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+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #67493 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67493)
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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tales of the Air Mail Pilots, by Burt
-M. McConnell
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: Tales of the Air Mail Pilots
-
-Author: Burt M. McConnell
-
-Release Date: February 24, 2022 [eBook #67493]
-
-Language: English
-
-Produced by: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF THE AIR MAIL PILOTS ***
-
-
-                     Tales of the Air Mail Pilots
-
-                         By Burt M. McConnell
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Nowhere else in the world has such a determined and successful effort
-been made to carry the mails by airplane as in the United States. Not
-since the Armistice have aviators in any part of the globe experienced
-such thrilling and terrifying adventures as Uncle Sam’s aerial
-postmen.
-
-Two years ago I flew as a passenger from New York to Chicago, over the
-Alleghanies, with “Slim” Lewis and Wesley Smith, two of the Air Mail’s
-best pilots, at the controls. But nothing happened, except that, after
-some eight hours of rather monotonous flying, we arrived at Chicago
-after dark, could not locate the Air Mail flying field, and were
-compelled to land on the prairie west of the city. This was nothing
-more than an incident; only the pilot who flies day after day, week
-after week, in all sorts of weather, is fortunate—or
-unfortunate—enough to experience real adventures.
-
-A few weeks ago I journeyed over the entire Air Mail route, from New
-York to San Francisco. I traveled by train this time, and stopped at
-every flying field of consequence in search of stories of adventure.
-And I marveled that these quiet, smooth-faced, unassuming,
-well-dressed young men, most of whom are married and drive their own
-cars, could have passed safely through the experiences which I shall
-relate. Yet there they stood before me.
-
-In order to understand how these mishaps came about, it is necessary
-to familiarize oneself with the duties of the pilots and the purpose
-of the Air Mail Service. Every day, whatever the weather, two sturdy
-airplanes, loaded with mail, climb into the air above their respective
-flying fields near New York and San Francisco, and start across the
-continent. At the next landing field—there are thirteen of them
-between the two oceans—pilots and machines are changed, just as the
-crew and locomotive of the Limited are changed at each division point.
-
-[Illustration: The highest beacon light in the world guides air mail
-pilots as they fly at night across Sherman Hill in the Rockies.]
-
-When night comes, these pilots pick up their beacons as sailors do,
-for no longer do lighthouses belong only on capes and reefs. They are
-strung along the plains from Cleveland to Cheyenne, making a Great
-White Way a thousand miles from the sea.
-
-Along this route—the longest regularly operated airway in the world—I
-traveled until I reached Salt Lake City. There, while in the act of
-signing the hotel register, I heard a familiar sound—the drone of a
-Liberty motor. Directly over the center of the city appeared a De
-Haviland plane, speeding eastward at the rate of two miles a minute,
-or twice as fast as our fastest passenger trains.
-
-“That’s Ellis, on his way to Rock Springs,” my host volunteered.
-
-Salt Lake City is probably the most difficult spot along the entire
-transcontinental route for the pilot to get out of. The city is
-situated on a plain 4,200 feet above sea level, almost entirely
-surrounded by mountains. To the eastward, between Salt Lake and Rock
-Springs, Wyoming, is the country God forgot.
-
-Circling above the flying field to gain altitude, Ellis steered a
-course over Immigration Canyon, down which Brigham Young and his weary
-followers came in 1847. Ten minutes from the field, he cleared Red
-Butte, 7,000 feet above sea level and 2,800 above the field. Ten
-minutes later he topped another ridge 9,000 feet above sea level.
-Thirty minutes in all of steady climbing found him over Porcupine
-Ridge, at an elevation of almost 10,000 feet. Then came the Bad Lands
-of Utah and Wyoming, an unpopulated series of barren, chaotic, and
-inhospitable ridges. Forced landings in the Bad Lands have been
-responsible for so many near-tragedies that an emergency kit—rifle,
-snowshoes, food, cooking apparatus, and tools—now forms a part of each
-pilot’s equipment.
-
-That part of the transcontinental Air Mail route lying between
-Cheyenne and the California-Nevada line has had more than its share of
-mishaps and adventures. It was between Cheyenne and Rock Springs that
-Pilot Boonstra swooped down to a boulder-strewn spot one morning to
-pick up Chandler, whose machine had been put out of business by a
-broken connecting-rod. It was near the top of White Mountain, twelve
-miles from the Rock Springs Air Mail field, that Pilot Ellis and his
-sturdy plane were hurled by a “down-draft” into the steep,
-snow-covered side, like an arrow shot into a tree. Between Salt Lake
-City and Rock Springs have occurred half a dozen “forced landings”
-which came near resulting in disasters. It was in the Sierra Nevada
-Mountains that Pilot Huking, flying in a thick fog, crashed into the
-top of a tree and fell with his machine a hundred feet to the ground.
-Huking spent the next ten days in bed, but at the end of that time was
-back on the job.
-
-It was near the California-Nevada line, sixty miles from the nearest
-town, that Pilot Vance was forced down by a blizzard at nightfall, and
-unceremoniously dumped out on his head when his machine tipped over on
-its nose. He had landed in a patch of manzanita brush, higher than he
-could reach, and there he was forced to stay until daylight came.
-Blanchfield, another pilot, was caught in the grip of a “twister”
-peculiar to the Nevada desert, on one occasion, and also had a narrow
-escape from death when his plane broke out in flames as he landed at
-the Elko Air Mail field. Once, with the thermometer at 60° below zero,
-he made a flight of 235 miles through blinding sheets of snow to
-deliver the mail. When Blanchfield finally landed at Reno, looking
-more like a huge snowman than a human being, the cockpit of his
-machine was almost full of snow and the pilot himself seemed to be
-frozen to his seat. On still another occasion, while flying in a
-blizzard, Blanchfield was forced to land on the snow-covered desert.
-After a five-hour search, the pilot came upon the shack of a wrinkled
-old Indian, who shoved a rifle in this “sky-devil’s” face and refused
-point-blank to help him crank the motor of his machine.
-
-In the Utah-Wyoming Bad Lands, between Salt Lake City and Rock
-Springs, occurred the forced landing of Pilot Bishop, which would have
-terminated fatally had it not been for the exceptional bravery and
-good flying judgment of Ellis. It was in this section of the country
-that Boonstra fell into the deadly tail-spin while three and a half
-miles in the air, and came hurtling to earth. It isn’t often that an
-aviator goes into a tail-spin and lives to tell the tale. Yet I found
-that Boonstra was not only alive, but was stationed at Rock Springs.
-To Rock Springs, therefore, I hastened for my first tale of adventure.
-
-The wireless equipment at the flying field sputtered as our flivver
-drew up to the shack.
-
-“What’s up?” I inquired innocently.
-
-“There’s been a big explosion in the coal mine at Kemmerer, eighty
-miles from here,” replied the Field Manager. “It’s up to me to find a
-ship and a pilot. They call on us for everything and we help when we
-can. They want us to send a doctor and a gas expert by airplane right
-away.”
-
-As I stared to the eastward at the “saddle,” silhouetted against the
-cloudless blue sky, a black speck, which seemed at a distance of ten
-miles no larger than a dragonfly, sailed serenely above the depression
-in the ridge. This was Boonstra. Within a few minutes the pilot had
-landed in a cloud of dust and taxied his machine up to the hanger
-where we were duly introduced.
-
-“Boonstra,” I began, “I understand that you’ve had more than your
-share of close shaves?”
-
-“Well,” he replied, hesitatingly, “Maybe I have. But those things are
-all in the day’s work.”
-
-“You don’t have a forced landing in the Rocky Mountains or a tail-spin
-from 18,000 feet every day, do you?”
