinese +proposition did? Should I or should I not go? If I went, what role +should I play? How dangerous would my position be? Would I be of more +value here, now that our organizational efforts were bearing fruit? And +so on did the questions in my mind run. + +At that time my wife and two small children were on the farm with my +mother-in-law and father-in-law in Oklahoma. What should I do? + + + + +RETURN TO EARTH + + +I was sitting around the restaurant at Roosevelt Field Hotel with the +rest of the unemployed pilots, smoking, talking, sipping the eternal cup +of coffee, hoping that something would turn up, when the phone rang and +the girl who answered it called for me. + +"It's long distance," she added as I brushed past her on my way out to +take the call, and I couldn't help running the rest of the way. I had +put in word at a factory some time ago if anything turned up to let me +know. Maybe my luck was changing. + +"Hello," I said eagerly as I grabbed the receiver, and before the +familiar voice on the other end told me I knew I was talking to the guy +who hired the pilots for the company. + +"I've got a job for you," he announced, "demonstrating one of our new +airplanes for the navy." + +"What kind of a demonstration?" I asked warily. + +"A dive demonstration," he said. I knew what that meant all right. Ten +thousand feet straight down, just to see if it would hang together. I +wasn't so sure my luck was changing after all. + +"What kind of a ship?" I asked. I hoped it wasn't too experimental. I +had dived airplanes before. The last one, six years before, I had dived +to pieces. I still remembered the exploding crack of those wings tearing +off. I remember the dazing blow of the instrument board as my head had +snapped forward against it from the sudden lurch of the midair failure, +and dimly then the slow, limp slumping into unconsciousness. I +remembered how I had come to, thousands of feet later, and leaped my way +clear, only to be threatened by the falling wreck on top and the +rushing-at-me earth beneath. I remembered the tumbling, jerking stop as +my chute had opened after the long drop, and how startlingly close the +ground had looked. I remembered how white and safe against the blue sky +those billowing folds of that chute had looked, and then immediately the +awful heart-pound, breath-stop fear that that milling wreck would take a +derelict pass at it. I remembered the acute relief of hearing the loud +report that told me the wreck had hit the ground, and then the "What if +that had clutched me!" when they told me afterward how close it really +had come. + +"It's a bomber fighter, second model, first-production job, a +single-seater biplane with a seven-hundred-horsepower engine," the man +at the other end said. That was encouraging anyway. It wasn't the +experimental job. + +I had heard that another free-lance test pilot like myself had recently +jumped out of a ship he had been diving. His prop had broken and torn +his motor clear out of his ship. He had got down with his chute all +right, but he had hit the fin as he had gone past the tail surfaces +getting out of the wreck. He had broken a couple of legs and an arm and +was in the hospital at that moment. I knew he had been doing some +diving. + +I wondered why they didn't use one of their own men. They had a very +fine staff of test pilots right there at the factory. "What's wrong with +your pilots?" I asked. + +"Well, to be frank about it," was the answer, "while we really don't +expect any trouble with this ship, because we have taken every possible +precaution that we know about, still, you never can tell. Our chief test +pilot now, you know, has done seven of these dive demonstrations. We +feel that that is about enough to ask one man to do on a salary, and he +feels that he has had about enough anyway. None of the rest of our men +have ever done any of this work before. Besides, why should we take a +chance on breaking up our organization if we can call a free lance in?" +So that was it! After all, why shouldn't they look at it that way? + +I thought of the already long absence of my family. My wife and my +year-and-a-half-old son and my half-year-old daughter were still on my +father-in-law's farm in Oklahoma, where I had sent them in the spring to +make sure they would be able to eat during the summer. If I could make +enough money---- + +"How much is there in it for me?" I asked. + +"Fifteen hundred dollars," he said. "If the job takes longer than ten +days we will pay you an additional thirty-five dollars a day. We will +insure your life for fifteen thousand dollars for the duration of the +demonstrations and provide for disability compensation. We will also pay +your expenses, of course. So, if you are still free, white, and +twenty-one--" His voice trailed off, posing the question. + +"Well, I'm still free and white," I answered, "but I am no longer +twenty-one. I'm thirty now, you know. Old enough to know better. But +I'll take your job." + +"We will wire you as soon as the ship is ready," he said and hung up. + +I came back to the gang at the table. They were still sipping their +coffee, smoking, talking, and undoubtedly hoping for an odd job to come +in. + +"I've got a job," I announced, beaming. + +"What kind of a job?" they all piped up. + +"Diving one of the new fighters for the navy," I replied as casually as +I could. + +"Boy, you can have it!" they chorused. + +"I've got it," I snapped. "And anyway," I added, "I won't be dropping +dead of starvation around here this winter." + +They razzed me for a while, and I razzed them back. They wanted to know +what kind of flowers I wanted. I wanted to know if they were planning on +just breakfast or just dinner when they got down to that one meal a day +this winter. + +After a while, as soon as my elation in contemplation of the fifteen +hundred bucks wore off, I didn't feel so cocky. I really might get +bumped off in that crate. Maybe I could have got by without taking the +job. + +I remembered that dive of six years before. It had been different then. +It hadn't occurred to me at that time that airplanes would fall apart. +Oh, I knew they would. I knew they had. It was something, however, that +had happened to other test pilots and might happen to some more, but not +to me. + +I remembered the times I had jumped, startled wide awake from sleep in +the nights, not immediately after that failure, but some months later. +No special dreams of horror. Just the delayed action of some +subterranean mechanism of fright in my subconscious brain. I had been +honestly convinced during my waking hours up to that time that that +failure had not made much of an impression on me. + +I remembered the subconscious fear of just normal excess speed that had +grown on me since then. I wouldn't nose an airplane down very much from +level cruising speed and open the throttle coming in from a +cross-country, for instance. A couple of times when I had done it +without thinking, I had found myself practically bending the throttle +backwards to kill the speed when I had suddenly become aware of it. + +These things convinced me that that failure had made a deeper impression +on me than I had thought. I realized it the more when I contemplated +these new dives I was about to do. I knew I was more afraid of them than +I would admit. + +"Death in the Afternoon, or Reunion in Oklahoma," I thought. You've got +to take some chances. I didn't see how I was going to get the money to +bring the family back any other way. + +Besides, I thought I could beat the game by being smart. I knew a lot of +boys who hadn't been able to, and I knew they had had good heads on +their shoulders. + +----- + +Two weeks later I stepped out of a taxi in front of the hangar at the +airport. Some experimental military airplanes were sitting outside. It +was good to see military airplanes again. There is something about +military airplanes--something businesslike. + +I entered the hangar office. The engineers were waiting for me. I knew +most of them from working with them before. They were all still just +pink-faced kids. But I knew they were bright kids. They knew their stuff +and had all had quite a lot of experience. + +They greeted me with a queer sort of smile on their faces, the way you +greet somebody you know is being played for a sucker. Maybe they were +right. Undoubtedly they were. But I resented that smile in a mild sort +of way. + +Bill was there. I had known Bill since before he had become their chief +test pilot. He had that same queer smile on his face. + +"Hey, Bill," I said to him, greeting him with a quizzical smile +answering his own, "why don't you dive this funny airplane?" + +"I got smart and chiseled my way out of this one," he said. + +"It is a sap's game," I agreed with him. "But starvation is dangerous +too." He laughed, and we all laughed. + +He studied me for a minute. We hadn't seen each other in a couple of +years. Finally he said soberly, "You've grown older, Jim." + +"Yeah, I've grown older, Bill," I answered him banteringly, "and I want +to grow a lot older too. I want to have a nice long white beard trailing +out in the slip stream some day. So I hope you guys are building good +airplanes for diving. By the way, let's go out in the hangar and take a +look at the crate. After all, I'm mildly interested in it, you know." + +We all went out into the hangar. There was the ship, suspended from a +chain hoist with its wheels just off the cement in the middle of a large +cleared area. It was silver and gleamed even in the somewhat darkened +interior. It looked sturdy and squat and bulldoggish, as only a military +fighting ship can. I was glad it looked sturdy. + +A group of mechanics were swarming around it and over it and under it. +They all looked up as we approached the ship. I knew most of them. I was +introduced to the others. You could see that they felt toward that ship +as a brood hen feels toward her eggs. They didn't want me to break it. I +didn't want to break it either. + +I walked around the ship and looked it over. The engineers pointed out +special features and talked metal construction and forged fittings and +stress analysis and safety factors, and I asked questions. I was +fascinated by the wires that braced the wings. They looked big enough to +hold up the Brooklyn Bridge. I liked those wires. + +I learned that a pilot had been up there and had gone over the whole +stress analysis with them and had recommended only one little change in +the ship, which had been made. I learned that he had expressed +willingness to dive the ship after that, but that he had been unable to +because another job he had contracted to do some time previously was +coming up at the same time this one was. I was glad to hear this man had +gone over the ship. He was not only one of the most, if not the most, +competent test pilots in the country, but also a very good engineer, +which I was not. + +I crawled into the cockpit. There were more gadgets in it. Something for +everything except putting wings back on in the air. The racket had +changed, I decided. In the old days, dive demonstrating hadn't been so +accurate a thing. You took a ship up and did a good dive with it and +came down and everybody was happy. But now, as I could see, they had +developed a lot of recording as well as indicating instruments. You used +to be able to get away with something. You couldn't get away with +anything now. They could take a look at all those trick instruments +after you had come down and tell just what you had done. They could tell +accurately and didn't have to take your word for it. + +There was one instrument there, for instance, that the pilot couldn't +see. It was called a vee-gee recorder. It made a pattern on a smoked +glass of about the size of one of those paper packets of matches. This +pattern told them, after the pilot had come down, just how fast he had +dived, what kind of a dive he had made, and what kind of a pull-out he +had done. + +There was another instrument there that I had never seen before. It +looked something like a speedometer and was called an accelerometer. I +was soon to find out what that was for! Oh, they told me what it was for +then. They explained everything in the cockpit to me, and I sat there +and familiarized myself with it as best I could on the ground before +taking the ship out. But I wasn't really to find out what that +accelerometer was for until I used it. And did I find out then! + +We rolled the ship out that afternoon, after last-minute adjustments had +been made on it--an airplane is like a woman that way: it always has to +have last-minute adjustments--and I made a familiarization flight in it. +I just took it off and flew it around at first. Then I began feeling it +out. I rocked it and horsed it and yanked it and pulled it and watched. +I watched the wires, the wings, the tail. Any unusual flexing? Abnormal +vibration? Any flutter? I brought the ship down and had it inspected +that night. + +The next day I did the same thing. But I went a little bit further this +time. I built up some speed. I did shallow dives. I listened and felt +and watched. I did steeper dives. Anything unusual? + +This went on for several days. Some minor changes and adjustments were +made. Finally I said I was ready to start the official demonstrations, +and the official naval observers were called out to watch. + +I did five speed dives first. These were to demonstrate that the ship +would dive to terminal velocity. Contrary to popular opinion, a falling +object will not go faster and faster and faster and faster. It will go +faster and faster only up to a certain point. That point is reached when +the object creates by its own passage through the air enough air +resistance to that passage to equal in pounds the weight of the object. +When that point is reached, the object will not fall any faster, no +matter how much longer it falls. It is said to be at terminal velocity. +A diving airplane is only a falling object, but it is a highly +streamlined one, and therefore capable of a very high terminal velocity. +A man falling through the air cannot attain a speed greater than about a +hundred and twenty miles an hour. But the terminal velocity of an +airplane is a lot more than that. + +I led up to it carefully. I went to fifteen thousand feet to start the +first dive. The ship dove smooth and steady. I pulled out at three +hundred miles an hour and climbed back up to do the next dive. I dove to +three hundred and twenty miles an hour this time. Everything was fine. +Everything was fine as far as I could tell, but when I had eased out of +the dive I brought the ship down for inspection before I did the next +two dives. + +I did the next two dives to three hundred and forty miles an hour and +three hundred and sixty. I lost seven thousand feet in the last one. It +had me casting the old fish eye around to see if everything was holding +before I got through it. Everything held, but I brought the ship down +for inspection again before the final speed dive. + +I went to eighteen thousand feet for the final one. It was cold up +there, and the sky was very blue. I lined all up facing down wind and +found myself checking everything very methodically. Was I in high pitch? +Was the mixture rich? Was the landing gear folded tightly? Was the +stabilizer rolled? Was the rudder tab adjusted? I was a little extra +methodical and extra deliberate. I knew that my mind wasn't normally +clear. I was breathing harder than usual. It was the altitude. There +wasn't enough oxygen. I was a little groggy. + +I was a little worried about my ears. I had always had to blow my ears +out when just normally losing altitude. I had funny ears like that that +wouldn't adjust themselves. I might break an eardrum. + +I eased the throttle back, rolled the ship over in a half roll, and +stuck her down. I felt the dead, still drop of the first part of the +dive. I saw the air-speed needle race around its dial, heard the roaring +of the motor mounting and the whistle of the wires rising, and felt the +increasing stress and stiffness of the gathering speed. I saw the +altimeter winding up--winding down, rather! Down to twelve thousand feet +now. Eleven and a half. Eleven. I saw the air-speed needle slowing down +its racing on its second lap around the dial. I heard the roaring motor +whining now, and the whistling wires screaming, and felt the awful +racking of the terrific speed. I glanced at the air-speed needle. It was +barely creeping around the dial. It was almost once and a half around +and was just passing the three-eighty mark. I glanced at the altimeter. +It was really winding up now! The sensitive needle was going around and +around. The other needle read ten thousand, nine and a half, nine. I +looked at the air-speed needle. It was standing still. It read three +ninety-five. You could feel it was terminal velocity. You could feel the +lack of acceleration. You could hear it too. You could hear the motor at +a peak whine, holding it. You could hear the wires at a peak scream, +holding it. I checked the altimeter. Eight and a half. At eight I would +pull out. + +Suddenly something shifted on the instrument board and something hit me +in the face. I sickeningly remembered that dazing smack on the head of +six years before, and the old electric startle shock convulsed me as I +remembered the resounding crack of those wings tearing off. I +involuntarily took a fear-glazed glance at my wings and instinctively +tightened up on the stick and began to ease out of the dive. Through the +half-daze pull-out and the dawning ice-cold clearness always +aftermathing fright I dimly checked the trouble while I leveled out. +When I had got level and got things quieted down and my head had cleared +I saw that I was right. Only the glass cover had vibrated off the +manifold-pressure instrument, and the needle had popped off the dial. I +was thoroughly shaken. And I was mad because I had allowed so little a +thing to upset me so much. + +I checked my altimeter. It read five thousand feet. I figured I had +dived eleven thousand and taken two for recovery. + +My ears had a lot of pressure on them. I held both nostrils and blew. +The pressure inside popped my ears out easily. They were going to stand +the diving all right. + +I brought the ship down to be inspected that night and decided to +celebrate the successful conclusion of the long dive. Cirrus clouds were +forming high up in the blue sky, so I figured maybe I could do it +safely. I went up to the weather bureau on the field to check on it. + +"How is the weather for tomorrow?" I asked. "Terrible, I hope." + +"I think it will be," the weather man said. He consulted his charts +further. "Yes, it will be," he assured me. + +"Definitely?" I pressed him. + +He looked his charts over again. "Yes," he reassured me, "definitely. +You won't be able to fly tomorrow." + +"Swell!" I exclaimed to the mildly startled man. He didn't quite get it. + +It was lousy the next morning, all right. You couldn't see across the +field. Even the birds were walking. The engineers were dismayed. They +wanted to get on with the demonstrations. I was overjoyed. I had a head. +I had celebrated a little too much. + +Along about the middle of the morning it began to lift. The engineers +began to cheer up. I watched with gathering apprehension while it lifted +still further and began to break. In an incredibly short time there were +only a few clouds in the sky. I was practically sick about it, but the +engineers, with beaming faces, were having the ship pushed out. + +I went up to the field lunch wagon to get a cup of coffee while the +mechanics warmed up the ship. + +I went back down to the hangar and crawled into the ship to do the first +two of the next set of five dives. These were to demonstrate pull-outs +instead of speed. Here was where I found out what the accelerometer was +for. + +I knew that the accelerometer was to indicate the force of the +pull-outs. I knew that it indicated them in terms of _g_, or gravity. I +knew that in level flight it registered one _g_, which meant, among +other things, that I was being pulled into my seat with a force equal to +my own weight, or one hundred and fifty pounds. I knew that when I +pulled out of a dive, the centrifugal force of the pull-out would push +the _g_ reading up in exactly the same proportion that it would pull me +down into my seat. I knew that I had to pull out of a ten-thousand-foot +dive hard enough to push the _g_ reading up to nine, and pull me down +into my seat with a force equal to nine times my own weight, or thirteen +hundred and fifty pounds. I knew that that would put a considerable +stress on the airplane, and that that was the reason the Navy wanted me +to do it; they wanted to see if it could take it. But what I didn't know +was that it would put such a terrific stress on me. I had no idea what a +nine _g_ pull-out meant to the pilot. + +I decided to start the dives out at three hundred miles an hour and +increase each succeeding dive in increments of twenty miles an hour for +the first four dives, as I had in the speed dives. I decided to pull out +of the first dive to five and a half _g_, and pull out of each +succeedingly faster dive one _g_ harder, until I had pulled out of the +fourth dive of three hundred and sixty miles an hour to eight and a half +_g_. Then I would do the grand dive of ten thousand feet to terminal +velocity and pull out to nine _g_. + +I took off and went up to