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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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