-
-“No-o.”
-
-“I wish you’d tell me about the difficulties under which the mail is
-carried, in winter and summer. You see, the American people have no
-way of knowing just what you pilots are up against. The weather, for
-instance.”
-
-[Illustration: Pilot Lester F. Bishop]
-
-“Well, it does get pretty bad. Take the day that came near being my
-last on earth. I left Salt Lake for this field at 7.30 in the morning.
-A full-sized blizzard was blowing, and the thermometer was below zero.
-I was flying low under the clouds, clearing mountain peaks by about
-two hundred feet, when I came to Porcupine Ridge. Suddenly, without
-any apparent reason, the machine settled. I guess I must have run into
-one of those winds that flow down the side of a mountain like a
-waterfall. Anyway, before I could attempt a right or left turn, or
-even throttle the motor, the machine dropped to a sloping ridge, the
-landing gear collapsed, and the wrecked craft slid on its fuselage
-almost to the top of the boulder-strewn ridge before it came to a
-stop.
-
-“Here I was, thirty-five miles north of Salt Lake and eighty miles to
-the eastward. I was twelve miles from a telephone, and thirty miles
-from a railroad. The only house I had ever seen from the air was six
-miles distant. The ridge on which I stood was almost 10,000 feet high
-and almost inaccessible. I couldn’t see fifty feet in that storm, so I
-stripped the compass from the wreck. With my traveling bag in one hand
-and a pair of trousers wrapped about the other to help support my
-weight on the snow, and with bits of clothing wrapped about my feet to
-act as snowshoes, I started on my journey toward civilization.
-
-“Soon I was floundering in snow up to my waist. I stumbled along all
-that day, all that night, and at daybreak came to the edge of the
-woods. The going was slow and tiresome. Frequent stops for rest were
-necessary. During these times I could feel my feet getting numb. But I
-carried a map of the country in my head, and knew there was a barn
-about three miles ahead. I struggled toward it all that day, while the
-blizzard raged and blotted out everything at times. By noon I was
-progressing at a snail’s pace; my leg muscles almost refused to
-function. About three o’clock I came close enough to the barn to see
-that there was no house, but it was clear now, and I could see one
-about three-quarters of a mile farther on. During all this time I was
-very weak, for I had eaten nothing in almost thirty-six hours.
-
-“At dusk I came to the house, and they took me in, rubbed my
-frost-bitten feet with snow, and filled me with warm food and hot
-coffee. After struggling through snowdrifts for thirty-six hours
-without food or drink, you can imagine that I was pretty tired. I was.
-I hit that bed so hard that I slept almost twenty hours. I didn’t wake
-up until far into the next afternoon.
-
-“The report from Rock Springs that I was missing pretty well disrupted
-the Air Mail Service for two days; for sixteen planes from the Rock
-Springs and Salt Lake fields suspended flying to look for me. Finally,
-my machine was located from the air by Bishop, of Salt Lake City.
-There was no telephone at the ranch; no way whatever of advising the
-searchers that I was safe. But, at the end of my nap, I was able to
-get on a horse and ride with my Good Samaritan ten miles to the
-nearest telephone. At that place some rescue parties, equipped with
-horses and bobsleds, met us and took us to Salt Lake, where we arrived
-the evening of the following Tuesday. The plane was recovered about
-ten days later.”
-
-“What about your tail spin?”
-
-“That,” replied the pilot, “is something that I don’t care to
-remember. It isn’t very often, you know, that a man who goes into a
-tail spin lives to tell of the experience. I don’t know to this day
-what caused me to fall into that spin, unless it was the condition of
-the weather and the loss of flying speed.
-
-“The facts of the case are these: I ran into a blizzard one January
-day. The wind was dead against me, and I soon found that I couldn’t
-buck it, even though my ship would make two miles a minute. I tried it
-for half an hour, and made a little progress, but snow was falling so
-heavily that I could scarcely see a hundred yards ahead. I flew and
-flew and flew, trying to get around the storm, but it was impossible
-without going too far off the route. Then I tried to climb over it,
-and got to 18,000 feet, or about three and one-half miles, which is
-the ‘ceiling’ or limit of a De Haviland.
-
-“By this time I was rather dizzy and exhausted. It was then that I
-lost consciousness and went into the tail spin. Recovering, at a point
-about a mile and a half above the ground, I managed to ‘come out of
-it,’ as they say, by bringing the machine to an even keel. But I was
-feeling so wobbly by this time that the plane almost immediately fell
-into another spin. I have no recollection whatever of what I did;
-probably I worked the controls instinctively. There was no banking
-indicator on my plane, so it was almost impossible, with snow swirling
-all around and my view of everything shut out by the blizzard, for me
-to tell when I was flying on the level. As I say, my memory is hazy
-about that second spin; all I know is that in some miraculous fashion
-I came out of it—only to fall into another! My hands and feet worked
-the controls automatically, I guess, as I swirled like a falling leaf
-toward the earth. The fall was a dizzy one, I can tell you.
-
-[Illustration: Pilot Robert H. Ellis]
-
-“By good luck, rather than because of any effort of mine, I came out
-of my third tail spin. I can’t recall going into the fourth—and
-last—spin, but I dimly remember bringing the ship to a flat spiral
-about a hundred feet from the ground. Then I struck a tree, and the
-machine went crashing to the ground. I was unconscious for five hours,
-but was warmly dressed, so that freezing was not added to my list of
-injuries. These, in fact, were slight; merely a few cuts and bruises.
-If I hadn’t carried snowshoes in the cockpit, however, I probably
-would have perished, then and there. We all carry snowshoes, emergency
-rations, and a rifle, now. And our machines are equipped with banking
-indicators to show when they are on an even keel.”
-
-At Reno, my next stop on the transcontinental Air Mail route, I
-learned of the untimely end, only a few weeks before, of Pilot
-Blanchfield. For ten years he had been a flier, first with the Royal
-Flying Corps during the war. Then he came to the United States,
-applied for citizenship, and entered the Air Mail Service. In those
-ten years he had flown approximately 300,000 miles, or more than
-twelve times around the earth.
-
-[Illustration: Ninety-six inspections before each flight!]
-
-In flying over the crest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, between Reno
-and Elko, Nevada, Blanchfield found the atmosphere in the neighborhood
-of the “hump” far more violent and dangerous than the disturbance in
-the air caused by anti-aircraft shells during the war. Besides
-experiencing several hazardous journeys under these conditions, during
-his comparatively brief career with the Air Mail, this pilot, on one
-occasion, was caught by a “twister” or tornado such as they have in
-Nebraska. But it was during an almost unheard of succession of gales,
-blizzards, and cold weather in November, 1922, that Blanchfield
-experienced what was perhaps his most exciting adventure.
-
-The thermometer was 60° below at Elko one day when he persuaded the
-field manager to permit him to carry the mail to Reno, 235 miles away.
-Blinding sheets of snow, carried on the wings of an eighty-mile gale,
-were driven against the hangar as Blanchfield gave the signal for his
-machine to be wheeled out into the open. Steering directly into the
-howling wind and snow, the pilot was completely hidden from view
-within half a minute. The shrieking winds soon drowned the steady roar
-of his motor.
-
-It is the custom, west of Cheyenne, for every railroad telegraph
-operator to report to the nearest Air Mail field the passage overhead
-of an airplane. Half an hour went by, yet no report came to either the
-Reno or Elko field. An hour passed, and still no tidings came.
-Meanwhile the storm had increased in intensity. A foot of snow had
-fallen.