fifteen thousand feet and stuck her down to +three hundred miles an hour. I horsed back on the stick and watched the +accelerometer. Up she went, and down into my seat I went. Centrifugal +force, like some huge invisible monster, pushed my head down into my +shoulders and squashed me into that seat so that my backbone bent and I +groaned with the force of it. It drained the blood from my head and +started to blind me. I watched the accelerometer through a deepening +haze. I dimly saw it reach five and a half. I eased up on the stick, and +the last thing I saw was the needle starting back to one. I was blind as +a bat. I was dizzy as a coot. I looked out at my wings on both sides. I +couldn't see them. I couldn't see anything. I watched where the ground +ought to be. Pretty soon it began to show up like something looming out +of a morning mist. My sight was returning, due to the eased pressure +from letting up on the stick. Soon I could see clearly again. I was +level, and probably had been for some time. But my head was hot with a +queer sort of burning sensation, and my heart was pounding like a water +ram. + +"How am I going to do a nine-_g_ pull-out if I am passing out on five +and a half?" I thought. I decided that I had held it too long and that I +would get the next reading quicker and release it sooner, so I wouldn't +be under the pressure so long. + +I noticed that my head was completely cleared from the night before. I +didn't know whether it was the altitude or the pull-out. One or the +other, or both, I decided, was good for hang-overs. + +I climbed back to fifteen thousand feet and stuck her down to three +hundred and twenty miles an hour. I horsed back quick on the stick this +time. I overshot six and a half and hit seven before I released it. I +could feel my guts being sucked down as I fought for sight and +consciousness, but the quicker pull and the earlier release worked, and +I was able to read the instruments at the higher _g_. + +I brought the ship down for inspection. Everything was all right. I went +back up again and did the next two. They sure did flatten me out, but +the ship took it fine. I brought it down for a thorough inspection that +night. + +I felt like I had been beaten. My eyes felt like somebody had taken them +out and played with them and put them back in again. I was droopy tired +and had sharp shooting pains in my chest. My back ached, and that night +I blew my nose and it bled. I was a little worried about that nine-_g_ +business. + +The next morning was one of those crisp, golden autumn days. The sky was +as blue as indigo and as clear as a mountain stream. One of those good +days to be alive. + +To my surprise, I felt fine. "Those pull-outs must be a tonic," I +thought. + +I went out to do the terminal-velocity dive with the nine-_g_ pull-out. +I found that the last dive I had done the day before had flattened out +the fairing on the belly of the ship. The sudden change of attitude of +the ship in the eight-and-a-half _g_ pull-out had pushed the belly up +against that pretty solid three-hundred-and-sixty-mile-an-hour blast of +air and crushed the metal bracings that held the belly fairing in shape +as neatly as if you had gone over it with a steam roller. It was not a +structural part of the ship, however, as far as strength went, and could +be repaired that day. They decided to beef up the bracings when they +repaired it. + +While I was waiting on the repair I talked with a navy commander who had +just flown up from Washington. I told him my worry about the nine _g_. +He said to yell as I horsed back and it would help. I thought he was +kidding me. It seemed so silly. But he was serious. He said it would +tense the muscles of the abdomen and the neck and preserve sight and +consciousness longer. + +Somebody during that wait told me about an army pilot who, several years +before, in some tests at Wright Field, had accidentally got too much +_g_, due to a faulty accelerometer. He got some enormously high reading +like twelve or fourteen. He ruptured his intestines and broke blood +vessels in his brain. He was in the hospital about a year and finally +got out. He would never be right again, they told me. He was a little +bit goofy. I thought to myself that anybody doing this kind of work was +a little bit goofy to begin with. I decided not to get any more than +nine _g_ if I could help it. + +That afternoon I went up to eighteen thousand feet again and rolled her +over and stuck her down. Again the dead, still drop and the mounting +roar. Again the flickering needles on the instruments and the job of +reading them. You never see the ground in one of those dives. You are +too busy watching things in the cockpit. Again the tensing fear for +thirty whining, screaming seconds while your life is a held breath and +the fear of your death is a crouching shadow in a dark corner. Again the +mounting racking of the ship until it seems no humanly built thing can +stand the stress of that speed much longer. + +At eight thousand feet on the altimeter I shifted my gaze to the +accelerometer and horsed. I used both hands. I wanted to get the reading +as quickly as possible. That unseen violence, punishing this time, +fairly crunched me into my seat, so that I only darkly saw the needle +passing nine. I realized somehow that I was overshooting and let up on +the stick. As my head unwound and my eyes cleared up I noticed that I +was level already and that the recording needle on the accelerometer +read nine and a half. I checked my altimeter. It read six and a half +thousand feet. + +When I got back on the ground the commander, who had seen a lot of those +dives, said, "Boy, I thought you were never going to pull that out. You +had me shouting out loud, 'Pull it out! Pull it out!' And when you did +pull it out, did you wrap it!" + +I felt I had. I felt all torn down inside. I had forgotten to yell. My +back ached like somebody had kicked me. I was really woozy. I was glad I +didn't have to do those every day. + +I wasn't through yet. During the rest of the afternoon, under a variety +of load conditions, I looped, snap-rolled, slow-rolled, spun, did true +Immelmanns, and flew upside down. + +I still wasn't through. I flew the ship to Washington the next day. The +work at the factory had been only the preliminary demonstration! + +At Washington I had to do three take-offs and landings, all the +maneuvers over again under the different load conditions, and two more +terminal-velocity, nine-_g_ pull-out dives by way of final +demonstration. + +Just as I was getting ready to go out and do the three take-offs and +landings, the navy squadron that was going to use these ships if the +navy bought any of them showed up in a flock of fighters. About +twenty-seven of them. They landed, lined up in a neat row beside my +ship, got out and clustered around to watch me. I got stage fright. Here +was a group of the hottest experts in the country. I had paid little +attention to my landings at the factory, being too intent on the other +work. What if I bungled those landings right there in front of that +gang? + +Three simple little take-offs and landings really had me buffaloed, but +I worked hard on them, and they turned out all right. Doing the +maneuvers under the different load conditions during the rest of the day +was practically fun after that. + +The next day I came out to do the final two dives. I had to go to +Dahlgren to do them. So many airplanes had fallen apart over Anacostia +and gone through houses and started fires and raised hell in general +that the District of Columbia had prohibited diving in that vicinity. +Dahlgren was only about thirty miles south and just nicely took up the +climbing time. + +The first dive went fine, and I had one more to go. I hated that one +more. Everything had been so all right so far, and I hated to think that +something might happen in that last dive. + +I thought of the wife and kids as I climbed for altitude. It was a swell +day. I checked everything carefully. I rolled over into the dive and +started down. I caught a glimpse of the blue earth far beneath, so +remote. Then to the instruments while I crouched and hated the mounting +stress of the terrific speed. About mid-dive I saw something in front of +my face. It took me a second to recognize it. It was the Very pistol, +used for shooting flare signals at sea. It had come out of its holster +at the right side of the cockpit and was floating around in space +between my face and my knees. I grabbed it with my throttle hand and +started to throw it over my left shoulder to get rid of it, but quickly +decided that that wouldn't be such a smart thing to do. A three or four +hundred mile an hour slip stream was lurking just outside there. It +would have grabbed that pistol and dashed it into the tail surfaces, and +it would have been good-bye airplane. I fumbled it from one hand to the +other and finally kept it in my throttle hand. I noticed that I had +allowed the ship to nose up out of the dive ever so slightly during that +wrestling match, and I spent the rest of the dive nosing it ever so +slightly back in. That nose-back-in showed up as negative acceleration +on the vee-gee recorder. And in addition to that, although I pulled out +to nine and a half _g_ on the accelerometer, something had gone wrong +with it, because the pull-out turned out to be only seven and a half _g_ +on the vee-gee recorder. + +The navy threw that dive out, so I still had one more to do. Still one +more, and by then one more was a mental hazard difficult to overcome. I +have a morbid imagination anyway. I knew that the motor and prop had +taken a severe beating so far. Maybe one more would be just too much. +Maybe something--something that had eluded inspection, perhaps--was just +about ready to let go, and I was so damned near the finish. Besides, +although I am not superstitious, the rejected dive made that last one +the thirteenth. + +They gave me a check for fifteen hundred dollars the next day and +canceled my insurance. My old car wouldn't have got as far as Oklahoma, +and wasn't big enough anyway, so I had to break a new one in on the way +down. I was back with the family in good shape, but they still had to +eat, and fifteen hundred dollars wouldn't last forever, so I was looking +for another job. I thought I had one coming up ... a diving job! + + + + +COLLISION, ALMOST + + +I took off from Newark with about a seven-thousand-foot ceiling after +dark. The ceiling came down as I went farther and farther into the +mountains toward Bellefonte, but it didn't come down too much. I got to +Sunbury, about fifty miles from Bellefonte, and started into the worst +part of the mountains. Then I hit snow. + +I went over the first big ridge on the blinkers, closely spaced red +lights between beacons in bad spots. It was thick in the valley beyond, +but I could just make out the beacon on the next ridge. + +I flew up to it, couldn't see the next beacon, went on past from that +beacon as far as I dared, but couldn't find the next beacon without +losing that one. So I went back to it. + +I made several excursions out toward the next beacon before I could find +it without losing the one I had. Then I couldn't find the next one. + +I circled and circled about fifty feet over that beacon on the mountain +top in the driving snow. I couldn't go backward toward the last one. I +couldn't go forward toward the next. I was quite sure the next was the +field beacon at Bellefonte, but I didn't dare go out far enough to find +it. + +I knew I couldn't sit there and circle all night. The snow was not +abating. I had to do something. Finally I pulled off the beacon in a +climbing spiral, headed off blind in what I thought was the direction of +the next beacon--what I hoped it was!--and hoped to see it under me +through the snow if I flew over it, and if not, to keep on going, blind, +until I flew out of the mountains, the snow, or both. + +I was lucky, flew right over it, saw dimly down beneath me through the +driving snow the Bellefonte Airport boundary lights, spiraled down and +landed. + +Not five minutes later an air-mail ship came in from the same direction +and landed. I asked the pilot how close he had come to the beacon I had +been circling. He said he had flown right over it. Can you imagine what +would have happened if I had still been sitting there circling that +beacon when he came barging along through the snow right over it? He +said he was flying on his instruments for the most part. He undoubtedly +wouldn't have seen me. I wouldn't have seen him. Our meeting probably +wouldn't have been so pleasant! + + + + +HE HAD WHAT IT TOOK + + +Eddie Stinson, that colorful and beloved figure of American aviation, +has gone West. But the many stories that cluster around his almost +legendary name, live on. + +Dick Blythe, the man who handled Lindbergh's publicity just after +Lindbergh's return from Paris, tells me this one about Eddie. Eddie told +it to him. + +Eddie was working with a crowd that was representing the German Junkers +plane in America. One of the things they were trying to do was sell it +to the Post Office Department for use on the air-mail lines. + +To attract attention to the superior performance of the ship Eddie +decided to make a non-stop flight from Chicago to New York. He decided +to fly straight over the Alleghanies. + +Flying the Alleghanies is common nowadays, what with modern equipment, +lighted airways, blind flying instruments and radio. But in those days +it was a feat. + +Eddie was delayed in taking off and didn't get over the mountains until +after dark. Then his imagination began to work overtime. + +That happens to a great many of us many times. A motor can be running +along perfectly until you get over a spot where you can't afford to have +it quit. Then you begin worrying about it and can invariably find +something wrong. If all the motors quit under the conditions that all +pilots fear, there would be as many wrecked ships scattered over the +country as there are signboards. + +Anyway, Eddie got to thinking his motor was rough. But he was prepared +for the situation. He reached down under his seat and pulled out a +bottle of gin. He took a long swig and listened to his motor again. It +had smoothed right out. + +Every once in a while the motor would get rough again, and Eddie would +reach down and take another swig. He said it took him the whole quart of +gin to smooth that motor out and get the ship over the mountains and +onto Curtiss Field. + + + + +DRY MOTOR + + +One of the customs in the army, if you were out on a cross-country +flight, was not to look at the weather map to see if the weather was all +right to go home, and not to look at your ship to see if it was in good +enough shape to make the trip, but to look in your pocket and see if you +had enough money to stay any longer. + +I didn't have, so I piled into my old wing-radiatored PW-8 and took off +from Washington for Selfridge Field. I knew I was going to have trouble +with the radiators. + +I climbed slowly on reduced throttle, reaching for the cold air of +altitude. I watched the water temperature indicator, but before it +registered boiling I was surprised to see steam coming from the +radiators. I remembered then. Water boils at a lower and lower +temperature the higher you go. I still thought the lower temperatures of +altitude would offset that, so I throttled my motor to the minimum +necessary for level flight until the radiator stopped steaming, then +opened it a little and tried to sneak a little more altitude before it +steamed again. + +I worked myself up to six thousand feet like that. I was watching for +steam for the umpteenth time, hoping to make Pittsburgh before I ran out +of water, when I saw white smoke coming out of the exhausts. I was out +of water and was burning the oil off the cylinder walls. + +I cut the switches. The speed of my glide kept the prop turning over +like a windmill. I picked a field in the country and started talking to +myself: "Take it easy--Slow her down--Come around--Don't undershoot +whatever you do--Hold it now, you're overshooting--Slip it--Not too +much--You're undershooting again--Kick those switches on--Gun it--All right, +kick him off--Watch those trees--The fence now--You're slow--Let 'er drop, +the field's small--Wham!--Watch your roll--Ground loop at the end if you +have--You don't--You made it." I always talk to myself like that in a +forced landing. + +I don't remember how much water I put in the thing. I do remember that +there was only a pint in it when I had landed. And I had kept from +burning up the motor! + +I took off again and made Pittsburgh, Akron, Cleveland, and Toledo, +steaming, but without running clear dry. I probably had a few more gray +hairs when I finally landed at Selfridge, but everything else was all +right. + + + + +IMAGINATION + + +A friend of mine got an aerial mapping job last summer. He had to fly at +twenty thousand feet to take the pictures. Some pilots can stand more +altitude than others, but my friend didn't know how much he could stand +because he had never flown that high. He decided he had better take +oxygen with him, just in case. + +His mechanic got a cylinder of oxygen for him, and he took off. He felt +pretty groggy at eighteen thousand feet, reached down, got the hose, put +it in his mouth, turned on the valve, and took a whiff of oxygen. He +couldn't hear the hissing of the stuff escaping because the motor noise +drowned it out. + +He perked up immediately. The sky brightened, everything became clearer +to him, and he went on up to twenty thousand feet. Every once in a while +he would feel low and reach down and get himself another whiff of oxygen +and feel all right again for a while. + +He didn't say anything to his mechanic, but his mechanic decided for +himself a few days later that the oxygen was probably getting low in +that tank and that he would need another soon. He decided to put a new +one in ahead of time to forestall the possibility of running completely +out in the air. + +He brought a new tank out and decided to test it before he put it in the +ship. He opened the valve and nothing happened. The tank was empty. + +He took it back to the hangar and discovered that the previous tank my +friend had been flying on had come out of the same bin and had been +empty all along. + +He got a good one and put it in the ship and didn't say anything about +the incident. My friend said that the next time he took a whiff of +oxygen it almost knocked him out of his seat. + + + + +I SPIN IN + + +I had been spin testing a Mercury Chic for several weeks, doing +everything at a safe and sane altitude, being very scientific. I finally +spun it in from an altitude of about three feet. And I mean spun it in +too. The ship was a complete washout. + +There was a strong wind that day, and a very gusty one. When I taxied +out for the take-off the wind was on my tail. There were no brakes on +the ship. It was very light, and in addition, a high wing job--always a +top-heavy thing in a wind. + +The wind kept swinging me around into it, and I wanted to go the other +way. I should have called a couple of mechanics from the line to come +and hold my wings and help me taxi. But I was proud or stubborn or dumb +or something that day. + +I adopted a little strategy. I'd get the ship all lined up down wind and +when the wind would start swinging me around the other way I'd just let +it swing until the nose was headed almost into the wind. Then I would +gun it, kick rudder with the swing, thus aggravating it instead of +checking it, hoping to get my way by going with it instead of fighting +it, and then, when it was headed down wind again, try to hold it there +until the next gust started swinging me around again. + +It worked fine, and I was making a certain amount of headway down the +field until, on one of the swings, a particularly heavy gust of wind +picked up my outside wing as I was swinging. The ship tipped up very +slowly, and I thought I was going to tip a wing. Then a larger and +heavier gust hit it. It picked that ship off the ground, turned it over +on its back and literally threw it down on the ground. + +It was the worst crack-up I had ever been in. All four longerons were +broken, the wings crumpled, the motor mount was twisted, the prop bent, +the tail crushed, and the ship looked like it had spun in from at least +ten thousand feet. + +I crawled out from under it unhurt except for my feelings. I never felt +so foolish in my life. I had cracked up a ship without even flying it. + + + + +BUSINESS BEFORE FAME + + +Clyde Pangborne, of Pangborne and Herndon fame, the two flyers who were +first to fly non-stop from Japan to America over the Pacific Ocean, and +also of Pangborne and Turner fame, the flying team that won third place +in the London-Australia Air Derby in 1934, was operations manager for +the famous Gate's Flying Circus for many years. He flew into Lewiston, +Mont., in October, 1923, with his aerial circus. He had a contract with +the fair association of that town, giving him exclusive rights to all +the passenger carrying and flying to be done at the local fair then in +progress. + +He landed an hour before he was supposed to put on his first performance +of stunting, wing-walking and parachute jumping, the preliminary +crowd-attracting procedure before the money-making of passenger +carrying, which was one of the attractions the fair had advertised. He +found another pilot and plane, with