-
-At the end of two hours an alarm was sent along every telegraph wire
-within fifty miles of the transcontinental route. When three hours had
-passed without a report of Blanchfield’s whereabouts, and three feet
-of snow covered the landscape, it was generally believed that he had
-been forced down by the hurricane somewhere on the Great Salt Desert.
-
-Finally, when the pilot was more than an hour overdue at the Reno
-field, the anxious little group in the hangar there heard the faint
-purr of a Liberty engine. Rushing to the hundred-foot door, they
-opened it in the face of the raging blizzard. The blinding snow shut
-out the view of everything more than fifty yards away, but they were
-positive they heard the steady, low drone of a motor. Then it ceased,
-and the watchers were about to turn back into the warm hangar when
-straight toward them, out of the furious storm, a plane came plunging
-through the drifts. Eagerly grasping the wings, they helped to steer
-it through the doorway.
-
-Once safely inside, with the door closed behind them, they looked
-toward the cockpit, expecting to see Blanchfield’s grinning
-countenance. What they saw, however, was a huge snowman. The pilot
-himself could not be seen for the snow that covered him and almost
-filled the cockpit. He seemed frozen in his seat, with one hand
-clutching the control stick, and his frosted feet resting upon the
-steering gear. For more than three and a half hours this fearless
-pilot, sitting in this cramped position, with a violent storm swirling
-about him, had battled for his life. For the greater part of the 235
-miles the ship had been almost beyond his control. The cold was the
-worst he had ever experienced. At times his powerful De Haviland had
-been unable to advance a single foot. His attempts to maneuver the
-plane out of the storm area were unavailing; the blizzard, it seemed,
-covered the entire State of Nevada. Certainly this was one of
-Blanchfield’s very narrowest escapes from death.
-
-On another occasion, while en route from Elko to Reno, he ran into
-another eighty-mile-an-hour gale. As usual, a snowstorm was in
-progress. Unable to see more than fifty yards in any direction, the
-pilot might fly into the shoulder of a mountain or be swept by a ‘down
-draft’ into a rocky canyon. For all he knew, he might be twenty miles
-off his course. To stay longer in the air was to court disaster. With
-commendable wisdom, therefore, Blanchfield flew at an altitude of a
-hundred feet until he came to a comparatively level spot covered with
-sagebrush. There, in the argot of the Air Mail Service, he “sat down.”
-
-Trudging through the snow, now two feet deep, in ever widening
-circles, Blanchfield, after five hours of walking, finally stumbled
-upon a little shack built in the side of a hill. At his knock the door
-opened a trifle, and the black, beady eyes of a patriarchal old Indian
-met his. But at the sight of this grotesque, snow-covered figure, with
-its goggles and helmet, the wrinkled old redskin slammed the door. He
-had never before seen a pilot in flying accoutrement, and he was
-taking no chances. With the fury of the gale almost drowning out his
-voice, Blanchfield tried for half an hour to persuade the wily old
-Indian to open the door.
-
-Firmly grasping his rifle, the aborigine eventually unlocked the door,
-and stepped backward before the pilot’s advance, meanwhile motioning
-him with the barrel toward a primitive fireplace. Divesting himself of
-his entire flying outfit, Blanchfield stood before the Indian, an
-ordinary white man such as he had seen in the hills, and not some sort
-of devil. But the pilot’s command of the Indian and sign languages was
-inadequate, and the Indian was hard to convince. Didn’t this wizened
-old redskin see these “sky-devils” flying over the desert almost every
-day? Their throbbing motors must be filled with ‘bad medicine,’ for
-they flew through the air faster than the birds. No; he would stand
-there with his rifle until this stranger from another world warmed and
-fed himself, then he would send him forth. Fortunately for the pilot,
-an old prospector who knew the Indian happened along at this juncture,
-and explained the situation in pidgin English.
-
-Blanchfield now visualized the two of them helping him “turn over” his
-ten-foot propeller, ordinarily a task for three men. The storm had
-abated somewhat, and the three set forth, Blanchfield explaining his
-predicament as they went along. But when the Indian came within a
-hundred yards of the stranded ship, he stopped, and would go no
-farther. Nor would the grizzled prospector. ‘Sky devil no good’ was
-all the old redskin would say. So it fell to Blanchfield’s lot to turn
-over the propeller himself. Plowing through the snow, now almost two
-feet deep, with his heavy balloon-tired wheels, the pilot finally
-succeeded in urging his “bus” into the air, and arrived at the Reno
-field late that afternoon.
-
-In May, 1922, Pilot Huking left San Francisco for Reno one day with
-the usual cargo of mail. A battle with the elements began almost as
-soon as the wheels of his machine left the ground, but this time it
-was not snow. It was fog, thick enough to tie up harbor shipping. When
-his ship, after a gallant climb of several thousand feet, finally
-poked her nose above the clouds, Huking was lost. But he started in
-the general direction of Reno, guided only by his compass. When more
-than three miles in the air, the mist began to thicken. To add to his
-discomfort, this soon turned to rain. Still he drove onward toward the
-“hump,” looking meanwhile for an opening. He dared not fly lower, for
-at any moment the sharp pinnacle of a mountain might rear itself
-abruptly into the clouds, too late for him to turn either to the right
-or left.
-
-Huking was in a quandary. He felt certain that he was somewhere in the
-vicinity of the Reno field. But a dive through the blanket of dark
-clouds that lay over the mountains, in the hope of finding clear
-weather at a lower level, probably would result in death. There he
-was, lost in the darkness, miles above the earth, with only a dense
-mist on every side. After flying about in circles for more than an
-hour, looking in vain for an opening, the engine began to sputter and
-finally stopped completely. Huking instinctively turned his ship’s
-nose downward, and glided through the dense clouds at an angle so flat
-that it barely maintained the momentum of the airplane. After what
-seemed hours, the pilot found, upon emerging from the mist, that the
-ground was only three hundred feet below. To his consternation,
-however, it was covered with trees, some of which were more than one
-hundred feet high!
-
-Almost before he was aware of what was happening, one of the wings of
-the machine came in contact with a tree-top and was snapped off.
-Slewed around by the impact and without this supporting wing, the
-plane dived downward and crashed through the limbs of the surrounding
-trees, breaking into a thousand pieces.
-
-From a point half a mile away, the noise of the falling plane was
-plainly heard by some wood cutters. Hurrying through the fog and mist,
-they found Huking, covered with blood, walking about the wreck.
-
-“I couldn’t keep her up with only one wing,” he was repeating.
-
-As they drew near, the pilot, who had had a very narrow escape from
-death, suddenly collapsed. They carried his unconscious form to the
-nearest doctor—three miles away—and Huking spent the next ten days in
-bed. But at the end of that time he was back on the job, carrying the
-mail between Reno and San Francisco, across the “hump” and the “hell
-hole” or Verdi, Nevada, which has been the scene of more than half a
-dozen near-tragedies.
-
-To return to Pilot Vance, who in December, 1923, was caught in a
-snowstorm between Reno and San Francisco: The flakes, large and fluffy
-like the breast feathers of a Canada goose, floated lazily to earth,
-entirely cutting off his view of the country below. Flying by compass
-and resorting to the tactics taught him by experience, Vance
-endeavored to climb above the storm. At 13,000 feet—two and a half
-miles—the tempest still was raging. Snow was falling thicker than
-ever. Vance realized that it would be pitch dark before he could reach
-Reno. With the chances ten to one that he would become lost in the
-snowstorm, and realizing that his gasoline supply was running low,
-Vance decided to come down.
-
-Gliding earthward at a sharp angle until he was within a few hundred
-feet of the ground, the pilot discovered that he was in the vicinity
-of the Last Chance mine. Picking out as a landing place what he
-thought was a patch of low brush, the pilot steered his ship in that
-direction. As he flew low over this area, Vance congratulated himself
-on having such a level spot on which to land.