chute jumper, there ahead of him, +all set to do business in his place. + +Pangborne told the other pilot to get out. The other pilot said, "So +what?" Pangborne said: "I got a contract, and I'm going to town to see +about it." + +He went to town and told the fair association about it. He said he would +sue the city if they didn't get that other guy and his chute jumper off +the field by the time he was ready to put on his exhibition. + +The fair association went out to the field. They got hold of the other +pilot and his chute jumper. They reminded the pilot that he had flown +out of that field the previous year, and, in departing, had overlooked +the small matter of paying a certain amount of rent he had agreed to pay +for the field. They told him to get out or go to jail by four o'clock +that afternoon. + +It was a conclusive argument. The pilot cranked his ship, got in his +cockpit, called to his chute jumper, a long, slim, gangling kid who was +obviously disappointed at the turn affairs had taken, because he had +been all set to have some fun jumping that day, and took off. + +The chute jumper was Charles Augustus Lindbergh, who had not yet learned +to fly. + + + + +EVERYTHING WRONG + + +On my first solo in a Martin bomber, I started to take off and started +swinging to the left. I put on right rudder but kept on swinging to the +left. I ran out of right rudder and was still swinging to the left into +a line of mesquite trees. I eased the right motor off a little, but it +didn't help much. I couldn't cut the gun and stop before I hit the +trees. I could only hope to get into the air before I got up to them. + +Suddenly my left wing started to lift, and it dawned on me like a flash +of shame what was wrong. I had had the wheel rolled to the right and my +left aileron down. The resistance of that down aileron had swung me to +the left at slow speeds, and I had fought it with right rudder, but now +at high speeds it was banking me to the right, and I still had on right +rudder. I was taking off in a right-hand bank with the controls set +fully for it. The left-hand motor was pulling stronger than the right. + +I never kicked and pulled so many things so fast before as I did right +then. By some miracle I found myself fifty feet in the air instead of in +a heap. But I was flying exactly at right angles to the direction I had +originally planned. + +Everything seemed to be all right, so I went around and landed. I gave +it the gun immediately on touching the ground and went around and landed +again. + +This time I saw a lot of cars coming out toward me. Maybe that take-off +had looked pretty good. Maybe they thought I knew what I had been doing. +The two landings had been good. Maybe they were coming out to +congratulate me. + +My instructor got there first. He ran over and started inspecting the +right wing tip. He was looking underneath it. "Hey, you," he shouted at +me when he looked up, "don't you ever get out and take a look after you +crack up a ship?" + +I had dragged the right wing for several hundred feet. The under side of +the wing was badly torn up, and the aileron was just barely hanging on. + + + + +A SHOWY STUNT + + +An upside-down landing is one of the showiest maneuvers a stunting pilot +can perform. He doesn't really land upside down. He comes all the way in +in his glide upside down until he is about ten or twenty feet off the +ground. Then he rolls over and lands right side up. + +Jack, who had got pretty hot at this maneuver, hit a telephone pole +coming in like that one day and woke up in the hospital. + +Some time before that I had almost done practically the same thing. I +had dived low over the field down wind at the end of a show I had been +putting on at a little air meet and had pulled up until I was on my back +at about eight hundred feet. I decided I would not only glide in upside +down but would make it really fancy and slip both ways in the glide. I +started to slip but forgot and did it the same as I would have had I +been right side up and produced a bank instead. No, no, I told myself, +coordinate, don't cross controls. There. I tried one to the other side. +That's fine, I told myself. I got so absorbed in this little maneuver +that I completely forgot the ground until I was almost too low and too +slow to turn right side up again. I actually missed the ground by inches +as I rolled over, and only some kind fate presiding over absent-minded +stunt pilots enabled me to do it then. + +I saw Jack in the hospital, when he was well enough. + +"Hey, Jack," I started kidding him, "I hear that you practiced +upside-down landings for months, and that finally you made one. Is there +any truth to that?" + +He clamped his jaws but grinned back at me. "That's all right," he said, +"but if I remember correctly I saw a pilot by the name of Jimmy Collins +just miss landing upside down once." + +"Yeah, Jack," I said, "but--" I hesitated: this was too good not to +emphasize--"but I missed," I said. + +Jack just glared at me. There wasn't any answer. + + + + +DEATH ON THE GRIDIRON + + +It's funny how things turn out sometimes. Fate gives you a capricious +little tweak, and there you are. I often think of the case of Zep +Schock. + +Zep and I were fraternity brothers at college. I was crazy about +aviation, and Zep was crazy about football. I had been too poor to fly +up till then, and Zep had been too little to play football. He weighed +only about ninety-five pounds when he came to college. They had even +used him as a sort of a mascot on the high-school teams. + +Near the end of my freshman year I discovered quite accidentally, +through reading an aviation magazine which I had repeatedly promised +myself not to read because it took my mind off my work, that the army +would teach me to fly for nothing. They would even pay me for it! And +Zep suddenly started to grow. + +I passed my entrance examinations for the Army Primary Flying School at +Brooks Field, San Antonio, Tex., that fall, and prepared to quit school +after the mid-term exams--which would mark the end of my freshman year, +because I had started college in January instead of March--to go to +flying school the following March. Zep had made the freshman football +team in the meantime. + +There wasn't much flying outside of the army in those days, and nobody +knew much about it except that it was dangerous. None of the fellows +could understand why I was doing such a fool thing. They tried to talk +me out of it, discovered they couldn't, decided I was nuts, and started +kidding me. Zep was the best of the bunch. + +Every night at dinner he used to propose a toast to me. "Here's to Jimmy +Collins," he used to say. "The average life of the aviator is forty +hours." He had picked those figures up some place reading about war +pilots. + +That was eleven years ago, and I'm still flying. Poor Zep made the +regular team the next year and got killed playing football. + + + + +NOVICE NEAR DEATH + + +One flight test I gave, when I was an inspector for the Department of +Commerce, was almost my last. + +I went up with a guy, saw in three minutes he couldn't fly, took the +controls away from him, landed, and told him to come back some other +day. He pleaded with me that I hadn't given him a chance, that if I +would only let him go further through the test without taking the +controls away he would show me he could fly. + +So I took him up again. I let him slop along without interference until +we came to spins. I told him to do a spin, and he started a steep +spiral. I took the controls away from him, regained some altitude, told +him to do a spin again, and he started a steep spiral again--a lousy +spiral, too! + +I thought maybe he was afraid to do a spin, so I said the mental +equivalent of "Skip it" to myself and told him to do a three-sixty. He +should have gone to fifteen hundred feet, cut the gun, turned around +once in his glide and landed on a spot under where he had cut the gun. +He went to two thousand feet instead, put the ship in a steep, skidding +spiral verging on a spin--he was death on steep spirals--and held it +there. Round and round we went. I let him go. I wanted to convince him +this time. + +I had been watching for it, but at two hundred feet the ship beat me to +it even so and flipped right over on its back. I made one swift +movement, knocking the throttle open with my left hand in passing, and +grabbed the stick with both hands. The guy was frantically freezing +backward on it, but my sudden, violent attack on it gave me the lead on +him and I managed to get the stick just far enough forward to stop the +spin we had begun. I was sure we were going to hit the ground swooping +out of the resultant dive, but by some miracle we missed it. + +I landed immediately and was so mad I started to walk off without saying +anything. But the guy followed me, bleating, "Please, Mr. Collins. +Please, Mr. Collins," until I relented and turned to speak. + +Before I could say anything he broke in on me with: "Please, Mr. +Collins, please don't grab the controls from me like that just because I +make one too many turns. I could bring the ship down all right." + +My mouth opened and closed speechlessly. Bring it down! Bring us both +down in a heap! But how could I say it and make myself understood? The +guy didn't even know we had been in a spin. He didn't know we had almost +broken our necks in one. He thought I was impatient! + + + + +HUNGRY'S SHIP BURNED + + +Lieutenant Hungry Gates' ship caught fire in the air. He pulled his +throttle and worked carefully but fast. He undid his belt and started to +raise himself out of the cockpit. He started to leap but remembered +something. That swell bottle of pre-war liquor that a friend had given +him just before he took off was in the map case. He'd need that if he +got down alive. He made a quick grab back into the cockpit for it and +leaped head foremost, clear of the burning wreck. + +He missed the tail surfaces and waited a moment, thankful for that much. +He didn't want the ship to fall on him. He didn't want any of the +burning debris to fall on his chute when he opened it. + +When he had waited long enough, he started to pull his rip cord to open +his chute, but discovered both hands already engaged. He let go of the +bottle of liquor with his right hand and hugged the bottle tightly with +his left arm. He grabbed his rip-cord ring with his freed right hand, +yanked hard, grabbed his bottle to him with both hands again, and +waited. The sudden checking of his speed when his chute opened jolted +him up short in his harness, but he didn't drop the bottle. + +He thought of the flaming wreck above him. He looked up but saw only his +white chute spread safely above him, etched cold against the clear blue +sky. He looked around the sky. He saw a long trailing column of black +smoke and followed it with his eyes downward until he saw the hurtling +ship at the end of it. It was beneath him now and no longer a threat to +his chute. He watched it nose violently into a wooded patch off to his +left just before he settled down into a pasture. He hit hard, fell down, +but held on to his bottle. His chute toppled over into a limp heap in +the still air. + +He sat up and decided he needed a drink before he even got out of his +harness to gather up his chute. He hauled his bottle out from under his +arm and gazed at it in consternation, licking his lips. + +It wasn't a bottle at all. It was the fire extinguisher! + + + + +BACK-SEAT PALS + + +Back-seat driving is taboo in the ethics of the flying game. But +occasionally you get a case of it when you get two pilots together in +the same cockpit. + +Two pilots were flying a pretty heavily loaded bomber on a cross-country +trip, one time. They were both fast friends and both equally good +pilots. Maybe that's why the thing happened as it did. + +They landed at Love Field, Tex., gassed up, and taxied out to take off +again. Part of the field was torn up. They didn't have any more field +than just enough from where they began their take-off. + +Their heavily loaded ship with its two Liberty motors, its acres of +wings, and its forest of struts started lumbering down the field. The +pilot who was flying the ship used most of the space in front of his +obstacles before he got the ship off the ground. He did a nice job after +he got it off the ground by not climbing it more than just enough to +clear the wires which were in front of him. He figured he was just going +to clear them nicely when apparently the other pilot, sitting alongside +him in the other cockpit, figured he wasn't although why the other pilot +did what he did at that second I could never figure out, except that it +was one of those dumb things that we are all apt to do under duress if +we don't watch ourselves. + +Anyway, both motors suddenly quit cold, and the ship smacked into the +wires and piled up in a heap on the far side of the road across the +airport. + +Both pilots came out of the wreck running. The one who had been flying +the ship had the wheel, which evidently had broken off in the crash, +raised above his head in his right hand. He was brandishing it wildly, +running after the other pilot and shouting at the top of his voice, "Cut +my switches, will you! Cut my switches just when I was going to make it! +If I ever catch you I'll cut your throat!" + + + + +WATCH YOUR STEP! + + +At Anacostia Naval Air Station, the river flows on one side of the +hangars, and the airport stretches on the other. They fly boats out of +the river side and land planes out of the airport side. + +One pilot down there had been flying land planes exclusively for several +months. Then one day he flew a boat. One of the enlisted pilots went +along with him as co-pilot. + +After flying around for a while he started in for a landing. But instead +of coming in for a landing on the river he started to land on the +airport. + +The enlisted pilot with him let him go as long as he thought he dared. +Then he nudged him in the ribs, pointed out that he was about to land a +boat on land, and suggested that maybe it would be a better idea to go +over and land in the river. + +The pilot agreed that it certainly would. He gave it the gun and went +around again and came in for a landing on the river. He made a good +landing and let the ship slow down. When they were idling along he +turned around to the enlisted pilot and started to apologize for almost +landing him on land. He undid his belt as he talked. + +"That was a dumb thing for me to do," he said. "I've been flying land +planes for so long that I guess I just started coming in there from +habit without thinking. It sure was dumb." He was obviously humiliated +and confused. + +"Well," he said finally, "it sure was dumb," and got up and climbed out +of the cockpit onto the wing. + +"So long," he said, and stepped down off the wing into the water. + + + + +FLYER ENJOYS WORRY + + +Gloomy Gus got his name at Brooks Field, the army primary flying school. +He was always going to get washed out of the school the next day. When +he graduated from Brooks he wasn't going to last three weeks at Kelly, +the advanced school, because he had got through Brooks by luck anyway. +When he graduated from Kelly, the hottest pilot in his class, he would +never get a job in commercial flying, so he might just as well have been +washed out at Kelly. + +I saw him several months later in Chicago. He was flying one of the best +runs on the western division of the mail. He was sure it wouldn't be +very long before he cracked up, night flying, and disabled himself for +life, so what good was his mail job? + +I saw him several years after he had been transferred to the eastern run +over the Allegheny Mountains. He didn't know what good the additional +money he was making was going to do him when he was dead. Didn't all the +hot pilots get it in those mountains? + +He took a vacation from the passenger lines and went on active duty with +the army. I saw him at Mitchell Field. He said he was taking his +vacation flying because he wanted to fly some army ships for a change +and have some fun. "But you know, I shouldn't have done it," he said. +"I've been flying straight and level too long. I almost hit a guy in +formation this morning. I probably won't live long enough to get back to +the lines." + +I saw him a few days after he had gone back to the lines. + +"How they going, Gloomy?" I greeted him. + +"Oh," he said, "that bit of army flying made me careless. I almost hit a +radio tower this morning. Carelessness is what kills all old-timers, you +know." + +"Gus," I said. "You'd be miserable if you didn't have something to worry +about. You will probably live to have a long white beard and worry +yourself sick all day long that you are going to trip on it and break +your neck." + +Only a faint flicker of humor lit up his gloomy eyes. + + + + +WEATHER AND WHITHER + + +Archer Winsten writes that "different" column in the _Post_, In the Wake +of the News. I met Archer for the first time in San Antonio in 1927. He +was down there for his health, and I was instructing at Brooks Field for +my living. We both had ideas of writing even at that time. We became +fast friends before Archer went home to Connecticut and I went to March +Field, Riverside, Cal. + +I resigned from the army the next year and went with the Department of +Commerce. I was assigned to fly Bill McCracken, head of the department, +on about a seven-thousand-mile tour of the country. I kept asking Bill +if his itinerary was going to take us to Westport, Conn., or anywhere +near it, because if it was I wanted to go see my friend Archer Winsten, +who lived there. He said he didn't know where the place was, and I began +looking for it on the map. I couldn't find it and told Bill that. I +remarked how strange it was several times later that I couldn't find +Westport on the map. A couple of times Bill asked me if I had found it +yet, and I said no. + +I was strange to the East at that time, and when we got to Hartford I +was sure we were going to go right past Westport without my ever finding +out where it was. I complained to Bill about it and we both looked over +a map and couldn't find the place. + +The next day we started down to New York from Hartford and ran into +lousy weather. It got so low finally that, although I was following +railroads and valleys, I decided that I couldn't go any farther. I +milled around, dodging trees and hills for about ten minutes before I +found a place to sit down. + +I landed in a small field surrounded with stone fences. A man came +wading through the wet grass toward us after we had stopped rolling. +Bill asked me where we were, and I said I had only a vague idea after +all that milling around but would ask the man. The man said Westport. + +Bill howled with delight. Part of his delight undoubtedly was relief at +getting down out of that soup without breaking his neck, but I was never +able to convince him that I didn't know I was landing at Westport. + + + + +I SEE + + +A man came up to me for flight test once when I was an inspector for the +Department of Commerce. He flew terribly, so I sent him away and told +him to come back in a couple of weeks, after he had practiced a little +more. He came back a couple of weeks later, and I turned him down again. + +The third time he came in he said, "I think we'll get along all right +this time. Can I take the test today?" + +"I'm too busy today," I told him. But he pleaded so hard that I finally +said, "All right, I'll squeeze you in this afternoon. Come at three +o'clock." + +"Thank you, thank you," he said, and held out his hand. + +I reached out my hand to grip his and felt something in my palm. I +pulled my hand away and found a piece of paper in it. I unfolded it and +discovered a ten-dollar bill. + +I stood there and looked at it, puzzled and amazed for a few seconds. +Then the full import of it dawned on me. He thought I had been holding +out for something. He thought he would fix me up. He didn't know he +could never fix me up if I put my stamp of approval on him when he was +unfit and he should then go out and kill some passenger because of my +leniency. + +It started at the top of my head, that raging anger. It burned like +flaming coals and raced through my veins like fire. I began to tremble +violently, and when I looked up the man was a red flame in a red room. + +I hurled the paper bill at him as though it were a javelin and shouted, +"Get out! Get out and don't ever come back!" + +Have you ever thrown a piece of paper at anybody? + +The bill fluttered ineffectually down to the floor halfway between us. I +rushed at it and kicked at it until it was out of the door. I kicked him +out too. + +I wondered, sitting at my desk afterward, why I had got so mad. It +wasn't honesty. I hadn't had time to think of honesty. I wondered if it +was because he had implied that I was worth ten dollars. I wondered what +I would have done if he had offered me ten thousand dollars. I began to +understand graft. + + + + +WON ARGUMENT LOST + + +"That student is dangerous. You're crazy if you fly with him again," I +harangued my friend, Brooks Wilson. + +"Don't be that way," Brooks answered. "He's not dangerous. He's goofy." + +"That's why he's dangerous," I countered. "You tell me that he froze the +controls in a panic today and you lost a thousand feet of altitude +before you were able to get the ship away from him. The next time you +may not have a thousand feet." + +"I won't need a thousand feet the next time," Brooks argued. "I wrestled +the controls away from him today, but the next time he grabs them like +that, I'll just beat him over the head with the fire extinguisher and +knock him out." + +"If you are high enough to do that, you won't be in any danger," I +pointed out. "And if you are low enough to be in danger when he freezes, +you won't have time to knock him out." + +Brooks and I were both very young army instructors, and Brooks was +stubborn with the confidence of youth. He only growled, "Don't be a +sissy all your life. I can handle this guy." + +The next day a solo student spun in, in a field of corn beside the +airport. Brooks had just landed with his goofy student and was crawling +out of his cockpit when he saw the ship hit. He jumped back into his +cockpit, gave his still idling motor the gun and took off, his goofy +student still in the rear seat. + +He flew over the wreck, circled it, dove on it, pulled up, wing-it, dove +on it, pulled up, wing-overed, and dove on it again. He was a beautiful +pilot. He was pointing out to the ambulance where the wreck was in the +tall corn. He pulled up and started another wing-over, flipped suddenly +over on his back, and spun in right beside the wreck. + +When they pulled Brooks out of his wreck he was unconscious but was +muttering over and over again in his Southern vernacular, "Turn 'em +loose. Turn 'em loose. Turn 'em loose before we crash." + +The goofy student was hardly even scratched. Brooks died that night. + + + + +MONK HUNTER + + +Monk Hunter was a dashing aviator, the only really dashing aviator I +have ever known. There was dash to the cut and fit of his uniforms, dash +to the shine and the fit of his boots, dash to the twirl and flip of the +cane he carried. There was dash to the set of his magnificently erect +and darkly handsome head, dash in the flare of his nostrils and the +gleam of his flashing black eyes, dash in his violently dynamic gestures +and in his torrential, staccatoed, highly inflected speech which he +aimed at you as he had aimed machine guns at enemy flyers during the war +when he had shot down nine of them. + +There was especial dash to Monk's mustache. Only Monk could have worn +that mustache. I saw him once without it, and something seemed to have +gone out of him as it went out of Samson when they clipped his hair. He +looked naked and helpless. + +It was a big mustache, the kind you see in tintypes of swains of long +ago. It bristled, and Monk had a way about him in twirling it that you +should have seen. + +Poor Monk took off at Selfridge one day in an army pursuit ship. He even +did that with dash. He held it low after the take-off and then started a +clean, left, sweeping climb into the blue sky. + +We all saw the white smoke start trailing out behind his ship. Then with +bated breath we watched the ship slump slowly over from its gestured +climbing and nose straight down inexorably toward the ice of Lake St. +Clair. Monk's chute blossomed out behind the diving ship just before it +disappeared behind the trees. + +We all jumped into cars and rushed madly over to where we thought it had +hit. We found Monk, unhurt, except for the jar from landing on the ice, +waving his arms, wildly shouting that the ship had caught fire and to +look what the damned thing had done. We looked at the ship, but Monk was +still gesticulating excitedly, so we looked at him. He meant to look +what it had done to him. + +We all started laughing like hell. We were really laughing with Monk, +not at him. He appreciated it, too. + +His mustache had been burnt clear off on one side. + + + + +COULDN'T TAKE IT + + +I was testing an airplane one day. Its wings came off, and I jumped out +in my chute. I am convinced that the people on the ground watching me +got a bigger thrill out of it than I did. I was too busy. + +For one thing, Admiral Moffett, who was later killed in the _Akron_, +rushed home to his office in an emotional fit and wrote me a very nice +letter about what a hero I was. I wasn't any hero. I had just been +saving my neck. + +And for another, my mechanic came up to see me in the hospital right +afterward. I wasn't in the hospital because I was hurt, but because the +military doctor on the post made me go there. After I had got into the +hospital I discovered that my heart was beating so violently that I +couldn't sleep, so when Eddie, my mechanic, came up they let him in. + +He didn't say anything at all for a while. He just sat on the bed +opposite mine and twirled his cap, looking down at the floor. Finally he +said, "When your chute opened, I fell down." + +I pictured him running madly across the field, watching me falling +before I had opened my chute, and then stumbling just as my chute +opened. "Why didn't you watch where you were going?" I said banteringly. + +He kept looking at the floor, twirling his cap, his face expressionless. +"I wasn't going any place," he said. + +The conversation wasn't making much sense to me. "Didn't you say that +when my chute opened, you fell down?" I asked. + +"Yes," he said, as if he were talking to the floor. He was in a sort of +trance. + +"Well," I said, puzzled, "then you must have been running across the +field watching me. You must have stumbled and fallen." + +"No," he said, like a man in a dream, "I didn't stumble on anything. I +was just standing there looking up, watching you." + +I was getting frantic. "Well, how in the hell did you fall down, then?" +I asked. + +"My knees collapsed," he said. + + + + +GOOD LUCK + + +Soon now, he would be flying out over the ocean. Soon he would be famous +and rich. Lindbergh had made it. Why shouldn't he? + +His ship was almost ready. Its belly bulged with new tanks. Its wings +stretched with new width to take the added gas load. Its motor emitted a +perfect sound that his trained ears could find no fault with. + +Only the final adjusting of his instruments remained. Lindbergh had +taken great pains with his instruments. He would too. When the ground +crew had finished with them, he flew his ship on a short cross-country +trip to check the instruments in flight. They worked fine. + +He brought his ship down to put it in the hangar until he got his break +in weather. He lingered in the cockpit for a few moments, contemplating +his instruments in anticipation of the weary hours he would have to +watch them during the long flight. + +A thought occurred to him. Lindbergh had been lucky. He would be too. +His girl (sweet kid--maybe when he came back ... but he would do the job +first) had already wished him luck. She had given him a token of her +wish. It was only a cheap thing she had picked up in some novelty shop, +but he treasured it. He took it out of his pocket. He tied it to the +instrument board and fashioned its bright red ribbon into a neat bow +knot that reminded him of the way she fastened her apron when she made +coffee for him in her kitchen late at night. There. Yes, he too would +have luck now. + +Several days later his break in the weather hadn't come yet. He got +worried about his instruments. There were no landmarks in the ocean. +Maybe he had better check his compass again. + +He went out to the field and flew his ship. The compass was off! It was +way off! When the ground crew checked it again it was off twenty degrees +on the first reading. + +They soon found the trouble. As everybody knows, metal near a compass +will throw it off. They found a metal imitation of a rabbit's foot +suspended on a red ribbon tied to the bottom of the compass case. + + + + +WILL ROGERS IN THE AIR + + +I was flying as a passenger on one of the airlines once, going out to +Wichita to take delivery of a ship I had sold. Will Rogers was a +passenger on the same ship. + +When we stopped at Columbus, I managed to engage Rogers in conversation. +I had always been curious about whether he talked in private life as he +does on the stage and radio, and if the poor grammar in his writing was +deliberate or natural. He talked to me exactly as he does on the stage +and radio, and his grammar was just as bad as it is in his writing. So I +decided that, if it was an act, he was carrying it pretty far. + +I noticed that he made certain movements with difficulty. He seemed to +be crippled up a little. I asked him what was the matter. He said he had +fallen off his horse before he left California and had broken a couple +of ribs. I thought that was kind of funny, because I had always supposed +he was a good horseman. I told him that, and he said it was a new horse +and he wasn't used to it. I still thought it was kind of funny, but I +let it pass. + +I managed to bring out a little later in the conversation that I was a +professional pilot myself and that being a passenger was a rare +experience for me. He said he could tell me the truth then. He said he +really had had an airplane accident the day before. An airliner he had +been riding in had made a forced landing, had nosed over pretty hard, +and had banged him up a little. That's how he had broken his ribs. + +He said it hadn't been the pilot's fault that they had cracked up, that +the motor had quit, and that the pilot had done a good job considering +the country he had to sit down in. He said that only a good pilot could +have kept from killing everybody in the ship, and that he was the only +one who had been hurt. + +He said he had told me that story about the horse in the first place +because he thought I was a regular passenger. He said not to tell any of +the rest of the passengers, because it might scare them and spoil their +trip. + + + + +HE NEVER KNEW + + +Pilots often play jokes on each other when they fly together. + +Two pilots I knew at Kelly Field had been up to Dallas on a week-end +cross-country trip. They started back on a very rough day and were +bouncing all around the sky. + +About fifty miles out of San Antonio, the pilot who was flying the ship +turned around to ask the other one in the rear seat for some matches. He +couldn't see him, so he figured he was slumped down in the cockpit, +napping. He looked back under his arm inside the fuselage. The rear +cockpit was empty! + +He was only flying at about five hundred feet, hadn't been flying any +higher than that on the whole trip, and at times had been flying even +lower. + +Scared to death that his passenger had loosened his belt to stretch out +and sleep and had been thrown out of the cockpit in a bump, perhaps even +failing to recognize his predicament in time to open his chute, the +pilot swung back on his course and started searching the route he had +covered for signs of a body. He searched back over as much of it as he +dared and still have enough gas left to turn around again and go on into +Kelly Field. + +He found nothing and was worried sick all the way back to Kelly. But +when he landed, there was the other pilot, grinning a greeting at him. + +The pilot who had been in the rear seat explained that he had undone his +belt to stretch out and sleep and that the next thing he knew he felt a +bump and woke up with a start to discover the cockpit about four feet +beneath him and off to one side. He said he reached, but only grabbed +thin air. The tail surfaces passed by under him, and he saw the airplane +flying off without him. + +He was too astounded at first, but quickly realized he ought to do +something, sitting out there in space with no airplane or anything, so +he pulled his rip cord. His chute opened just in time. + +He walked over to the main road he had been flying over so recently and +thumbed himself a ride to Kelly Field. He said he had seen the ship turn +around and start back looking for him. + +The pilot who had been flying the ship never knew if the other one had +really fallen out of the ship, or if he had jumped out as a joke. + + + + +BONNY'S DREAM + + +Bonny had a dream. His inventor's eyes gleamed with the light of it. His +days lived with the hope of it. His nights moved with its vision. + +Because of his dream we called him Bonny Gull. He dreamed of building an +airplane with metal, wood and fabric to emulate the sinewed, feathered +grace of a soaring gull. + +He studied gulls. He studied them dead and alive. He studied their +wonderful soaring flight alive. He killed them and studied their +lifeless wings. He wanted their secret. He wanted to recreate it for +man. + +He might have asked God. He might have asked God and heard a still small +voice answer: "Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's and unto God what is +God's. Render unto man his own flight and leave to the gulls their own. +Man's flight is different because his destiny is different. He doesn't +need the gulls' flight." + +But Bonny envied the gulls. He killed hundreds of them, yes, thousands, +and buried them in the field. He built an airplane from what he thought +he had learned from their dead bodies. + +He built an airplane and took it out to fly. Engineers, who had never +studied gulls but who had studied man's flight, told him he shouldn't do +it. They pointed out to him how the center of pressure would shift on +his wings. But Bonny glared his glittering faith at them, snuggled his +dream in close, and flew. + +He took off all right. He roared across the field, and if he didn't +sound quite like a gull, he looked the part. He rose into the air for +all the world like a giant gull. He pulled off in a steep climb, and the +wise men wondered if again they were proved wrong by an ignorant +fanatic. + +Their wonder didn't last long. When Bonny tried to level out, he nosed +over and dove straight into the ground, like a gull diving into the +ocean for a fish. We rushed out to the wreck. Bonny was quite dead. +There was scattered around him not only the remains of his own gull +wings, but thousands of the feathered remains of other gull wings. He +had dived straight into the shallow grave of all the gulls he had +killed. + + + + +COB-PIPE HAZARDS + + +Silly little things are apt to crack you up sometimes. + +I did an outside loop at Akron once. I came up over the top of the loop +and started right down into another. I didn't want to do another, so I +pulled back on the stick to stop it. It wouldn't come all the way back. +It was jammed some way. + +The ship was nosing steeper and steeper into the dive. I rolled the +stabilizer, and that enabled me to pull the nose up. I couldn't keep it +up if I cut the gun more than halfway. I knew I would have a tough time +landing like that. Besides, although I had a chute, I knew that when I +got down low to make a landing the stick might jam even farther forward +and nose me in before I had a chance to jump. Or the engine might quit +down low and do the same thing. It wasn't my ship, however, and I didn't +want to jump and throw it away if I didn't absolutely have to. + +I tried the stick a few more times. Each time I yanked it back hard it +came up against the same obstacle at the same point. I decided to take a +chance that it would stay jammed where it was. + +I came in low 'way back of the field with almost all of the back travel +of the stick taken up, holding the nose up with the gun. I had to land +with the tail up high, going fast. I bounced wildly, used all the field, +but made it all right. + +I made an immediate inspection to find out what had jammed the stick. I +couldn't imagine what it was because I had taken all the loose gadgets +out of the ship before I had gone up. + +I found a corncob pipe that the ship's owner had been looking for for +weeks. He had left it in the baggage compartment and had never been able +to find it. It had slipped through a small opening at the top of the +rear wall of the compartment and had evidently been floating around in +the tail of the fuselage all that time. + +When I did the outside loop it had been flung upward by centrifugal +force and wedged into the wedge ending of the upper longerons at the end +of the fuselage. The flipper horn was hitting it every time I pulled the +stick back, preventing me from getting the full backward movement. + +Only the bowl of the pipe was left. It was lodged sidewise. Had it +lodged endwise it would have jammed the stick even farther forward, and +I would have had to jump or dive in with the ship. I would have had to +jump quickly, too, because I didn't have much altitude when I started +that second involuntary outside loop. + + + + +WHOOPEE! + + +A friend of mine was once chased and rammed in midair by a drunken +pilot. If you have ever been approached on the road by a drunken driver +you have some idea of the predicament he found himself in when this +drunk started chasing him. Of course, he didn't know this guy was drunk, +but he knew he was either drunk or crazy. + +My friend was an army pilot. He was flying an army pursuit ship from +Selfridge Field, Mich., to Chicago and was circling the field at Chicago +preparatory to landing when he was set upon by the drunk, who, evidently +still living in the memory of his war days, was trying to egg my friend +on to a sham battle, trying to get him to dogfight. + +He saw the DH, which was a mail ship of those days, approach him first +from above and head on. He had to kick out of the way at the last +moment, or he would have been hit on that first pass the guy took at +him. The guy pulled up and took another pass at him. He kicked out of +the way again and started wondering since when had they turned lunatics +loose in the sky. He didn't have much time for wondering, because the +guy kept taking passes at him. Finally, the guy took to diving down +under him and pulling up in front of him. He seemed to think that was +more fun than just diving on my friend, and he kept it up. + +My friend saw him disappear under the tail of his ship this time, and he +didn't know what to do about it. He didn't know which way to turn, +because he didn't know which way the goof was going to pull up. + +Suddenly he saw the nose of the other ship. It came up directly in front +of his own nose. He knew the guy had overdone it this time and come too +close. He pulled back on his stick, but felt the jar of the collision +just as he did. It threw him up into a stall, and when he came out his +motor was so rough he had to cut his switches. He had raked the tail of +the other ship with his propeller, and it was bent all out of shape. He +had also cut the tail off the drunk's ship. + +The drunk was evidently too drunk to get out of the cockpit because he +cracked up with his ship. My friend managed to get his ship down without +jumping. It was only a wonder, plus some neat flying on my friend's +part, that he wasn't killed too. + + + + +BUILDING THROUGH + + +A pilot should never be too stubborn with an airplane. I learned that +early, fortunately, without coming to grief in the process. + +Another pilot criticized my flying once. He criticized the way I was +making my take-offs. Kidlike and cocky, just out of flying school, I +took a foolish way of proving he was wrong. But he had me so riled by +his caustic and nasty remarks about how I was going to kill myself if I +kept that up that I flung out a challenge to him and felt I had to keep +my attitude even when I saw I was overdoing the thing and thought I was +going to crack up. + +"If you think my take-offs are so dangerous," I told him, "I'll just go +out there and cut my gun in the most dangerous spot of this dangerous +take-off and land safely back in the airport." And I stalked out, +fuming, and got in the ship. + +I took off toward the high trees at the end of the field, didn't let the +ship climb very steeply approaching the trees, and banked just before I +got to them--exactly like I had been doing on the take-offs he had been +criticizing. But I also pulled up sharply, just to make it worse. I +didn't want him to have any comeback. I cut the gun and started dropping +back in over the trees into the airport. I should have put the nose down +a little to cushion the drop, but I was mad. I'd show him the worse way. +I wanted to gun it because I was dropping hard, but I wouldn't give him +the satisfaction. + +I hit like a ton of bricks. The ship groaned and bounced as high as a +hangar. Luckily, it was a square hit and a square bounce. That's the +only reason I didn't spread the ship all over the field. It hit and +bounced again and rolled to a very short stop for a down-wind landing. + +"All right," I told the guy when I crawled out of the ship, "you go out +now and cut your gun just over the trees on one of your safe, straight +take-offs. You won't have a turn started and already pretty well +developed, and you won't have room enough to start one. You'll pile into +the trees in a heap, and if that's safer than landing on the airport in +one piece, then I'll admit that your take-offs are safer than mine." + +He didn't dare and he knew it. So he just glared at me, knowing damned +well, as I knew myself, that I should by all rights have cracked up on +that landing. But I had him, and he shut up and didn't make any more +cracks about me. + + + + +MUCH! + + +Somebody asked me one day what kind of an airplane I flew. I told him +any kind anybody was willing to pay me for flying. + +"But don't you own an airplane?" the man asked. + +"No," I answered. "And furthermore," I added, "I have never owned an +airplane, although I have been a professional pilot for eleven years." + +Why? + +Well, I can best explain that as I explained it to a little boy once out +in California. + +I was at the Lockheed factory. I had been there several months, +supervising the construction of an airplane