-
-[Illustration: Pilot Claire K. Vance]
-
-Skimming along the tops of the brush at sixty miles an hour, the
-ordinary landing speed of a De Haviland, Vance’s wheels finally
-touched the tips of the brush, cutting down the momentum of the big
-machine. Then, as Vance settled lower and lower, the plane was tripped
-like a roped steer. Brought up short in this way, the ship, with the
-heavy engine in the forward part of the fuselage, now turned on its
-back, and unceremoniously dumped Vance out on his head.
-
-The pilot, entirely unhurt, found that he had landed in a big patch of
-manzanita brush, six feet high and heavy in proportion. Here he was,
-almost sixty miles from the nearest town—and the nights are cold along
-the Nevada-California line.
-
-After learning that his landing gear, upper wings, and propeller had
-been damaged and that he could not hope to cut a path to freedom in
-the darkness, Vance decided to build a fire and camp near the machine.
-When he finally got the fire started, the pilot had only two matches
-left. This one fact indicates the close escape he had from freezing to
-death in the blizzard, or worst still, of becoming lost while fighting
-his way out of the manzanita brush in the darkness.
-
-A less resourceful aviator might have wandered about until he died of
-exhaustion.
-
-Vance lay awake all night feeding the fire with manzanita brush. He
-had landed about half a mile from the edge of the brush nearest the
-mine, instead of in the center of the patch. With the first ray of
-dawn Vance struck off toward the nearest edge of the brush, and within
-an hour had covered the half mile that separated him from freedom. At
-the mine, the surprised superintendent loaned him two mules, one to
-ride and the other to carry the 350 pounds of mail. One of the miners
-volunteered to ride out with him to bring back the mules. It was
-eighteen miles from the Last Chance mine to Michigan Bluff. This was
-covered on mule-back. There Vance caught a stage to Colfax,
-California—forty miles—where he put his mail aboard the eastbound
-Limited.
-
-[Illustration: There are five radio systems to keep track on the air
-mail pilots as they wing swiftly from one edge of the United States
-to the other.]
-
-                  *       *       *       *       *
-
-Returning from San Francisco, I stopped at Salt Lake, where Ellis and
-Bishop were stationed. Theirs is a story stranger than fiction, and it
-exemplifies the best traditions of the Air Mail Service.
-
-Late in October, 1923, Bishop, one of the oldest pilots, in point of
-service, was caught in a blizzard forty-five miles south of Rock
-Springs, Wyoming, and forced down twenty-five miles from the nearest
-point of civilization and communication. The sky above the Sierra
-Nevada Mountains was thick and overcast, with the wind blowing at
-forty miles an hour. The thermometer registered 18°. Snow of the dry
-and powdery sort was falling heavily. Bishop could see less than a
-hundred yards, and could make no headway whatever against this typical
-Utah blizzard.
-
-Concluding that it would be best to land on the route between Rock
-Springs and Salt Lake City, with which he was familiar, rather than to
-try to find his way through the storm, Bishop finally “sat down” on a
-comparatively smooth and—at that time—bare plateau, known as Bridger’s
-Bench. He landed without accident, and for approximately an hour kept
-his motor turning over slowly, in the hope that the storm would
-subside. By that time at least a foot of snow had fallen. Realizing
-that he must get out of his predicament immediately, if he expected to
-get out at all, Bishop began charging backward and forward with his
-powerful machine, in an attempt to clear a runway with the “backwash”
-from the propeller. For an hour he sent his plane at full speed over
-the top of the plateau, backward and forward for two hundred yards at
-a time, in an effort to clear a path ten feet wide. But each time he
-had finished digging a runway long enough, and turned around, the snow
-had drifted in, and the process had to be repeated all over again.
-
-[Illustration: An alarm is sent out by telegraph and radio
-whenever a plane is missing. Often a man’s life has been saved
-by this information.]
-
-At the end of two hours snow covered the plateau to a depth of two
-feet. It now became more and more difficult to charge with his machine
-up and down the runway; but Bishop carried on. Perhaps the wind would
-cease, so that he could shovel a runway two hundred yards long and ten
-feet wide. Finally, however, after he had tried unsuccessfully for
-three hours to extricate his machine from the drifts; when snow had
-fallen to a depth of three feet and the powerful Liberty motor could
-not force the plane through the snow, Bishop climbed stiffly out of
-the cockpit, shook himself free of snow, drained off the water from
-the radiator, covered up the mail in the cockpit, and started walking
-in the general direction of the nearest settlement—Lyman, Wyoming.
-
-Bishop was familiar with the country, having flown over it dozens of
-times, yet, being a careful and methodical pilot, he took the compass
-from the machine. He had no emergency rations. He had neither
-snowshoes nor rifle. He saw no game. There was no shelter within
-twenty miles that he knew of. If worst came to worst, however, he
-could still return to his machine and start a fire with his batteries
-and some gasoline.
-
-The pilot was strongly tempted to lay aside his heavy fur-lined flying
-suit, but, as it seemed likely that he might have to use it for a
-blanket that night, he threw the legs of the suit over his shoulders,
-strapped them there in order to walk more freely, and floundered forth
-into the snow, now three feet deep.
-
-Soon Bishop was wallowing in drifts higher than his waist. For hours
-he continued on, overheated by his exertions, and rapidly growing
-weaker with each stride. There was nothing from which to make
-snowshoes for his feet, even if he had had the tools and the time
-before darkness fell. The storm still howled about his ears and shut
-off the view ahead. But with his compass he kept a course toward a
-farmhouse which he knew nestled at the foot of a mountain some twenty
-miles to the westward.
-
-For more than six hours Bishop, who was born on an Iowa farm and is
-sturdily built, staggered wearily along through the snowdrifts,
-traveling in that time about ten miles. At this critical juncture,
-half way between the ship, where he could at least have built a fire,
-and the farmhouse where he was sure to find warmth, food, and shelter,
-Bishop realized that his fast waning strength was not equal to the
-task of reaching the one or retreating to the other. He was becoming
-drowsy by this time, but he struggled onward, still carrying his heavy
-flying suit, for it seemed certain that he would be compelled to spend
-the night in the open. No one could possibly have seen him land, and
-certainly he, a mere speck against the spotless white, could not be
-discerned from the farmhouse, even with the aid of glasses. Besides,
-no one would expect even an Air Mail pilot to venture out in such a
-blizzard.
-
-[Illustration: The field flood-light—a powerful searchlight—makes the
-landing field lighter than at noontime.]
-
-By resting at frequent intervals, this husky Iowan accomplished two
-more miles in as many hours. But now, after an eight-hour battle with
-the elements, the pilot had arrived at the stage where he was
-absolutely exhausted and almost in despair. How simple a solution of
-the problem, he thought, merely to lie down and go to sleep. Just
-then, however, he heard above the whistling of the wind the familiar
-drone of a Liberty motor. Glancing up, and almost unwilling to believe
-his eyes, the weary flier saw a plane directly above him. A miracle
-had happened. One of the boys, Bishop concluded, had learned by
-wireless that he was missing, and was now in search of him. The
-“shipwrecked” pilot frantically waved his heavy flying suit, but,
-despite his efforts, the plane passed a thousand feet above him,
-flying eastward, without even a signal. Within a few minutes it was
-out of sight.
-
-Bishop now gave up hope. Was he to die almost within sight of a haven?
-By this time it had stopped snowing, but a moderate gale still howled
-out of the southwest. Bishop sat down to rest and think things over.