I had sold to a rich +sportsman pilot in the East. It was a Lockheed Sirius plane and at that +time a ship which was taking everybody's eyes as the latest and sleekest +thing yet developed by the engineers. Lindbergh had just popularized it +by flying himself and his wife across the country in it and establishing +a new transcontinental record. + +They rolled my ship out on the line one bright, sunny day and I must say +that in its shiny new red-and-white paint job and its clean, sweeping +lines it certainly was a beautiful sight sitting there glistening in +that California sunshine. + +A little boy who had crawled over the factory fence despite the "No +Trespassing" sign evidently thought so too, for he was standing there +gazing raptly at it with eyes as big as silver dollars when I stalked +out toward the ship to make a first test hop in it. He intercepted me +neatly as I rounded the wing tip and approached the cockpit. + +"Ooh, mister," he said, "do you own that ship?" + +"No, sonny," I answered. "I merely fly it. I find that that is less +expensive and more fun." + + + + +CROSS-COUNTRY SNAPSHOTS + + +I take off from March Field, Calif., head north and climb steeply. At +ten thousand feet on the altimeter I see the green fir trees skimming +only a couple of hundred feet beneath me. I see the deep snow between +their trunks, brilliant in the sun. I am clearing the San Bernardino +range. + +I come out at ten thousand feet over the Mohave Desert, my altimeter +still reading ten thousand feet. The floor of the Mohave is high. + +I look ahead to the railroad, thirty miles away. I look behind. The +green-sloped, snow-capped Bernardinoes form a backdrop for the desert +underneath. + +On beyond the railroad, beyond Barstow, into the Granite Mountains, low, +rolling, black, barren, lava-formed. + +Into the Painted Hills. They are not named that on the map. They are not +named at all, and at first I can't believe them. But there they are +beneath me. No atmospheric trick. No effect of distance. No subtle color +either. They are really painted. There is one over there. It sweeps out +of the desert upward into green and ends in a peak of white. There is +another, sweeping through purple to red. Others through red to yellow. +It is as if God had been playing with colored chalks, picking up purple, +perhaps, powdering it through his fingers to drop in a purple heap, +picking up another color then to drop on top of that in powdered +brilliance, powdering then on top of that another color still to form a +brilliant, pointed tip. Fantastic, unreal, true! + +For a long time now I have seen no life. The brilliant land is barren. I +look back. I can still make out where the railroad runs. Far, far +behind, the white Bernardinoes rise, low on the horizon now in the +distance. It is not a long flight back to the railroad, or even a very +long one back to the mountains and over them into the green San +Bernardino Valley and March Field. But it is a long walk. It is a long +walk back even to the railroad. What if my motor quits? I had intended +to go on to Death Valley, just to see it, circle, and return. + +I bank reluctantly around and assume a reverse compass course for home. +I have seen enough for an afternoon's jaunt, anyway. + + + + +REMINISCENCE + + +I taxi out and turn my ship into the wind at the end of the snow-plowed +runway at Hagerstown Airport, Maryland. The white hangar looms too +close. Deep snow on the rest of the field prohibits its use. Can I get +over the hangar? I give it the gun and try. Just miss the hangar. Too +close! + +Head off on a compass course for New York. Strong drift to the right +from northwest wind. Head a little more to left. + +Blue Ridge Mountains pass under me. On into the friendly undulating +valley country beyond, snow covered. + +Gettysburg under my left wing. They were fighting down there once. Hard +to believe, looking down on the peaceful fields now. Wonder what they +would have done if they could have looked up and seen me and my +airplane? + +Low hills before the Susquehanna River. Their brown contours reach like +dusky fingers out into the snow-filled valleys. + +Over the river, and Lancaster off to my left. Reform school there. +That's where they were always going to send me when I was a bad little +boy. + +More valley country. Ridge-like hills. The Schuylkill River and +Norristown. Philadelphia, blue laws, and no movies on Sundays far off to +my right. + +More valley. The Delaware River. Washington crossed the Delaware. I +cross it in half a minute. + +The Sourland Mountains and Lindbergh's sad white house. I see Flemington +and know the trial is going on down there. I remember walking with +Lindbergh, ten years ago, from San Antonio, Tex., to Kelly Field, where +we were both advanced flying students. "What are you going to do when +you graduate?" he asked. "What are you going to do?" I asked him. Yes, +what were we going to do? And now he was down there in that courtroom, +and the world stretching out around him as far as I could see and much, +much farther was a cocked ear listening again to his tragedy. And I was +circling above in the clean blue sky, remembering many things and +thinking. + +I shuddered a last long unbelieving look at Lindbergh's empty, lonely +house, perched up on its hill, circled and flew on. Half an hour later, +on Long Island, I kissed the chubby cheek of my own first-born son in +greeting and pitied Lindbergh somewhat for his fame. + + + + +MEXICAN WHOOPEE! + + +I hadn't seen Darr Alkire since I had resigned from the army several +years before, so when I dropped into March Field, Calif., to say hello +and he told me that he and a couple of the other officers were flying +three ships down to Mexacali on the Mexican border that afternoon to +return the next and asked me to go along, I said yes. + +I flew down in the rear seat of Darr's ship, and when we landed and +crossed the border everybody proceeded to get drunk. Everybody but Yours +Truly. I had been on a party the night before I had dropped in to see +Darr and didn't feel up to it. + +The next morning we met a Mexican captain, and everybody had to drink a +lot of drinks to each other. I still threw mine over my shoulder. + +That afternoon the Mexican captain had to escort us to the airport, just +to say good-bye to us. The leader of our formation then, no sooner had +we taken off, had to lead us in some diving passes at the Mexican +captain, just to say good-bye to him. + +They were having a lot of fun dusting their wings on the airport, +saluting the captain, but I wasn't! Darr was sticking his wing in too +close to the leader's for comfort. I had a set of dual controls in the +rear cockpit and couldn't resist just a little pressure on them to ease +his wing away from the leader's in some of the passes or to pull him up +just a little sooner in some of the dives. It was a heluva breach of +flying ethics, but after all I was sober! + +We got back to March, and Darr, sobered by then, began telling me what a +swell guy I had been to sit back there and take it. He said he would +have taken the controls away from me, had I been flying drunk, and he +sitting back there sober. I thought he was razzing me for a moment, but +saw that he really meant it. My pressure on the controls had been so +subtle that he hadn't noticed it. + +I didn't bother to tell him the truth. I liked the idea that he thought +I had had enough sand to sit there and not interfere with him. I didn't +have enough nerve to set him straight on the matter. + + + + +IT'S A TOUGH RACKET + + +The hazards of a pilot's life are sometimes different than some people +suppose. + +For instance, I flew some people to a ranch in Mexico once. I fought bad +weather most of the way from New York to Eagle Pass on the Border, +skimming mountains and swamps, and then flew eighty miles of barren +mountain and desert country to the ranch house. + +They insisted the next day that I go out hunting with them. That meant +that I had to ride a horse. I had ridden a horse once before in my life +and remembered it as the most uncomfortable means of transportation ever +invented by man. + +But I went with them. I even began to like it after we had been out a +while. I discovered that you could wheel the horse around in a running +turn and that it was almost like banking an airplane around. I was +having pretty good fun experimenting until I noticed that a certain +portion of my anatomy was getting very warm, and then, soon, that it was +getting very tender. Pretty soon I began to think that we would never +get back to the ranch house. When we finally did, my pants and my +anatomy were brilliantly discolored. And when I went to take the pants +off, I noticed that quite a bond had developed between me and them, +quite an attachment indeed! They were stuck fast and could be persuaded +away from me only with their pound of flesh. + +I decided that I would stick to my airplane after that. But the next +day, I discovered that my airplane was uncomfortable too--and I had to +make a five-hour flight to Mexico City. + +When I got to Mexico City everything was uncomfortable, and I had to eat +my dinner off the mantelpiece that night. There was an additional +humiliation. The doctor had to undress me. He had to use plenty of hot +oil and go very easy. + + + + +ALMOST + + +Bunny had trusted me on the outward trip, so now, returning to March +Field, Calif., I comforted myself in the rear cockpit of our army DH +with the thought that Bunny could fly as well as I. + +San Francisco lay behind us. The Diablo Mountains were beneath. Snug +around us, familiar and friendly, was our ship. + +But beyond, strange and ominous by now to Bunny and me because we had +hardly ever flown in it before, and never for so long, stretched like a +white, opaque, and directionless night the fog. + +The ship felt as if it were flying straight, but when I peeked over +Bunny's shoulder I saw the needle on his bank and turn indicator leaning +halfway over to the right. I watched it start back then--Bunny was all +right--to the center. But slowly then, inexorably--Bunny! Bunny!--the +needle leaned over to the left. The ball was centered, so the turns were +good. But that was not enough. Where were we going? Were we weaving? +Circling? Which way were we turning mostly? The ocean was not far off to +our right. + +Then something else--ice! Its white hands gripped the front of wings, the +leading edge of struts and wires. The prop got rough. The motor beat and +strained. Once the ship shivered. I saw one aileron go down. Bunny was +trying to hold a wing up. I saw the needle straighten. He had held it. +But I saw something else too! I saw the altimeter losing. No hope for +blue sky now. No hope to ride on top until we found a hole, as our +weather report had indicated that we would. How far were the mountain +tops beneath us? Would the ice melt off before we sank too far? + +I saw the throttle moving backward, heard the motor taper off its +friendly roar, heard Bunny's voice sound out like thunder in white doom. + +"Let's jump," he shouted, turning his head halfway. + +Were there mountains to land on and walk on in the depths of that white +down there? Or had we circled out over the ocean? + +"Let's not. Let's wait. Let's try once more," I shouted back. + +Then I shouted again, scraped my fingers on the windshield, reaching, +grabbed Bunny's shoulder, but too late. Even as I shouted, reached, and +grabbed, the ship banked on its ear, wheeled over, and dove safely +through a brown passage tunnel to the earth. Bunny had seen it too--a +hole in the fog, and through it, ground. + +The warmer lower air flowed over us. The ice dripped from our wings in +glistening drops. We came out in the San Joaquin Valley with plenty of +ceiling, and it was plain sailing from there on. + + + + +RUN! RUN! RUN! + + +It is a bright, golden day in Texas. A little Mexican boy is working in +a field of sugar cane just back of Kelly Field. The airplanes from the +field are droning in the sleepy air above his head. Occasionally he +pauses in his work to glance half curiously at one of them. He is not +much interested in them. They are like the automobiles swishing +endlessly past on the highway near by. He is accustomed to them. And +besides, they are not of his world. + +Sometimes the long motor roar of a ship coming out of a dive attracts +his half-hearted attention. Occasionally an intricate formation maneuver +over his head warrants his momentary gaze. Often he stares, half +abstractedly, skyward while he works. Like a shoe cobbler in a window +watching the crowds passing in the street. + +This time, however, a curious interruption in the steady beating drone +of a three-ship formation of DHs passing over him makes him +involuntarily raise his head from his work. It is a strange sound, +somehow ominous to him. He is accustomed to hearing the motors run. Even +their tapering off for a landing is a different noise than this one. His +unknowingly trained ears and maybe some strange premonition tell him +that. + +He sees two of the three ships locked together in collision. He sees +them, startlingly silent and arrested in their flight, falling in their +own debris. He sees two black objects leave the wrecks. He sees a white +streamer trail out behind each of them and then blossom open into two +swinging, slowly floating parachutes. He stands with his head thrown +back, his Indian eyes rapt in his Asiatic face. + +Suddenly he is alarmed, then full of fear. The two milling wrecks, black +harbingers of doom by now, are going to fall on him. He begins to run. +Any way, any direction at all. He runs as fast as his little brown legs +will carry him. He covers a considerable distance from where he was +standing by the time the wrecks hit. + +The spot he runs from, unruffled, undisturbed, lies warming, sleeping in +the sun. The wrecks don't hit that spot. They hit him, running. + +The world that was not his has folded darkened crumpled wings of death +around him. + + + + +HIGH FIGHT + + +One of the briefest and most amusing family fights I have ever listened +in on occurred in an airplane. I was flying its owner and his wife to +the coast. + +We came in over the Mohave Desert, crossed the mountains at the desert's +western edge, and started out over the valley, where I knew Los Angeles +lay thirteen thousand feet beneath us. The valley and the ocean beyond +were covered with fog, and I could see nothing but the white, billowed +stretch of it and the tawny mountains rising out of it behind us. + +I spiraled down and went through a hole in the fog near the foot of the +mountains. It was lower and thicker underneath than I had hoped. I +picked up a railroad and started weaving my way along it into the +airport. + +The owner of the ship, sitting on my right, was helping me with my map, +holding it for me. His wife, sitting behind me, was squirming anxiously +in her seat and peering tensely out of the windows through the low +mists. + +Soon she tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Aren't we flying awfully +low?" + +I half turned my head and shouted, "Yes, the ceiling is awfully low." I +wanted to add, "You fool," but didn't dare. + +"Isn't it dangerous?" she whined. + +"We're all right," I shouted. "I've flown stuff like this before. I can +handle it." + +Pretty soon she tapped me on the shoulder again. "Where are we?" she +inquired. + +"I can't tell you the exact spot," I shouted, "but we are still on the +right railroad and will be coming into the airport in a few minutes." + +We passed over a town section just then, and the railroad branched three +ways under us. I made a quick jump at my map to check which of the three +I should follow. The wife saw me jump and must have seen that I looked +worried. She tapped me on the shoulder again. + +"Oh, are you sure we are going the right way?" she whimpered. + +I started to turn around to explain to her what I was doing and why, +realized my flying required all my attention right then, cast an +appealing glance at her husband, clamped my jaws tight, and started +studying landmarks. We were in close to the airport, and I didn't want +to miss it. + +I heard the husband shout one of the funniest mixtures of supplication +and command I have ever heard. + +"Now listen, honey," he shouted at her. "You keep your damn mouth shut, +sweetheart." + + + + +GESTURE AT REUNIONS + + +It is the year before Lindbergh becomes famous. I have graduated in the +same class with him from the army flying school the year before and have +seen him only twice since. I am on an army cross-country trip, bound for +St. Louis, when I land at Chicago and run into him. He is just taking +off with the mail, bound for St. Louis too, and we decide to fly down +together in formation. + +It is getting dark when we sight the river at St. Louis in the distance. +Lindbergh shakes his wings. He is calling my attention. I pull my ship +in close to his. I see him pointing from his cockpit. I look ahead and +see a speck. It grows rapidly larger. I make it out as another DH +approaching us head on from the deepening dusk. It comes up, swings +around into formation with us, and sticks its wing right up into mine. +Its pilot peers at me, and I peer at him. We recognize each other. It is +Red Love. Red, Lindbergh, and myself were three of the four cadets in +our pursuit class at flying school. Looks like a class reunion in the +air. + +But no. Lindbergh is shaking his wings. He is banking. He is pointing +down. He spirals down, circles a field, flies low over it several times, +dragging it, looking it over carefully, and lands. Red and I follow. + +Lindbergh and I crawl out of our ships with parachutes strapped to us. +Red crawls out of his without one. Lindbergh takes his off as the three +of us converge for greetings. + +"You will need this getting the mail on into Chicago the rest of the way +in the dark tonight," he says to Red, holding the chute out to him. + +"It's the only one in the company," he says, turning, explaining to me, +"and I won't need it for the few miles on into St. Louis from here." + +We say hasty greetings and good-byes, crawl back into our still idling +ships, and take off. Lindbergh, chuteless now, heads off south for St. +Louis, and I follow. Red swings off in the opposite direction for +Chicago. + +I look back. I see Red disappearing into the darkening north. I know he +feels better now, sitting on that chute. + + + + +AS I SAW IT + + +I had to go to Cleveland to bring back a ship that a student of mine had +left there in bad weather. I got on an airliner, with a parachute. The +chute was for use on the way back. + +The airline porter wanted to put my chute in the baggage compartment. My +argument was: "What good would it do me there?" The porter looked +offended, but I kept my attitude and took my chute to my seat with me. + +We took off from Newark after dark. The weather was bad, and we went +blind three minutes after we took off. + +I tried to console myself with the thought that the pilots were +specially trained in blind flying, that they had instruments, had two +motors, had radio, that everything was just ducky. But I couldn't even +see the wing tips. + +I tried to read my magazine. I found myself peering out of the windows +through the darkness to see if we had come out on top yet. + +I tried to nap. I found myself hearing the motors getting slightly +louder, knowing we were nosing down; feeling myself getting slightly +heavier in my seat, knowing the pilot was correcting; hearing the motors +begin to labor slightly, knowing we were nosing up; feeling myself +getting ever so slightly lighter in my seat, knowing the pilot was +correcting again; telling myself repeatedly that he knew his stuff and +that there wasn't anything I could do about it anyway, but sitting there +going through every motion with him just the same. + +Two hours later we were still blind, and my nose was pressing up against +the windowpane almost constantly. The other passengers probably thought +I had never been in a ship before. + +Half an hour later we were still blind and only half an hour out of +Cleveland. We broke out of the stuff finally just outside of Cleveland. +We were flying low, and the lights were still going dim under us as we +skimmed along not very far above them. There wasn't much ceiling when we +landed, and it closed in shortly after that. + +Most of the passengers roused themselves from sleep when we landed. I +was plenty wide awake. I knew that ship hadn't had much gas range. If we +had got stuck, we would have had to come down someway before very long. +If those passengers could have read my mind, or I think even the +pilot's, there probably would have been a battle in the cabin over my +chute. + + + + +WAS MY FACE RED! + + +I took off at Buffalo one time to do a test job. I had been called up +there as an expert and was supposed to be pretty hot stuff. + +I took the ship off and started rocking it violently from side to side. +I kept this up through a variety of speed ranges, watching the ailerons +closely all the time. I wanted to find out first of all if the ailerons +had any tendency to flutter under a high angle of attack condition. Then +I began horsing on the stick to see if anything unusual happened to the +ailerons when I introduced the high angle of attack condition that way. + +I interrupted my observations of the ship's behavior after a while to +look around for the airport. I couldn't find it! I had forgotten that I +was in a high-speed ship and could get far away from the field in a very +short time. Furthermore, the country was unfamiliar to me, and I had no +map. Gee, if I had only thought to stick a map in the ship before I took +off. + +I knew the airport was somewhere on the west side of town. I thought it +was somewhat north. But how far north I didn't know. I couldn't remember +even if it was close in to town or far out. I had a vague idea it was +far out, but how far out I didn't know. If I had only thought to bring a +map! Or if I had only kept the airport in sight. Good old hindsight! + +I was panic-stricken. There I was, a supposedly high-powered test pilot, +lost over the airport. What a dumb position for me to be in! + +Before I found the airport by just cruising around looking haphazardly +for it, I might be forced down by the weather, which was none too good +and getting worse, or I might run out of gas. What if I was finally +forced to pick a strange field, a pasture or something, and cracked up +getting into it? How would I explain that? + +I decided to cruise north and south, up and down, in ten- or +fifteen-mile laps, starting far enough out of town to be sure to fly +over the airport on one of the laps as I moved closer in on each one. +That would be at least an orderly procedure. + +I found the field on my fourth lap. But was I in a sweat! And did I keep +my eye on that field after that! + + + + +CO-PILOT + + +Dick Blythe, who handled Lindbergh's publicity not only after Lindbergh +came back from Paris but also, as Dick stated to me, just before +Lindbergh went to Paris, is a bit of aviation folklore in himself. + +I just ran into Dick over at the Roosevelt Field restaurant, and he told +me this one about Dean Smith. Dean is one of the oldest air-mail pilots. +He started flying the mail 'way back in the postoffice days, just after +the war. He is a lean six-foot-two, easy-going guy who would never talk +much about his flying. + +Dick caught him just after he had returned from one of his crackups in +the Alleghanies in the old days when Roosevelt Field was called Curtiss +Field and the mail went out of there instead of out of Newark as it does +now. Dean was just pouring his long self into the cockpit of another DH +to take the night mail out again. + +"Where in the hell have you been?" Dick greeted him. + +"Oh," Dean said, "I had a hell of a time the other night. Just got +back." + +"What happened?" Dick asked him. + +"Aw, I got tangled up with a load of ice after dark. She started losing +altitude, and I eased a little more gun to her. She kept on losing, so I +eased a little more gun to her. She still kept on losing, so I eased all +the gun she had. She was squashing right down into the trees. I had done +everything I knew and couldn't hold her up. So I said, 'Here, God, you +fly it awhile,' and turned her loose and threw my arms up in front of my +face. + +"I guess it must have been tough, because He cracked her up. He piled +into that last ridge just outside of Bellefonte." + + + + +ORCHIDS TO ME! + + +The late Lya de Putti, German screen actress, paid me the nicest +compliment of all. + +She was up front in the two-place passenger compartment of a Lockheed +Sirius. The owner of that plane was in the pilot's open cockpit just +back of her. And I was behind him in the rear cockpit. + +He had insisted, against my better judgment, upon getting into that +pilot's cockpit in the first place. But, after all, he owned the ship, I +was only his pilot, and there was a set of dual controls in the rear +cockpit. + +The motor quit cold over Whitehall, N. Y., because we ran out of gas in +one of the six tanks in the ship. I shouted back and forth with the +ship's owner, halfway to the ground, trying to tell him how to turn on +one of the other five tanks. There was a complicated system of gas +valves in the ship, and I couldn't make him understand what to do, and I +couldn't reach the valves myself. + +Finally I shouted, "You play with them. I'll land," and stuck my head +out and looked around. We were already low. I picked a small plowed +field, the only likely-looking one in the mountainous country, and +started into it. + +I was coming around my last turn into the field when I discovered +high-tension wires stretching right across the edge of it. I was too low +to pick another field. The field was too small to go over the wires. I +had to go through a gap in the trees to get under them. + +I kicked the ship around sidewise. The trees flashed past me on either +side, and I hit the ground. The wires flashed past over my head. I used +my brakes and stopped the fast ship very quickly in the soft ground. If +we had rolled fifty feet farther we would have hit an embankment that +rose sharply at the far end of the field. + +I crawled out of my cockpit and started to help Lya out of her cabin. +She was already emerging, fanning herself with a handkerchief. She spoke +with a German accent. + +"Oh, Jeemy," she said, "all the way down I pray to God. But I thank you, +Jeemy. I thank you." + + + + +RECOVERY ACT + + +Johnny Wagner came up to me for his transport pilot's license test. I +was the inspector for the Department of Commerce. Johnny knew I was +"tough." As a matter of fact, he figured I was much tougher than I was. + +I knew Johnny and liked him. He was crazy about flying and had worked +hard to get his flying training. He had pushed ships in and out of +hangars, washed them, acted as night watchman and office boy, done +anything and everything to pay for his flying time. But I didn't have +the slightest idea how he flew. And after all, you may be a swell guy +but not be able to fly worth a cent, and a transport test is supposed to +determine whether you are safe to carry passengers. + +I found out three minutes after Johnny got in the ship how he flew. +Nevertheless, I made him go all through the test. When he came to steep +banks I made him pull them in tight. He was reluctant to do it, so I +took the ship to do it myself to show him. I could see right away why he +was reluctant. It was the way the ship was rigged. It had a tendency to +roll under in a tightly pulled in steep bank. But I wanted to see what +he would do with it, so I made him do it. He did, and rolled right under +into a power spin. He had gone into an inadvertent spin, the +unforgivable sin in a flight test. + +I started to reach for the controls but let him go. When he had pulled +out of the spin I told him to land. + +He got out of the ship with his face as long as a poker. He couldn't +even talk, the test had meant so much to him. I didn't say anything for +a moment, then with a stern face I said roughly, "Well," and waited a +moment. The poor kid was getting all set for the worst. I could tell by +his face. + +"Well," I went on, "you passed," and I smiled broadly at him. + +His mouth fell open. "But--but--" he stuttered--"but I spun out of that +steep bank!" + +"Yeah, I know," I said. "But you also recovered. It was the way you +recovered. You stopped that spin like that and recovered from the +resultant dive neatly and smoothly, with a minimum loss of altitude and +still without squashin' the ship. It was a beautiful piece of work and +told me more about your flying than anything else you did, although I +could tell in the first three minutes that you could fly." I never saw a +kid beam so much. + +Johnny is now flying a regular run over the Andes in South America for +Pan American Grace. + + + + +"A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME...." + + +I delivered a plane at a ranch in Mexico a few years ago for Joe and +Alicia Brooks. I was to take back the ship they had been using. The +ranch was about eighty miles over the border from Eagle Pass. The +Brookses planned to leave with me and fly formation to New York. Both +planes had approximately the same cruising speed. Alicia and I flew in +one ship. Sutter, the mechanic, flew with Joe in the other. + +The day we started didn't look too good. Thick gray clouds were rolling +in from the northeast. There was no way we could check our weather till +we got to Eagle Pass. We had to take a chance on the eighty miles. + +Joe led the way, and everything went fine at the start, but the nearer +we got to Eagle Pass the worse the weather got. We were flying on top of +a jerkwater railway, just missing the tops of the trees, when we bumped +into a solid wall of fog. Joe disappeared into it. I stuck my nose in +the stuff and pulled out: there was no percentage in two planes milling +around blind. Too much chance of collision. I picked out a spot in +between the cactus and landed. There was nothing to do but wait. If Joe +came out he would come out on the railway and we would see him. Ten +uncomfortable minutes passed. We heard a motor. Joe reappeared. He +circled and landed alongside of us. + +By this time the planes were surrounded by a herd of angry shrieking +Mexicans. There must have been over a hundred of them. They didn't seem +to like us, but we couldn't find out why. None of us spoke Spanish. +Finally an official-looking fellow appeared with a lot of brass medals +on his coat. He made us understand through the sign language that he +wanted to see our passports. We couldn't find them. The atmosphere was +most unpleasant. We had visions of spending the next few days in a +flea-bitten Mexican jail. + +Then it occurred to me that I did know one Spanish word. Might as well +use it, I thought, and see what happens. "Cerveza" I commanded. The +Mexicans looked startled. "Cerveza" I commanded again. The Mexicans +started to laugh. + +The next thing we knew, we were sitting at a Mexican bar drinking beer +with a lot of newfound friends. Cerveza is the Spanish for beer. + + + + +"YES, SIR!" + + +Our jenny hit the ground wheels first and bounced dangerously. My +instructor in the cockpit in front of me grabbed his controls, gave the +ship a sharp burst of the gun, and set her down right. We were in a +little practice field near Brooks Field in Texas. + +My instructor turned around to me: "Damn it, Collins," he said, "don't +run into the ground wheels first like that. Level off about six feet in +the air and wait until the ship begins to settle. Then ease the stick +back. When you feel the ship begin to fall out from under you, pull the +stick all the way back into your guts and the ship will set itself down. +Go around and try it again." + +"Yes, sir." + +I came in the next time, hit the ground wheels first, and bounced. My +instructor righted the ship. + +"No, Collins. No," he fumed. "Six feet. Look, I'll show you what six +feet looks like." + +He took the ship off and flew over the open fields, then came around and +landed. + +"Now do you know what six feet looks like?" he shouted back to me. + +"Yes, sir," I lied. I was afraid to tell him that I could not see the +ground right. He might send me to the hospital to have my eyes examined. +They might find some slight defect in my eyes that they had overlooked +in the original examination and wash me out of the school. + +"Well, then, go around and make a decent landing for me," my instructor +said. + +"Yes, sir." + +I leveled off too high the next time. My instructor grabbed his controls +and prevented us from cracking up. + +"Damn it, Collins," he shouted when the ship had stopped rolling, "don't +run into the ground wheels first. And don't level off as high as the +telegraph wires. Level off at about six feet. Then set her down. Now go +round and try it again." + +"Yes, sir." + +"Damn it, Collins, don't sit back there and say 'Yes, sir' and then do +the same damned thing again." + +"No, sir." + + + + +MOONLIGHT AND SILVER + + +Pat paints. She also flies. + +Pat and I landed at Jacksonville, Fla., late one night in Pat's Stearman +biplane. Pat was taking cross-country instruction from me. We gassed +hurriedly and took off again. We left the glare of the floodlights +behind us as we headed our ship along the line of flashing beacons +stretching southward toward Miami. The stars were brilliant in the +cloudless sky, but the night was very dark. There was no moon. + +Soon we were flying down the coast. White breakers rolled in under us +from the Atlantic Ocean on our left and dimly marked the coast line. +Swamps stretched away to the inland on our right but were invisible in +the black night. Beacons flashed brilliantly out of the darkness in a +long line far behind us and far ahead. Blotches of lights slipped slowly +past under us when we flew over towns. + +We saw clouds ahead. We nosed down under them. We had to fly +uncomfortably low to stay under the clouds. We nosed up to get above +them. + +We flew into them. The lights beneath us dimmed and disappeared. We +climbed in opaque blackness, flying by instruments. + +We emerged into an open space where the clouds were broken. The lights +reappeared. The stars became visible. + +The clouds spread out under us to the horizon in all directions. They +were lit a dim silver by the stars. They softly undulated like a mystic, +limitless sea beneath us. + +Now and then we saw a break in the clouds and caught the flash of a +beacon through it or saw the lights of a town. We caught glimpses of dim +breakers rolling in on the beach far down under the clouds. + +Something I couldn't explain was happening. The sky in the east was +getting lighter. It was only about midnight. I looked at the western sky +and then looked back at the eastern sky. Yes, the sky was definitely +getting lighter in the east. Half an hour later the eastern sky was much +lighter than the western sky. + +I watched toward the east. + +I saw a thin, blood-red tip of something rise up from the eastern +horizon. The top of the object was rounded. The bottom of it was +irregular in shape. The object got larger rapidly. + +"The moon!" I shouted out loud to myself. + +It rose rapidly. Invisible clouds far out at sea, silhouetted against +the moon, gave the bottom of it its irregular shape. + +The moon got up above the clouds in an incredibly short time. It was a +full moon, golden and glorious. It made the clouds between me and it +seem darker. It made the sea beneath the clouds silver. Through the +large breaks in the clouds I saw a beam of moonlight like a golden path +from the moon across the sea to the beach beneath us. The beam traveled +with us. It raced across the sea under the clouds at the same speed that +we flew through the air above the clouds. + +I eased the throttle back and slowed the ship down. + +"Paint that some day," I shouted to Pat. + +Pat was gazing out across the ocean toward the moon. She didn't say +anything. I knew she had heard me. + + + + +FIVE MILES UP + + +I was stationed at Selfridge Field after I graduated from the Advanced +Flying School at Kelly. The Army Air Corps' First Pursuit Group was at +Selfridge. The officers used to gather every morning at eight-fifteen in +the post operator's office. We would be assigned to our various +functions in the formation. Then we would fly formation for an hour or +so, practicing different tactical maneuvers. After flying we would +gather at the operations office again for a general critique, which was +supposed to conclude the official day's flying. We would separate from +there and go about our various ground duties. I discovered I could +quickly finish my ground duties and have a lot of time left over for +extra flying. I used to bother the operations officer to death asking +him for ships. He usually gave me one, and I would go up alone and +practice all sorts of things just for fun. It was no part of my work. It +was pure exuberance. + +One day I was flying around idly in a Hawk. I decided I would take the +Hawk as high as I could, just for the hell of it. + +I opened the throttle and nosed up. I gained the first few thousand feet +rapidly. The higher I went the slower I climbed. At 20,000 feet climbing +was difficult. The air was much thinner. The power of my engine was +greatly diminished. I began to notice the effect of altitude. Breathing +was an effort. I didn't get enough air when I did breathe. I sighed +often. My heart beat faster. I wasn't sleepy. I was dopey. I was very +cold, although it was summer. + +I looked up into the sky. It was intensely blue, deep blue; bluer than I +had ever seen a sky. I was above all haze. I looked down at the earth. +Selfridge Field was very small under me. The little town of Mount +Clemens seemed to be very close to the field. Lake St. Clair was just a +little pond. Detroit seemed to be almost under me, although I knew it +was about twenty miles from Selfridge Field. I could see a lot of little +Michigan towns clothing the earth to the north and northwest of +Selfridge. Everything beneath me seemed to have shoved together. The +earth seemed to be without movement. I felt suspended in enormous space. +I was 23,000 feet high by my altimeter. + +I was dopey. My perception and reaction were ga-ga. I was cold, too. To +hell with it. It said 24,500 feet. I eased the throttle full and nosed +down. + +I lost altitude very rapidly and with very little effort at first. After +that it got more and more normal. I didn't come down too fast. It was +too loud on my ears. I came down fairly slowly, so as to accommodate +myself to the change in air pressure as I descended. + +It was warm and stuffy on the ground. + +I saw the Flight Surgeon at dinner that evening. + +"I worked a Hawk up to 24,500 feet today," I told him proudly. "Gee, it +sure felt funny up there without oxygen." + +"Without oxygen?" he asked. + +I nodded my head. + +"You're crazy," he said. "You can't go that high without oxygen. The +average pilot's limit is around 15,000 to 18,000 feet. You're young and +in good shape. Maybe you got to twenty. But you just imagined you went +higher than that." + +"No, I didn't imagine it," I said. "I really went up that high." + +"You went ga-ga and imagined it," he said. + +He added: "Don't fool around with that sort of business. You're likely +to pass out cold at any moment when you're flying too high without +oxygen. You're likely to pass out cold and fall a long way before +regaining consciousness. You might break your neck." + + + + +AERIAL COMBAT + + +I was flying in a student pursuit formation of SE-5s. Another student +pursuit formation of MB3As was flying several thousand feet above us. +The formation above us was supposed to be enemy pursuit on the +offensive. My formation was supposed to be on the defensive. We were +staging a mimic combat. Kelly Field, the army Advanced Flying School, +lay beneath us. + +I had to watch my flight leader, the other ships in my formation, and +the enemy formation. + +I saw the enemy formation behind us and above us in position to attack. +I saw it nose down toward us. + +I looked at my flight leader's plane. He was signaling a sharp turn to +the left. He banked sharply to the left. Everybody in our formation +banked sharply to the left with him. The attacking formation passed over +our tails and pulled up to our right. + +I saw the attacking formation above us to our right, banking to the +left, nosing down to attack us broadside. + +I looked at my flight leader. He was signaling a turn to the right. He +turned sharply to the right. Our whole formation turned with him. We +were heading directly into the oncoming attack of the other formation. + +Just as I straightened out of my turn my ship lurched violently and I +got a fleeting impression of something passing over my head. I couldn't +figure out what had happened. My leader was signaling for another turn. +I followed him through several quick turns in rapid succession. We were +dodging the enemy formation. I kept trying to figure out what had +happened when my ship had lurched. + +Then it occurred to me: Somebody in the attacking formation, when the +formation had been diving head on into ours, had pulled up just in time +to keep from hitting me head on. I had passed under him and immediately +behind him as he pulled up, and the turbulent slip stream just back of +his ship was what had caused my ship to lurch. + +I felt weak all over. God, how close he must have come, I thought! + +Later, on the ground, we stood around our instructors, listening to +criticism of our flying. I wasn't listening very much. I was looking +around at the faces of the other students. I saw another student looking +around too. It was Lindbergh. He had been flying in the attacking +formation. After the criticism was over I walked up to Lindbergh. + +"Say," I said, "did you come close to anybody in that head-on attack?" + +He grinned all over. + +"Yes," he said. "Was that you?" + +"Yes." + +"Did you see me?" he asked. + +"No," I said. "I _felt_ you." + +"It is a good thing you didn't see me," Lindbergh said, "because if you +had seen me you would have pulled up, too, and we would have hit head +on." + + + + +WINGS OVER AKRON + + +Tom was flying in front of me to my left. We both had PW-8s. We were +heading toward Uniontown, Pa. They were opening a field there. We were +going to stunt for them. We were flying 7,000 feet high in a milky +autumn haze. The rolling Ohio country beneath us was visible only +straight down and out to an angle of about 45 degrees. Beyond that the +earth mingled with the haze and was invisible. + +I saw a town over the leading edge of my lower right wing. I recognized +it as Akron, O. I pushed my stick forward and opened my throttle. I had +always wanted to jazz the fraternity house in a high-powered fast ship. + +Down I came. Roaring louder and louder. I couldn't see a soul in the +yard of the