-He was now on a “hogback,” perfectly level and almost free of snow. As
-he sat there, another miracle happened; a miracle to stir one’s blood.
-It was this: Bob Ellis, Bishop’s companion, flying from Salt Lake City
-to Rock Springs, had seen his machine on the ground, but had noticed
-that the engine was running. Ellis, anxious to keep to the schedule,
-and believing Bishop was not in difficulty, continued on. But soon
-after his arrival at Rock Springs, Salt Lake reported by wireless that
-Bishop was missing. Ellis thereupon asked permission of the Division
-Superintendent to retrace his flight to the spot where he had seen
-Bishop’s plane on the ground. This was a splendid thing for Ellis to
-do. He was weary from his four-hour flight. The wind was still blowing
-at forty miles an hour. Nevertheless, this fearless pilot waited only
-long enough for a ship to be fueled.
-
-Taking along a mechanic in case of accident to his own motor, and food
-and coffee for Bishop, Ellis set out in the face of the gale to find
-among a thousand hills a stalled machine and its helpless pilot.
-
-When I remarked to Ellis, a few weeks ago, in a conversation at Salt
-Lake City, that this was a “mighty fine thing” for him to do, he
-replied: “Oh, that’s nothing; Bishop or any other pilot would do the
-same thing for me. We realize that any one of us may get into a jam at
-any time. And then it’s up to his fellow pilots to get him out of it.”
-This is the code of those who go down to the sea in ships.
-
-After a flight of less than an hour, Ellis and his mechanic sighted
-Bishop’s machine, half buried in the snow; a dead thing. There was no
-sign of Bishop. Moreover, his trail had been blotted out by the
-drifting snow. Ellis, flying low and in wide circles about the stalled
-machine, asked himself what he would do in similar circumstances.
-Immediately he concluded that he would make for the farmhouse, twenty
-miles away. With an Air Mail pilot, to decide is to act and within
-fifteen minutes, Ellis, flying a hundred feet above the snow, had
-“picked up” a floundering figure half way between the stalled machine
-and the farmhouse. Settling gradually, in order not to break the
-undercarriage of his plane and thus leave all three at the mercy of
-the blizzard, Ellis and his mechanic landed near their exhausted
-comrade.
-
-After a meal and some hot coffee, Bishop was able to “sit in” at a
-council of war. Ellis’s machine, they agreed, could carry the three of
-them, provided it could get into the air. But ground conditions were
-so unfavorable—the drifts were so deep—that this seemed impossible. It
-was then agreed that they would “taxi” the machine to a clear spot six
-miles to the westward, from which to take off.
-
-For four miles, with each mile rapidly eating up their fuel supply,
-they churned their way through the powdery drifts, with Bishop huddled
-in the cockpit and the mechanic, comparatively fresh and warmly
-clothed, clinging to a precarious position on one of the wings.
-Finally, Ellis, realizing that his gasoline supply was becoming
-dangerously reduced, suggested that Bishop, with the aid of the
-mechanic, try to reach the farmhouse, now some four miles distant,
-while he flew back to Hock Springs to report Bishop’s safety—and get
-more gasoline. This they attempted, but Ellis, watching Bishop’s
-faltering footsteps from the air, realized that his exhausted comrade
-would be unable to accomplish the four miles. Swooping downward, Ellis
-again landed near the struggling pair, helped them to climb aboard,
-and swore that he would get the ship off the ground with the three of
-them on board, or “bust her up.”
-
-Finding a ridge comparatively free from snow, Ellis, with his motor
-racing at full speed, and his plane reeling drunkenly amid the
-entangling sagebrush and snowdrifts, succeeded, after swaying and
-dipping for two hundred yards, in getting into the air. Little by
-little, an inch at a time, then a foot, with his propeller racing
-faster than it had ever gone before, Ellis finally climbed twenty-five
-feet into the air. By facing directly into the wind, the pilot
-utilized its velocity to attain an altitude of a thousand feet. Then
-he turned, and with the wind at his back, he flew with his passengers
-to Hock Springs—and safety—in half an hour.
-
-Within a week Bishop’s machine had been recovered entirely whole,
-flown back to the field, and the pilot himself had recuperated. But he
-freely admitted to me in Salt Lake recently that if Ellis had not
-shown exceptional courage and excellent flying judgment, he, Bishop,
-would have perished almost within sight of aid.
-
-These are tales of Bishop, Ellis, Blanchfield, Boonstra, Huking, and
-Vance.
-
-Meager reports of other experiences are filed away, usually on single
-sheets of paper, in the office of the Superintendent of the Air Mail
-Service. For, with an Air Mail pilot, modesty amounts to an obsession.
-Those with whom I am acquainted would be the first to deny that flying
-is a dangerous game. Haven’t they been flying “crates” and “coffins”
-for ten years? Nevertheless, every day these pilots take grave risks,
-and in time of storm they undergo hazards comparable only to those
-which aviators at the front underwent during the war. For the pilot,
-once in the air, has nothing between the earth and himself but his
-Liberty motor.
-
-[Illustration: It is over this sort of country—wooded and
-treacherous—that the Air Mail pilots fly.]
-
-What sort of men are these sky-riders? They are a quiet, modest,
-efficient, hardy, intrepid, expert, and likeable group of young men.
-Many of them are in the Army Air Service Reserve. Most of them
-received their training before or during the war. They fly every day
-in the year, in darkness and fog, through snow, hail, “twisters,”
-lightning, sleet, and rain. The dangers of flying they accept as a
-matter of course. Even forced landings such as I have described, in a
-rocky and uninhabited country, are smilingly accepted as part of the
-day’s work. They fly at great altitudes, barely skimming the backbone
-of the continent. On every side they see only dense forests, turbulent
-streams, jagged peaks, and precipitous canyon walls. Yet they continue
-on, day after day, year after year.
-
-These pathfinders of the West have reduced the United States, in terms
-of transportation, to one-fourth its size. One can appreciate the
-value of the service they render only if he realizes that the
-prosperity of the United States depends mainly on doing business with
-ourselves on a bigger scale, and that business is carried on chiefly
-by correspondence. And no branch of the Post Office Department takes
-greater pride than the Air Mail Service in the motto from Herodotus
-that is carved above the portal of the New York Post Office:
-
-“Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these
-couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”
-
-
-[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1925 issue of
-McClure’s Magazine.]
-
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-<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tales of the Air Mail Pilots, by Burt M. McConnell</p>
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-<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Tales of the Air Mail Pilots</p>
-<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Burt M. McConnell</p>
-<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 24, 2022 [eBook #67493]</p>
-<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p>
-  <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Roger Frank and Sue Clark</p>
-<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF THE AIR MAIL PILOTS ***</div>
-<div class='ce'>
-<h1 style='margin-bottom:0em;'>Tales of the Air Mail Pilots </h1>
-<div style='font-size:1.1em;margin-bottom:2em;'>By Burt M. McConnell </div>
-</div>
-<div id='i001' class='mt01 mb01 wi001'>
-  <img src='images/illus-001.jpg' alt='' style='width:100%' />
-</div>
-<p>Nowhere else in the world has such a determined and successful effort
-been made to carry the mails by airplane as in the United States. Not
-since the Armistice have aviators in any part of the globe experienced
-such thrilling and terrifying adventures as Uncle Sam’s aerial
-postmen.</p>
-
-<p>Two years ago I flew as a passenger from New York to Chicago, over the
-Alleghanies, with “Slim” Lewis and Wesley Smith, two of the Air Mail’s
-best pilots, at the controls. But nothing happened, except that, after
-some eight hours of rather monotonous flying, we arrived at Chicago
-after dark, could not locate the Air Mail flying field, and were
-compelled to land on the prairie west of the city. This was nothing
-more than an incident; only the pilot who flies day after day, week
-after week, in all sorts of weather, is fortunate—or
-unfortunate—enough to experience real adventures.</p>
-
-<p>A few weeks ago I journeyed over the entire Air Mail route, from New
-York to San Francisco. I traveled by train this time, and stopped at
-every flying field of consequence in search of stories of adventure.