fraternity house. + +I missed the house by inches as I pulled sharply out of my dive and +zoomed almost vertically up for altitude. I looked back as I shot up +into the sky. The yard was full of fellows. + +I kicked over and nosed down at the house again. I came as close to it +as I could without hitting it as I pulled back and thundered up into the +air. + +I nosed over into a third dive at the house. As I pulled up this time I +kicked the ship into a double snap roll as I climbed. I didn't look +back. I just kept on climbing, heading for Uniontown. I overtook Tom a +little while later. + +On my return trip from Uniontown I was forced down at Akron owing to bad +weather. Tom had gone back a day earlier than I. I was alone. + +Friends of mine at the airport came up to me as I climbed out of my +ship. They asked me if I had flown over Akron in a PW-8 a few days +before. I said, "No. Why?" They showed me a clipping from a local +newspaper. It said: + +AIRMAN STARTLES AKRON--MANY LIVES ENDANGERED + + At noon today a small fast biplane appeared over Akron and + proceeded to throw the populace into a panic by performing a + series of zooms and dives and perilous nose spins low over the + business section of town. Onlookers said that the plane narrowly + missed hitting the tops of the buildings and that it several + times almost dove into the crowds in the streets. + + Hospital authorities complained to city officials that the plane + roared low over the hospital, frightening many of their patients + and endangering the lives of others. Other complaints have + rolled in from all over the city. + + City officials told reporters that the name of the pilot is + known. He was a former resident of Akron and was a student at + Akron University. At present he is on duty with the Army + Aviation Service. Officials said they had reported the + outrageous act to the military authorities at the pilot's home + station. + +"I wonder who that damned fool could have been," I said as I handed the +clipping back to my friends. I grinned. + +I was staying with my uncle. I didn't have much appetite for dinner that +night. I didn't sleep very well. + +"What is the matter, Jim?" my uncle asked me at breakfast the next +morning. "Why don't you eat more?" + +"I don't feel very well," I said. + +I got back to Selfridge that afternoon. Nobody there had heard of my +escapade. + +I ate a big dinner that evening. + + + + +TEARS AND ACROBATICS + + +"Go around and try it again," I shouted. + +"Yes, sir," the cadet in the rear cockpit behind me shouted back. + +I felt the throttle under my left hand go all the way forward with a +jerk. I pulled it back. + +"Open that throttle slower and smoother," I shouted back. I didn't look +round. I just turned my head to the left and put my open right hand up +to the right side of my mouth. That threw my voice back. + +"Yes, sir," came the cadet's voice from the rear cockpit. + +I felt the throttle under my left hand move forward slowly, smoothly. +The engine noise rose louder. The ship rocked and bumped slowly forward +over the rough ground. The tail of the ship came up, and the nose went +down. The nose of the ship veered to the left. I wanted to kick right +rudder to bring the nose back. I just sat there. The nose swung back +straight and then veered badly to the right. I wanted to kick left +rudder and bring the nose back. I didn't move. The nose stopped veering. +We were going pretty fast. We bumped the ground once more and bounced +into the air. We stayed there. I took my nose between my left thumb and +forefinger and turned my head to the left so the cadet behind me could +see my profile. + +The ship banked to the left. I felt a blast of air strong on the right +side of my face and felt myself being pushed to the right side of my +cockpit. We were skidding. I wanted to ease a little right rudder on and +stop the skid. Instead, I patted the right side of my face several times +with my right hand so the cadet could see it. I felt the rudder pedal +under my right foot jerk forward. We stopped skidding. The ship +straightened out of the bank and flew straight and level for a little +way. It made another left-hand bank, leveled out again, and flew +straight again for a little way. It did it again. I felt the throttle +under my left hand come all the way back. The engine noise quieted down, +and the engine exhaust popped a few times. The ship nosed down into a +glide. It made another left turn in the glide and then straightened out. +We were gliding toward the little field we had just taken off from. It +was a little field near Brooks that the Army Primary Flying School used +as a practice field. + +"That was lousy," I shouted back. "You jerked your throttle open. You +veered across the field on your take-off like a drunken man. Are you too +weak to kick rudder? You skidded on your turns. You landed cross-wind. +Go around and try it again. See if you can do something right this +time." It was about the twentieth speech like that I had shouted back to +the cadet that morning. + +I felt the throttle under my left hand jerk forward. I pulled it back. + +"Damn it, open that throttle slower and----" + +A voice from the rear cockpit broke in on me: + +"I hope you never get anyone else as dumb as I am, Lieutenant." + +The voice was choked. The kid was crying. + +"Hey, listen here," I said, "I give you a lot of hell because I'm as +anxious for you to get this stuff as you are to get it. I wouldn't even +give you hell if I thought you were hopeless. Sit back and relax and +forget it a while now. You'll do better tomorrow." + +The cadet started to open his mouth. I turned hastily around and sat +down in my cockpit and opened the throttle wide open. The engine roared. +I didn't hear what the cadet said. + +I took off in a sharp climbing turn. I dove low at the ground, flew +under some high-tension wires. I pulled up and dove low at a cow in a +pasture. The cow jumped very amusingly. I pulled up and did a loop. I +came out of the loop very close to the ground. It was all against army +orders. It was all fun. I pulled back up to a respectable altitude and +flew sedately over Brooks Field. I cut the gun to land. I looked back at +the cadet. He was laughing. There were little channels in the dust on +his face where the tears had run down. + + + + +ACROSS THE CONTINENT + + +It was 1:45 a. m. The lights of United Airport at Burbank, Calif., where +I had left the ground fifteen minutes before, had disappeared. I knew +the low mountains were beneath me, but I couldn't see them. I knew the +high mountains several miles east of me were higher than I was, but I +couldn't see them. I could see the glow of the luminous-painted dials in +my instrument board in front of me. I could see the sea of lights of Los +Angeles and vicinity south of me, stretching southeastward. I could see +the stars in the cloudless, moonless sky above. I was circling for +altitude to go over the high mountains. + +At 13,000 feet I leveled out and assumed a compass course for Wichita, +Kan. I passed over the high mountains without ever seeing them. I saw +only an occasional light in the blackness beneath me where I knew the +mountains were. I knew from my map that there were low mountains and +desert valleys beyond. + +Greener country. Fertile valleys. Mountains looming. The Sangre de +Cristo range loomed high in front of me. Twelve thousand feet. I passed +over it into the undulating low country beyond it. Soon I was flying +over the flat fertile plains of western Kansas. + +Gas trucks were waiting for me at Wichita Airport. Reporters asked me +questions. They took pictures. They told me I was behind Lindbergh's +time. A woman out of the crowd jumped up on the side of my ship and +kissed me. I was off the ground, headed for New York, fifteen minutes +after I had landed. + +It was very rough. It was hot. I was miserable in my fur flying suit. I +ached like hell from sitting on the hard parachute pack and wished I +could stand up for a while. I hadn't had a chance to step out of the +ship at Wichita. + +Clouds gone. Towns closer together. Towns larger. Farms smaller. More +railroads and paved roads. Industrial towns. On into the rolling country +of eastern Ohio. + +Pittsburgh was covered with smoke. The Allegheny Mountains were dim in a +haze. It was getting dark. + +Mountains beneath me in the dusk like dreams floating past. Stars +appearing in the clear sky. Lights coming on in the houses and towns. + +It was dark now. The flashing beacons along the Cleveland-New York mail +run were visible off to my left. + +New York. An ocean of shimmering light in the darkness, spreading +immensely under me. Beyond stretched Long Island. I could see where the +field ought to be. Did I see the Roosevelt Field beacon? Was that it? +What was that beacon over there? I saw hundreds of beacons. Beacons +everywhere. Every color of flashing beacon. Then I remembered it was +Fourth of July night. I would have a hell of a time locating the field. +Finally I distinguished Roosevelt Field lights from the fireworks, and +dove low over the field. The flood lights came on. My red-and-white +low-wing Lockheed Sirius glided out of the darkness, low over the edge +of the field, brilliantly into the floodlight glare, landed and rolled +to a stop. + +There was a crowd at the field. Roosevelt was giving a night +demonstration. People ran out of the crowd toward me. George jumped up +on the wing and leaned over the edge of my cockpit. I was taxiing toward +the hangar. + +"That did it," Pick shouted over the noise of my engine. + +"Did what?" I shouted back. + +"Broke the record, boy!" + +"You're crazy as hell," I answered. It took me sixteen and a half hours. +Lindbergh made it in fourteen forty-five. + + + + +THE FLYER HIKES HOME + + +I was hanging around Roosevelt Field one afternoon with nothing much on +my mind when a couple of friends came up and said they were just taking +off for the South. They wanted to catch the Pan-American plane from +Miami the next day. They were amateur pilots. The weather was lousy +toward the South and they hadn't had much experience in blind or night +flying. I said I would fly with them as far as Washington and maybe by +that time the weather would clear. When we got to Washington the weather +had pretty well closed down. I didn't like to see them start off in a +fog bank with the sun already setting, so I volunteered to go to +Greensborough. The stuff grew thicker. We were flying at two hundred +feet and getting lower all the time. So when we landed at Greensborough +there was nothing to do but stick with the ship. We took off for +Jacksonville after a scanty supper. It was one o'clock in the morning. +By that time I could barely make out the beacon lights. I turned to the +girl sitting next to me and told her that if we lost the beacon behind +us before we saw the one ahead of us we would have to turn back. At that +moment both beacons disappeared. I started to bank the ship towards +home. And then suddenly the whole sky lightened up. It looked as though +a huge broom had gone to work to tidy up the clouds. + +We landed at Jacksonville at five in the morning without further mishap. +I said good-bye to plane and passengers and then started wondering how I +was going to get back to New York. I decided to hitch-hike and save the +train fare. It took me three days. When I appeared at the house with a +straw behind each ear and a suit full of holes my wife thought I had +gone crazy. + + + + +KILLED BY KINDNESS + + +Earle R. Southee was so good-hearted he killed a guy. I don't mean that +he actually killed him, but you can see for yourself from the following +story that, nevertheless, he killed him. + +Southee was a civilian flying instructor to the army before the war, +when the Signal Corps was the flying branch of the army. He was also an +instructor during the war, after the Air Service had been created. + +It was while he was instructing at Wilbur Wright Field during the war +that he met up with this guy. The guy had come down there to learn to +fly and then go to France and shoot Germans--or get shot by them. For +some reason or other he couldn't pick the stuff up. Some people are like +that. They simply can't get going when they first start to learn to fly. +Most of them actually have no flying ability and ought to quit trying. +It's not in their blood. But occasionally you run across one who later +gets going and is all right. + +This guy came up to Southee for washout flight. He was so obviously +broken up over the idea that he was going to get kicked out of the Air +Service into some other branch of service, he loved flying so much, that +Southee took pity on him, held him over a while, gave him special +instruction, and finally got the guy through. The guy even became an +instructor himself, and a very good one. + +Later, most of the gang was transferred to Ellington Field, Houston, +Tex. At Ellington, this guy had such a tough time at first, got so hot, +that he was made a check pilot and put in charge of a stage or section. + +One day one of the students came up to him for washout check. The kid +was just as broken up about it as he was. He gave the kid a chance, like +Southee had given him. Three days later the student froze on him, spun +him in, and lulled him. + + + + +THE FIRST CRACK-UP + + +I sat in the cockpit of an army DH, high over southern Texas. I was +heading toward Kelly Field, the Army Advanced Flying School. I was +returning from a student trip to Corpus Christi. + +I was looking behind me. Beyond the tail of the ship I could see the +Gulf of Mexico. Far out over the Gulf was a low string of white clouds. +The sky was very blue. The water flashed in the sun. + +Occasionally I turned to scan my instrument board, but mostly I looked +behind me. Purple distance slowly swallowed up the Gulf. + +I turned around and faced forward and lit a cigarette. I looked at my +instrument board. I looked at my map. The course line on my map lay +between two railroads. I looked down at the earth. I was directly over a +railroad, flying parallel to it. To my right a little distance ran +another railroad, parallel to the one I was flying over. Another +railroad lay off to my left. I could not decide which two of the three +railroads I should be flying between. + +I saw a little town on the railroad under me. I throttled back and nosed +down. I circled low over the town and located the railroad station. I +dove low past one end of the station and tried to read the name of the +town on the station as I flashed past it. I didn't make it out. I opened +the throttle to pull up. The engine started to pick up, then sputtered, +then picked up all right. I paid no attention to its sputtering. It had +done that when I took off from Kelly Field that morning. It had done it +when I had circled the field at Corpus Christi on the Gulf. There was a +dead spot in the carburetor. The engine was all right. It was airtight +above or below that one spot on the throttle. I continued to pull up. I +went around and dove low at the station again. Again I failed to read +the sign. I opened the throttle to pull up. The engine started to pick +up, then sputtered, then picked up beautifully. I went around and dove +at the station again. I got it that time. It was Floresville, Tex. I +knew where that was. I opened the throttle to pull up. The engine +started to pick up, then sputtered, then died. The prop stood still. + +I swung my ship to the left. I held it up as much as I dared. I headed +toward the open space. I was almost stalling. I barely cleared the last +house. I was dropping rapidly. I eased forward on the stick. No +response. I eased back. The nose dropped. I was stalled. I was about ten +feet above the ground. There was a fence almost under me. Maybe I would +clear it. + +I heard a loud rending of wood and tearing of fabric. I felt a sensation +of being pummeled and beaten. Something hit me in the face. Then I was +aware of an immense quietness. + +I just sat there in the cockpit. The dust settled slowly in the still +air. The hot Texas sun filtered through it. I still held the stick with +my right hand. My left hand was on the throttle. My feet were braced on +the rudder bar. + +I was on a level with those fences. I stepped over the side of the +cockpit onto the ground. I looked at the wreck. The wings and landing +gear were a complete Washout. The fuselage wasn't damaged. + +I looked into the gasoline tanks. The main tank was empty. The reserve +tank was full. I looked into the cockpit at the gas valves. The main +tank was turned on. The reserve tank was turned off. I turned the main +tank off and turned the reserve tank on. + +I phoned Kelly Field from a house near by. + +An instructor flew down to get me. He landed his ship and then walked +over and looked at my ship. He looked at the gas tanks. He looked in the +cockpit at the gas valves. He turned to me. His eyes twinkled. + +"What was the matter, wouldn't your reserve tank take?" he asked. + +"No, sir, it wouldn't take," I lied. + +"That's the first tough luck you've had during the course, isn't it?" he +asked. + +"Yes," I said. "I have never cracked up before." + +He flew me back to Kelly Field. + + + + +A POOR PROPHET + + +"What is the weather to New York?" I asked the weather man at the +air-mail field at Bellefonte, Pa. + +"Clear and unlimited all the way," he told me. + +I took off in my low-wing Lockheed Sirius at dark and flew along the +lighted beacons through the mountains. Half an hour later I ran into +broken clouds at 4,000 feet. I flew under them. Soon they became solid +and I couldn't see the stars overhead. I saw lightning ahead of me +flashing in the darkness. + +Water began to collect on my windshield. The air got very rough. A +beacon light that had been flashing up ahead of me disappeared. I +noticed the lights of a town beneath me getting dim. For a second I lost +sight of them entirely. I nosed down to get out of the clouds. + +A brilliant flash of lightning lit the darkness around me. I saw the +rain driving in white sheets and caught the flash of a beacon through +it. I nosed down toward the beacon and started circling it. I knew by my +altimeter that I was down lower than some of the mountain ridges around +me. I looked for the next beacon but couldn't see it through the raging +thunderstorm. I didn't dare strike out in the general direction of the +next beacon in the hope of finding it. I might hit a mountain top. + +Another blinding flash of lightning surrounded me with glaring light. I +saw the dark bottoms of the clouds and the black top of the next ridge I +had to pass over. Then blackness and the slashing rain with only the +friendly beacon under me. + +I fought my way from beacon to beacon for an hour. The lightning flashes +receded farther and farther behind me. I began to see from beacon to +beacon. Stars appeared overhead. They were very dim. I was flying in a +haze. + +I passed over Hadley Field, New Jersey, and saw its boundary lights +burning cheerfully. I continued on toward Roosevelt Field. I was almost +home now. + +I noticed the lights of the towns beneath me getting dimmer. I looked +up. The stars were gone. I looked down again. The lights had +disappeared! I was flying blind in a thick fog. I began to fly by +instruments. I pulled up. At 3,000 feet I saw the stars. I was on top of +the fog. + +I swung around to go back to Hadley Field. Its lights were covered. I +saw the lights of what I figured was New Brunswick. I started circling +them. I knew Hadley Field was only a few miles from there. The lights of +New Brunswick began to blot out. Hey, what the hell! I said out loud to +myself. + +I saw a segment of the rotating beam of a beacon break through a hole in +the fog and make about a quarter of a turn in the darkness before it +disappeared. That's the beam from Hadley beacon! I was saying all my +thoughts out loud now. I flew over to where I figured the center of the +beam was and started circling. The top of the fog looked pretty bright +there. I decided that Hadley had heard me and had turned on its +floodlights. + +I eased back on my throttle, settled into a spiraling glide, and sank +down into the fog, flying by instruments. The opaque white fog got more +and more luminous. Individual bright spots, greatly blurred, began to +appear. I figured they were the boundary lights of the field. My +altimeter read very low. I broke through the bottom of the fog at about +two hundred feet. I was over Hadley. I flew low into the blackness back +of the field and came around and landed. + +"What the hell are you flying in this stuff for?" the Hadley weather man +asked me. + +"Because I was damned fool enough to take Bellefonte's weather report +seriously," I said. + + + + +TOO MUCH KNOWLEDGE + + +When I was in Cleveland at the air races a couple of years ago four +so-called flyers asked me to fly with them in their Bellanca to the Sky +Harbor airport near Chicago. I agreed. We took off after the last race +with just enough gas to make the field nicely. We hit a head wind, but I +still figured we were okay. I didn't know where the field was, but one +of the girls in the plane had been taking instruction at Sky Harbor and +the other three claimed that they had lived in Chicago all their lives +and knew Sky Harbor as well as their own mother. + +When we got to Chicago it was already dark. I followed instructions. We +flew north. Someone yelled I should turn east. I turned east. Someone +else shouted that was all wrong, we were already too far east. I turned +west. The next fifteen minutes were bedlam. "_East, north, west, and +south,"_ they yelled. I lost my temper. "_Do you or do you not know +where this field is?"