-And I marveled that these quiet, smooth-faced, unassuming,
-well-dressed young men, most of whom are married and drive their own
-cars, could have passed safely through the experiences which I shall
-relate. Yet there they stood before me.</p>
-
-<p>In order to understand how these mishaps came about, it is necessary
-to familiarize oneself with the duties of the pilots and the purpose
-of the Air Mail Service. Every day, whatever the weather, two sturdy
-airplanes, loaded with mail, climb into the air above their respective
-flying fields near New York and San Francisco, and start across the
-continent. At the next landing field—there are thirteen of them
-between the two oceans—pilots and machines are changed, just as the
-crew and locomotive of the Limited are changed at each division point.</p>
-
-<figure style='width:50%; float:right; margin-left:0.5em; margin-right:0;'>
-<img alt='' src='images/illus-002.jpg' style='width:100%' />
-<figcaption>
-The highest beacon light in the world guides air mail
-pilots as they fly at night across Sherman Hill in the Rockies.
-</figcaption>
-</figure>
-<p>When night comes, these pilots pick up their beacons as sailors do,
-for no longer do lighthouses belong only on capes and reefs. They are
-strung along the plains from Cleveland to Cheyenne, making a Great
-White Way a thousand miles from the sea.</p>
-
-<p>Along this route—the longest regularly operated airway in the world—I
-traveled until I reached Salt Lake City. There, while in the act of
-signing the hotel register, I heard a familiar sound—the drone of a
-Liberty motor. Directly over the center of the city appeared a De
-Haviland plane, speeding eastward at the rate of two miles a minute,
-or twice as fast as our fastest passenger trains.</p>
-
-<p>“That’s Ellis, on his way to Rock Springs,” my host volunteered.</p>
-
-<p>Salt Lake City is probably the most difficult spot along the entire
-transcontinental route for the pilot to get out of. The city is
-situated on a plain 4,200 feet above sea level, almost entirely
-surrounded by mountains. To the eastward, between Salt Lake and Rock
-Springs, Wyoming, is the country God forgot.</p>
-
-<p>Circling above the flying field to gain altitude, Ellis steered a
-course over Immigration Canyon, down which Brigham Young and his weary
-followers came in 1847. Ten minutes from the field, he cleared Red
-Butte, 7,000 feet above sea level and 2,800 above the field. Ten
-minutes later he topped another ridge 9,000 feet above sea level.
-Thirty minutes in all of steady climbing found him over Porcupine
-Ridge, at an elevation of almost 10,000 feet. Then came the Bad Lands
-of Utah and Wyoming, an unpopulated series of barren, chaotic, and
-inhospitable ridges. Forced landings in the Bad Lands have been
-responsible for so many near-tragedies that an emergency kit—rifle,
-snowshoes, food, cooking apparatus, and tools—now forms a part of each
-pilot’s equipment.</p>
-
-<p>That part of the transcontinental Air Mail route lying between
-Cheyenne and the California-Nevada line has had more than its share of
-mishaps and adventures. It was between Cheyenne and Rock Springs that
-Pilot Boonstra swooped down to a boulder-strewn spot one morning to
-pick up Chandler, whose machine had been put out of business by a
-broken connecting-rod. It was near the top of White Mountain, twelve
-miles from the Rock Springs Air Mail field, that Pilot Ellis and his
-sturdy plane were hurled by a “down-draft” into the steep,
-snow-covered side, like an arrow shot into a tree. Between Salt Lake
-City and Rock Springs have occurred half a dozen “forced landings”
-which came near resulting in disasters. It was in the Sierra Nevada
-Mountains that Pilot Huking, flying in a thick fog, crashed into the
-top of a tree and fell with his machine a hundred feet to the ground.
-Huking spent the next ten days in bed, but at the end of that time was
-back on the job.</p>
-
-<p>It was near the California-Nevada line, sixty miles from the nearest
-town, that Pilot Vance was forced down by a blizzard at nightfall, and
-unceremoniously dumped out on his head when his machine tipped over on
-its nose. He had landed in a patch of manzanita brush, higher than he
-could reach, and there he was forced to stay until daylight came.
-Blanchfield, another pilot, was caught in the grip of a “twister”
-peculiar to the Nevada desert, on one occasion, and also had a narrow
-escape from death when his plane broke out in flames as he landed at
-the Elko Air Mail field. Once, with the thermometer at 60° below zero,
-he made a flight of 235 miles through blinding sheets of snow to
-deliver the mail. When Blanchfield finally landed at Reno, looking
-more like a huge snowman than a human being, the cockpit of his
-machine was almost full of snow and the pilot himself seemed to be
-frozen to his seat. On still another occasion, while flying in a
-blizzard, Blanchfield was forced to land on the snow-covered desert.
-After a five-hour search, the pilot came upon the shack of a wrinkled
-old Indian, who shoved a rifle in this “sky-devil’s” face and refused
-point-blank to help him crank the motor of his machine.</p>
-
-<p>In the Utah-Wyoming Bad Lands, between Salt Lake City and Rock
-Springs, occurred the forced landing of Pilot Bishop, which would have
-terminated fatally had it not been for the exceptional bravery and
-good flying judgment of Ellis. It was in this section of the country
-that Boonstra fell into the deadly tail-spin while three and a half
-miles in the air, and came hurtling to earth. It isn’t often that an
-aviator goes into a tail-spin and lives to tell the tale. Yet I found
-that Boonstra was not only alive, but was stationed at Rock Springs.
-To Rock Springs, therefore, I hastened for my first tale of adventure.</p>
-
-<p>The wireless equipment at the flying field sputtered as our flivver
-drew up to the shack.</p>
-
-<p>“What’s up?” I inquired innocently.</p>
-
-<p>“There’s been a big explosion in the coal mine at Kemmerer, eighty
-miles from here,” replied the Field Manager. “It’s up to me to find a
-ship and a pilot. They call on us for everything and we help when we
-can. They want us to send a doctor and a gas expert by airplane right
-away.”</p>
-
-<p>As I stared to the eastward at the “saddle,” silhouetted against the
-cloudless blue sky, a black speck, which seemed at a distance of ten
-miles no larger than a dragonfly, sailed serenely above the depression
-in the ridge. This was Boonstra. Within a few minutes the pilot had
-landed in a cloud of dust and taxied his machine up to the hanger
-where we were duly introduced.</p>
-
-<p>“Boonstra,” I began, “I understand that you’ve had more than your
-share of close shaves?”</p>
-
-<p>“Well,” he replied, hesitatingly, “Maybe I have. But those things are
-all in the day’s work.”</p>
-
-<p>“You don’t have a forced landing in the Rocky Mountains or a tail-spin
-from 18,000 feet every day, do you?”</p>
-
-<p>“No-o.”</p>
-
-<p>“I wish you’d tell me about the difficulties under which the mail is
-carried, in winter and summer. You see, the American people have no
-way of knowing just what you pilots are up against. The weather, for
-instance.”</p>
-
-<figure style='width:50%; float:left; margin-left:0; margin-right:0.5em;'>
-<img alt='' src='images/illus-003.jpg' style='width:100%' />
-<figcaption>
-Pilot Lester F. Bishop
-</figcaption>
-</figure>
-<p>“Well, it does get pretty bad. Take the day that came near being my
-last on earth. I left Salt Lake for this field at 7.30 in the morning.