_ I exploded. "_There it is!"_ they chorused. I +heaved a sigh of relief and got ready to land. It wasn't the field. I +looked at my gas, and my gas was too low. I took matters into my own +hands and flew back to the municipal airport and gassed up. We started +out again. The situation started to strike me as funny as soon as the +tanks were full. I let them have their fun, and eventually they did find +the field. I called back to the girl who had been taking instruction and +asked if there were any obstructions around the field. "Absolutely not!" +she vowed. I looked the field over as carefully as I could. There were +no floodlights (they had also told me the field was well lighted). I cut +the gun and glided in for a landing. A high-tension post whizzed by my +left ear. We had missed the wires by just two inches. And there were no +obstructions around the field! + + + + +HIDDEN FAULTS + + +Nearly every time that a big money race comes along a lot of new planes +put in an appearance. Some of them haven't been properly tested (you can +get a special license for racing), and none of them are the type you +would want to give your grandmother a ride in. But they are all fast, +and when you are flying in a race for money you want speed, a lot of it. + +I pulled up in front of the hangar late one summer afternoon and saw a +brand-new, speedy type cantilever monoplane standing on the line. The +wing had large L-shaped gashes in it. The plane belonged to Red +Devereaux, who was going to fly it in the National Air Race Derby. As I +sat there Red came over. He told me that on the way in from the factory +in Wichita a terrific wing flutter set in every time he passed through +rough air. The oscillations were so bad that the stick would tear itself +from Red's hands. He asked me to try it out and see if it were possible +to race the plane. + +I put on my parachute and climbed in. As I warmed the motor up I decided +to have the door taken off the ship. Easier to get out that way. I put +the ship in a shallow climb and held it to six thousand feet. Feeling it +out, I dived, banked, rolled, looped, and spun it. It seemed to be fine. +I landed and told Red that everything was okay. + +The next day diving over the Boston airport, in the lead, the wing broke +off. The plane plunged into the marsh, killing Red and his bride of a +few months. + + + + +"DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY" + + +A friend of mine knew a doctor who had an old skeleton. The skeleton +wasn't of any use to the doctor. It had been hanging in a closet for +almost a year. I decided to have some fun with it. I wired the head and +jaws with fine wire. I attached two strings to the wire in such a way +that by pulling one I could make the skeleton's head turn left or right. +When I pulled the other the jaws clacked up and down. I tied the +skeleton in one of the dual-control seats of a cabin Travelair. I flew +the ship from the other seat. By bending way down nobody from the +outside could see me. It looked as though the skeleton were doing the +flying. Jim Drummond, flying mechanic, lay on the floor of the plane and +took charge of the skeleton's behavior. + +I knew that Eric Wood and Pete Brooks were flying formation over Floyd +Bennett Field that day. They had just joined the army reserve corps and +were all steamed up trying to make a success out of it. I decided they +would be my first victims of the day. We had no trouble finding the +formation. There was Pete just behind the leader, looking very +conscientious and pleased with himself. He was doing everything just +right. I eased up beside him. He didn't notice me for a second. When he +glanced around I gave Jim the signal. The skeleton looked right in his +face and jabbered. Horror and amazement flooded Pete's face. He turned +back to the formation--he had to unless he wanted to bump into the other +planes. But he couldn't stand it for long. He had to look again. Jabber, +jabber, went the skeleton. This went on a third and a fourth time, till +I finally felt sorry for Pete. He was getting walleyed, one eye on the +formation, the other on the skeleton. I gave him one final superb +jabber, dipped my wings, and went in search of other game. + + + + +CONFESSION + + +Jimmie Doolittle has demonstrated American airplanes all over the world. +He landed on one of his tours at Bandoeng, Java, headquarters of the +Dutch East Indian Air Corps. They had some American, Conqueror-powered, +Curtiss Hawks there. They asked Jimmie to take one of them up and put on +a show for them. + +After turning the ship inside out for the better part of an hour, Jimmie +really got into the spirit of the thing. He decided to dive straight +down from about 6,000 feet and conclude the show by showing them how +close he could come to the ground, pulling out of the dive. + +He turned over and started down. Straight down, closer and closer to the +ground, wide open, he roared. He yanked back on the stick to just clear +the ground and discovered there were several little considerations he +had overlooked. One was that he had just stepped out f a Cyclone-powered +Hawk, much lighter than the Conqueror-powered one he was desperately +trying to clear the airport in at that moment. The other was that he was +accustomed to flying the lighter ship out of a sea-level airport, much +heavier-aired than the 2,500-foot-high airport that he was at that +moment trying to avoid. The heavier ship squashed in the thinner air and +hit the ground in the pull-out. Just kissed it and skimmed into the air +again. + +Jimmie wondered if his landing gear had been swiped off, came around, +landed, and discovered that it hadn't. + +The Dutch officers rushed out to him when he crawled out of his cockpit. +"My God, Jimmie," they chorused, slapping him on the back, "that was the +most delicate piece of flying we have ever seen!" + +"Huh," Jimmie grunted, still thinking how lucky he had been to get away +with it, "delicate piece of flying, hell! That was the dumbest piece of +flying I ever did in my life!" + +They knew it too, of course, despite the polite way they had put it. So +from then on Jimmie was ace-high with them, because he had admitted the +boner instead of trying to lie out of it. + + + + +GONE ARE THE DAYS + + +George Weiss, one of the boys that kick the _Daily News_ photographic +ship around into position for the aerial photographs that appear in New +York's picture paper, told me this funny one he experienced with the +late Commander Rogers of the navy: + +Commander Rogers had flown way back in the early days of Wright pushers. +He saw George in Washington several years ago and asked him if he could +fly him up to his home at Havre de Grace, Md. He assured George that +there was a field there right beside his house that they could land in. +He said that he had landed in it himself. + +George took him up in his Travelair cabin ship. He arrived over the +Commander's house and the Commander pointed out the field. "It's full of +cows," George objected. "That's all right," the Commander told him, +"just buzz the field a couple of times and somebody will come out and +chase the cows away." + +George did, and sure enough somebody came out and chased the cows off +the field. + +"I still can't land there," George remonstrated. "The field is too +small." + +"Sure you can," the Commander assured him; "I've done it." + +George circled the field again. He said it looked like a good-sized +pocket handkerchief to him and was surrounded by tall trees. + +"Are you sure you've landed there?" George insisted. + +"Sure, I have," the Commander reassured him. "Go ahead, you can get in +it." + +George thought to himself that if the Commander had got in there, by +golly, he could too. He said he finally squashed down over the trees, +falling more than gliding, and dropped into the field with a smack that +should have cracked the ship up but didn't. He stopped fifty feet from +the row of trees by standing on his brakes and cutting the switches. He +said he didn't know how the hell he was going to get out of the place +without dismantling the ship. + +That night, in the Commander's house, over a drink, George asked him, +"Come, now, Commander, tell me the truth. Did you really land in that +field?" + +"Certainly I did," the Commander said. "It was back in 1912, and I was +flying a Wright pusher." George sneezed into his drink. The Wright +pushers land so slow they can be flown off a dining-room table. + +"And do you remember those trees around the field?" the Commander asked. +George remembered. "Well, they were only bushes in 1912." + + + + +"LOOK WHO TAUGHT HER" + + +I was trying to teach my wife to fly. I thought every flyer's wife +should know something about flying. It would be so convenient on +cross-country trips if Dee could spell me off on the controls. I was +having very little success. In the first place, Dee's eyes weren't good, +which is a decided disadvantage, and in the second place she just +couldn't seem to catch on. She had no coordination. I sweated and +struggled and cursed. "Don't skid on the turns," I moaned. "The rudder +and the stick must be used together. If you put the stick to the right, +push the right rudder. If you put the stick to the left, use the left +rudder." And the ship would grind around on another skid. + +Dee didn't take her flying as seriously as I did. She didn't +particularly want to learn to fly except to please me. I thought if I +could instill in her a sense of shame at her lack of coordination maybe +she would improve. I picked a day when she was more than usually bad. +The plane had been in every conceivable position but the right one. She +had skidded and slipped and wobbled all over the sky. My temper was +getting the best of me. + +"Dee," I said, "haven't you any pride about learning how to fly? Other +women learn how. Look at all the girls who fly, and fly damn well. Look +at Anne Lindbergh, for instance. She has been doing a wonderful job on +that Bird plane. She solos all over the place, and she only took it up a +little while ago." + +Dee looked at me a minute and said, "Well, look who taught her." + +I gave up teaching my wife how to fly. + + + + +A FAULTY RESCUE + + +Eddie Burgin, one of the oldest pilots on Roosevelt Field, tells me this +one about how they used the last remaining outdoor "outbuilding" on +Roosevelt Field as a homing device to lead a troubled pilot down into +the airport. + +Russ Simpson, American flying instructor in the Gosport School in +England during the war and at present an airplane broker on Roosevelt +Field, took off in one of the old Jennies to fly the first electric sign +ever flown over New York City at night. While he was gone a ground fog +rolled in over the airport. + +Pretty soon the fellows on the ground heard him coming back. They could +hear his motor, but they couldn't see his ship. They knew he couldn't +see the airport. He was stuck on top of the fog. + +They decided to help him. They got cans of gasoline and poured them on +the old outbuilding which stood a little way out from the hangars and +set fire to the rickety structure. They tore up all the spare motor +crates they could find and piled them on top of the blaze. They got the +fire so big they were afraid for a while that the hangars were going to +catch. They were trying to make a red glow in the fog so Russ could tell +where the field was. + +Finally they heard Russ's motor cut. They heard the ship glide in and +heard it hit. They could tell from the noise it made when it hit that it +had cracked up. + +They jumped into a car and went rushing all over the airport in the +darkness and the fog looking for the wreck. It took them half an hour to +find it, so Eddie says. + +When they did, they found Russ sitting on top of it, smoking a +cigarette. Their almost burning the hangars down had all been in vain. +Russ hadn't seen any red glow at all. He had simply mushed down through +the stuff and hit the airport by luck. + + + + +HELPING THE ARMY + + +After I was graduated from Brooks and Kelly, the army transferred me to +Selfridge Field in Detroit. There was nothing much doing around +Selfridge, and I was getting a little bored. I heard they were giving an +air show at Akron, right near my home town. I thought it would be fun to +go out there to see my old friends and give a stunt exhibition. I got +the necessary permission from the higher-ups and started out in a Tommy +Morse. The Morse planes were pretty near obsolete by that time, and the +service was trying to replace them as fast as possible with newer +models. There were only a few of them left. + +When I got to Akron there was a lot of excitement going on over the air +show. I told myself I was going to give them the works--show them what a +local boy could do. The first part of my program went off fine. I +looped, barrel-rolled, dove, etc. I had figured out a trick landing as +the grand finale that would pull the customers right out of their seats. +The landing didn't turn out so well. I misjudged my distance and ended +up on one wing. It was pretty humiliating. There was nothing to do but +wire Selfridge Field to ship me another wing. They wired back to the +effect that there were no more wings available at the moment and that I +should crate the ship home. That stumped me. I had no idea how to +dismantle a plane. I studied the old Morse from every angle, but I +couldn't find the solution. I had to get the plane in a crate, and I had +to do it quickly. I used a saw. I sawed off the good wing, the damaged +wing, and the tail surfaces. I crammed them into a crate and sent them +on their way. The plane of course had to be junked. + +I had helped the army to get rid of one more Tommy Morse. + + + + +APOLOGY + + +I was sitting alone in a movie not long ago. The newsreel came on. +Jimmie Doolittle's capable but impish face flashed upon the screen. +Behind him was the fast, low-wing, all-metal Vultee plane in which he +had just failed to better by more than a few minutes the Los Angeles--New +York record for transport planes. + +"I'm sorry I didn't make faster time," his picture spoke. "I didn't do +justice to the ship I flew. I wandered off my course during the night +and hit the coast 200 miles south of where I should have hit it. It was +just another piece of bum piloting." + +I saw Jimmie in Buffalo not long after that. + +"What was the matter, Jimmie?" I asked him, referring to the flight he +had spoken about in the newsreel. "Were you on top of the stuff for a +long time?" I continued, generously implying that of course he had had +enough bad weather to force him to fly on top of the clouds and out of +sight of land for so much of the trip that naturally he got off his +course. + +"No," he explained, "I wasn't on top. I was in it for ten and a half +hours. I couldn't get on top because I picked up ice above sixteen +thousand feet. I couldn't go under for several reasons. I had high +mountains to clear. I would have made even slower time and run out of +gas before I got to New York if I had flown low, because my supercharged +engine required 15,000 feet to develop its full power and its most +efficient gas consumption. So I had to fly in it. Also I got mixed up on +some radio beams. Some of them are stronger than others. I figured the +strongest ones the closest, which wasn't always true. I learned a lot on +that trip. I think I could hit it on the nose the next time." + +He was talking shop to a fellow professional. I could immediately see +that 200 miles off under the conditions he had had to contend with had +not been bad at all. I wouldn't have blamed him if he had explained to +the public a little more than he did. But when he said to them, without +the shadow of an alibi, "It was just another piece of bum piloting," I +thought it was pretty swell. + + + + +I AM DEAD + + +_This is the testament of Jimmy Collins, the test pilot._ + +_It is, as he himself phrased it, "The word of my life and my death. The +dream word that breathed into my nostrils the breath of life and +destroyed me too."_ + +_The body of Jimmy Collins was found on Friday in Pinelawn Cemetery, +near Farmingdale, L. I., beneath the wreckage of the Grumman ship he had +tested for the navy. That body was broken, mangled, twisted, in a +10,000-foot crash._ + +_His testament, the utterance of a poet who flew, first in search of +beauty, then in search of bread, is bravely, lyrically alive, straight +and whole, as was the spirit of the man who wrote it._ + +_He wrote it--laughingly, he said; grimly, we believe--nine months ago. +This is how it happened:_ + +_In October Collins went to Buffalo to test a new Curtiss bomber-fighter +for the navy. Before he left he took dinner with his old friend Archer +Winsten, who conducts the In the Wake of the News column for the_ Post. +_Winsten wrote a column about Collins and his spectacular job, begged +the flyer to do a guest column for him on his return, telling of the +Buffalo feat._ + +_What happened after that is best told in Collins's own words._ + +_He wrote to his sister, out West: "I got to thinking it over and +thought maybe I wouldn't come back because it was a dangerous job, and +then poor Archer would be out of a column.... So I playfully wrote one +for him in case I did get bumped off. Thoughtful of me, don't you +think?... I never got bumped off. Too bad, too, because it would have +been a scoop for Arch...."_ + +_Last Friday's job was to have been Jimmy's last as a test pilot. He +took it because he needed the money, for his wife and children. Soon he +was to have started on a writer's career._ + +_Jimmy's writing career ends today with his testament. He prefaced it +with the following:_ + +_"The next words you read will be those of James H. Collins, and not 'as +told to,' although you might say ghost-written."_ + +I AM DEAD. + +How can I say that? + +Do you remember an old, old story? I shall tell you just the beginning +of it: "In the beginning was the word, and the word was God...." That's +enough for you to see what I mean. + +It is by the word that I can say that. + +Not by the spoken word. I cannot say to you by the spoken word, "I am +dead." + +But there is not only the spoken word. There is also the written word. +It has different dimensions in space and time. + +It is by the written word that I can say to you, "I am dead." + +But there is not only the spoken and the written word. There is also the +formless, unbreathed word of mood and dream and passion. This is the +word that must have been the spirit of God that brooded over the face of +the deep in the beginning. It is the word of life and death. + +It was the word of my life and my death. The dream word that breathed +into my nostrils the breath of life and destroyed me too. + +Dreams. And life. And death. + +I had a dream. Always I had a dream. I cannot tell you what that dream +was. I can only tell you that flying was one of its symbols. Even when I +was very young that was true. Even as long as I can remember. + +When I became older, it became even more true. + +So deep a dream, so great a passion, could not be denied. + +Finally I did fly. + +"Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, when the evil days +drew not nigh...." Part of the same old story. + +I remembered the dream of the days of the youth of my flying, that burst +of glory, and how the world and my shining youth itself shone with the +radiance of it. + +It was my creator. It created life for me, for man shall not live by +bread alone. Man cannot. Only his dreams and his vision sustain him. + +But the evil days drew nigh. The glow died down, and the colors of the +earth showed up. Ambition, money. Love and cares and worry. Curious how +strong the strength of weakness is, in women and their children, when +you can see your own deep dreams, unworded, shining in their eyes. I +grew older too, and troublous times beset the world. + +Finally there came a time when I would rather eat than fly, and money +was a precious thing. + +Yes, money was a precious thing, and they offered me money, and there +was still a small glow of the deep, strong dream. + +The ship was beautiful. Its silver wings glistened in the sun. Its motor +was a strong song that lifted it to high heights. + +And then... + +Down. + +Down out of the blue heights we hurtled. Straight down. Faster. Faster +and faster. Testing our strength by diving. + +Fear? + +Yes, I had grown older. But grim fear now. The fear of daring and +courage. But tempered too with some of the strong power of the old dream +now too. + +Down. + +Down. + +A roar of flashing steel and a streak of glinting ... oh yes, oh yes, +now ... breaking wings. Too frail ... the wings ... the dream ... the +evil days. + +The cold but vibrant fuselage was the last thing to feel my warm and +living flesh. The long loud diving roar of the motor, rising to the +awful crashing crescendo of its impact with the earth, was my death +song. + +I am dead now. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Test Pilot, by Jimmy Collins + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEST PILOT *** + +***** This file should be named 34589.txt or 34589.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/5/8/34589/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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