-A full-sized blizzard was blowing, and the thermometer was below zero.
-I was flying low under the clouds, clearing mountain peaks by about
-two hundred feet, when I came to Porcupine Ridge. Suddenly, without
-any apparent reason, the machine settled. I guess I must have run into
-one of those winds that flow down the side of a mountain like a
-waterfall. Anyway, before I could attempt a right or left turn, or
-even throttle the motor, the machine dropped to a sloping ridge, the
-landing gear collapsed, and the wrecked craft slid on its fuselage
-almost to the top of the boulder-strewn ridge before it came to a
-stop.</p>
-
-<p>“Here I was, thirty-five miles north of Salt Lake and eighty miles to
-the eastward. I was twelve miles from a telephone, and thirty miles
-from a railroad. The only house I had ever seen from the air was six
-miles distant. The ridge on which I stood was almost 10,000 feet high
-and almost inaccessible. I couldn’t see fifty feet in that storm, so I
-stripped the compass from the wreck. With my traveling bag in one hand
-and a pair of trousers wrapped about the other to help support my
-weight on the snow, and with bits of clothing wrapped about my feet to
-act as snowshoes, I started on my journey toward civilization.</p>
-
-<p>“Soon I was floundering in snow up to my waist. I stumbled along all
-that day, all that night, and at daybreak came to the edge of the
-woods. The going was slow and tiresome. Frequent stops for rest were
-necessary. During these times I could feel my feet getting numb. But I
-carried a map of the country in my head, and knew there was a barn
-about three miles ahead. I struggled toward it all that day, while the
-blizzard raged and blotted out everything at times. By noon I was
-progressing at a snail’s pace; my leg muscles almost refused to
-function. About three o’clock I came close enough to the barn to see
-that there was no house, but it was clear now, and I could see one
-about three-quarters of a mile farther on. During all this time I was
-very weak, for I had eaten nothing in almost thirty-six hours.</p>
-
-<p>“At dusk I came to the house, and they took me in, rubbed my
-frost-bitten feet with snow, and filled me with warm food and hot
-coffee. After struggling through snowdrifts for thirty-six hours
-without food or drink, you can imagine that I was pretty tired. I was.
-I hit that bed so hard that I slept almost twenty hours. I didn’t wake
-up until far into the next afternoon.</p>
-
-<p>“The report from Rock Springs that I was missing pretty well disrupted
-the Air Mail Service for two days; for sixteen planes from the Rock
-Springs and Salt Lake fields suspended flying to look for me. Finally,
-my machine was located from the air by Bishop, of Salt Lake City.
-There was no telephone at the ranch; no way whatever of advising the
-searchers that I was safe. But, at the end of my nap, I was able to
-get on a horse and ride with my Good Samaritan ten miles to the
-nearest telephone. At that place some rescue parties, equipped with
-horses and bobsleds, met us and took us to Salt Lake, where we arrived
-the evening of the following Tuesday. The plane was recovered about
-ten days later.”</p>
-
-<p>“What about your tail spin?”</p>
-
-<p>“That,” replied the pilot, “is something that I don’t care to
-remember. It isn’t very often, you know, that a man who goes into a
-tail spin lives to tell of the experience. I don’t know to this day
-what caused me to fall into that spin, unless it was the condition of
-the weather and the loss of flying speed.</p>
-
-<p>“The facts of the case are these: I ran into a blizzard one January
-day. The wind was dead against me, and I soon found that I couldn’t
-buck it, even though my ship would make two miles a minute. I tried it
-for half an hour, and made a little progress, but snow was falling so
-heavily that I could scarcely see a hundred yards ahead. I flew and
-flew and flew, trying to get around the storm, but it was impossible
-without going too far off the route. Then I tried to climb over it,
-and got to 18,000 feet, or about three and one-half miles, which is
-the ‘ceiling’ or limit of a De Haviland.</p>
-
-<p>“By this time I was rather dizzy and exhausted. It was then that I
-lost consciousness and went into the tail spin. Recovering, at a point
-about a mile and a half above the ground, I managed to ‘come out of
-it,’ as they say, by bringing the machine to an even keel. But I was
-feeling so wobbly by this time that the plane almost immediately fell
-into another spin. I have no recollection whatever of what I did;
-probably I worked the controls instinctively. There was no banking
-indicator on my plane, so it was almost impossible, with snow swirling
-all around and my view of everything shut out by the blizzard, for me
-to tell when I was flying on the level. As I say, my memory is hazy
-about that second spin; all I know is that in some miraculous fashion
-I came out of it—only to fall into another! My hands and feet worked
-the controls automatically, I guess, as I swirled like a falling leaf
-toward the earth. The fall was a dizzy one, I can tell you.</p>
-
-<figure style='width:50%; float:right; margin-right:0; margin-left:0.5em;'>
-<img alt='' src='images/illus-004.jpg' style='width:100%' />
-<figcaption>
-Pilot Robert H. Ellis
-</figcaption>
-</figure>
-<p>“By good luck, rather than because of any effort of mine, I came out
-of my third tail spin. I can’t recall going into the fourth—and
-last—spin, but I dimly remember bringing the ship to a flat spiral
-about a hundred feet from the ground. Then I struck a tree, and the
-machine went crashing to the ground. I was unconscious for five hours,
-but was warmly dressed, so that freezing was not added to my list of
-injuries. These, in fact, were slight; merely a few cuts and bruises.
-If I hadn’t carried snowshoes in the cockpit, however, I probably
-would have perished, then and there. We all carry snowshoes, emergency
-rations, and a rifle, now. And our machines are equipped with banking
-indicators to show when they are on an even keel.”</p>
-
-<p>At Reno, my next stop on the transcontinental Air Mail route, I
-learned of the untimely end, only a few weeks before, of Pilot
-Blanchfield. For ten years he had been a flier, first with the Royal
-Flying Corps during the war. Then he came to the United States,
-applied for citizenship, and entered the Air Mail Service. In those
-ten years he had flown approximately 300,000 miles, or more than
-twelve times around the earth.</p>
-
-<figure style='width:50%; float:left; margin-left:0; margin-right:0.5em;'>
-<img alt='' src='images/illus-005.jpg' style='width:100%' />
-<figcaption>
-Ninety-six inspections before each flight!
-</figcaption>
-</figure>
-<p>In flying over the crest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, between Reno
-and Elko, Nevada, Blanchfield found the atmosphere in the neighborhood
-of the “hump” far more violent and dangerous than the disturbance in
-the air caused by anti-aircraft shells during the war. Besides
-experiencing several hazardous journeys under these conditions, during
-his comparatively brief career with the Air Mail, this pilot, on one
-occasion, was caught by a “twister” or tornado such as they have in
-Nebraska. But it was during an almost unheard of succession of gales,
-blizzards, and cold weather in November, 1922, that Blanchfield
-experienced what was perhaps his most exciting adventure.</p>
-
-<p>The thermometer was 60° below at Elko one day when he persuaded the
-field manager to permit him to carry the mail to Reno, 235 miles away.
-Blinding sheets of snow, carried on the wings of an eighty-mile gale,
-were driven against the hangar as Blanchfield gave the signal for his
-machine to be wheeled out into the open. Steering directly into the
-howling wind and snow, the pilot was completely hidden from view
-within half a minute. The shrieking winds soon drowned the steady roar
-of his motor.</p>
-
-<p>It is the custom, west of Cheyenne, for every railroad telegraph
-operator to report to the nearest Air Mail field the passage overhead
-of an airplane. Half an hour went by, yet no report came to either the
-Reno or Elko field. An hour passed, and still no tidings came.
-Meanwhile the storm had increased in intensity. A foot of snow had
-fallen.</p>
-
-<p>At the end of two hours an alarm was sent along every telegraph wire
-within fifty miles of the transcontinental route. When three hours had
-passed without a report of Blanchfield’s whereabouts, and three feet
-of snow covered the landscape, it was generally believed that he had
-been forced down by the hurricane somewhere on the Great Salt Desert.</p>
-
-<p>Finally, when the pilot was more than an hour overdue at the Reno
-field, the anxious little group in the hangar there heard the faint
-purr of a Liberty engine. Rushing to the hundred-foot door, they
-opened it in the face of the raging blizzard. The blinding snow shut
-out the view of everything more than fifty yards away, but they were
-positive they heard the steady, low drone of a motor. Then it ceased,
-and the watchers were about to turn back into the warm hangar when
-straight toward them, out of the furious storm, a plane came plunging
-through the drifts. Eagerly grasping the wings, they helped to steer
-it through the doorway.</p>
-
-<p>Once safely inside, with the door closed behind them, they looked
-toward the cockpit, expecting to see Blanchfield’s grinning
-countenance. What they saw, however, was a huge snowman. The pilot
-himself could not be seen for the snow that covered him and almost
-filled the cockpit. He seemed frozen in his seat, with one hand
-clutching the control stick, and his frosted feet resting upon the
-steering gear. For more than three and a half hours this fearless
-pilot, sitting in this cramped position, with a violent storm swirling
-about him, had battled for his life. For the greater part of the 235
-miles the ship had been almost beyond his control. The cold was the
-worst he had ever experienced. At times his powerful De Haviland had
-been unable to advance a single foot. His attempts to maneuver the
-plane out of the storm area were unavailing; the blizzard, it seemed,
-covered the entire State of Nevada. Certainly this was one of
-Blanchfield’s very narrowest escapes from death.</p>
-
-<p>On another occasion, while en route from Elko to Reno, he ran into
-another eighty-mile-an-hour gale. As usual, a snowstorm was in
-progress. Unable to see more than fifty yards in any direction, the
-pilot might fly into the shoulder of a mountain or be swept by a ‘down
-draft’ into a rocky canyon. For all he knew, he might be twenty miles
-off his course. To stay longer in the air was to court disaster. With
-commendable wisdom, therefore, Blanchfield flew at an altitude of a
-hundred feet until he came to a comparatively level spot covered with
-sagebrush. There, in the argot of the Air Mail Service, he “sat down.”</p>
-
-<p>Trudging through the snow, now two feet deep, in ever widening
-circles, Blanchfield, after five hours of walking, finally stumbled
-upon a little shack built in the side of a hill. At his knock the door
-opened a trifle, and the black, beady eyes of a patriarchal old Indian
-met his. But at the sight of this grotesque, snow-covered figure, with
-its goggles and helmet, the wrinkled old redskin slammed the door. He
-had never before seen a pilot in flying accoutrement, and he was
-taking no chances. With the fury of the gale almost drowning out his
-voice, Blanchfield tried for half an hour to persuade the wily old
-Indian to open the door.</p>
-
-<p>Firmly grasping his rifle, the aborigine eventually unlocked the door,
-and stepped backward before the pilot’s advance, meanwhile motioning
-him with the barrel toward a primitive fireplace. Divesting himself of
-his entire flying outfit, Blanchfield stood before the Indian, an
-ordinary white man such as he had seen in the hills, and not some sort
-of devil. But the pilot’s command of the Indian and sign languages was
-inadequate, and the Indian was hard to convince. Didn’t this wizened
-old redskin see these “sky-devils” flying over the desert almost every
-day? Their throbbing motors must be filled with ‘bad medicine,’ for
-they flew through the air faster than the birds. No; he would stand
-there with his rifle until this stranger from another world warmed and
-fed himself, then he would send him forth. Fortunately for the pilot,
-an old prospector who knew the Indian happened along at this juncture,
-and explained the situation in pidgin English.</p>
-
-<p>Blanchfield now visualized the two of them helping him “turn over” his
-ten-foot propeller, ordinarily a task for three men. The storm had
-abated somewhat, and the three set forth, Blanchfield explaining his
-predicament as they went along. But when the Indian came within a
-hundred yards of the stranded ship, he stopped, and would go no
-farther. Nor would the grizzled prospector. ‘Sky devil no good’ was
-all the old redskin would say. So it fell to Blanchfield’s lot to turn
-over the propeller himself. Plowing through the snow, now almost two
-feet deep, with his heavy balloon-tired wheels, the pilot finally
-succeeded in urging his “bus” into the air, and arrived at the Reno
-field late that afternoon.</p>
-
-<p>In May, 1922, Pilot Huking left San Francisco for Reno one day with
-the usual cargo of mail. A battle with the elements began almost as
-soon as the wheels of his machine left the ground, but this time it
-was not snow. It was fog, thick enough to tie up harbor shipping. When
-his ship, after a gallant climb of several thousand feet, finally
-poked her nose above the clouds, Huking was lost. But he started in
-the general direction of Reno, guided only by his compass. When more
-than three miles in the air, the mist began to thicken. To add to his
-discomfort, this soon turned to rain. Still he drove onward toward the
-“hump,” looking meanwhile for an opening. He dared not fly lower, for
-at any moment the sharp pinnacle of a mountain might rear itself
-abruptly into the clouds, too late for him to turn either to the right
-or left.</p>
-
-<p>Huking was in a quandary. He felt certain that he was somewhere in the
-vicinity of the Reno field. But a dive through the blanket of dark
-clouds that lay over the mountains, in the hope of finding clear
-weather at a lower level, probably would result in death. There he
-was, lost in the darkness, miles above the earth, with only a dense
-mist on every side. After flying about in circles for more than an
-hour, looking in vain for an opening, the engine began to sputter and
-finally stopped completely. Huking instinctively turned his ship’s
-nose downward, and glided through the dense clouds at an angle so flat
-that it barely maintained the momentum of the airplane. After what
-seemed hours, the pilot found, upon emerging from the mist, that the
-ground was only three hundred feet below. To his consternation,
-however, it was covered with trees, some of which were more than one
-hundred feet high!</p>
-
-<p>Almost before he was aware of what was happening, one of the wings of
-the machine came in contact with a tree-top and was snapped off.
-Slewed around by the impact and without this supporting wing, the
-plane dived downward and crashed through the limbs of the surrounding
-trees, breaking into a thousand pieces.</p>
-
-<p>From a point half a mile away, the noise of the falling plane was
-plainly heard by some wood cutters. Hurrying through the fog and mist,
-they found Huking, covered with blood, walking about the wreck.</p>
-
-<p>“I couldn’t keep her up with only one wing,” he was repeating.</p>
-
-<p>As they drew near, the pilot, who had had a very narrow escape from
-death, suddenly collapsed. They carried his unconscious form to the
-nearest doctor—three miles away—and Huking spent the next ten days in
-bed. But at the end of that time he was back on the job, carrying the
-mail between Reno and San Francisco, across the “hump” and the “hell
-hole” or Verdi, Nevada, which has been the scene of more than half a
-dozen near-tragedies.</p>
-
-<p>To return to Pilot Vance, who in December, 1923, was caught in a
-snowstorm between Reno and San Francisco: The flakes, large and fluffy
-like the breast feathers of a Canada goose, floated lazily to earth,
-entirely cutting off his view of the country below. Flying by compass
-and resorting to the tactics taught him by experience, Vance
-endeavored to climb above the storm. At 13,000 feet—two and a half
-miles—the tempest still was raging. Snow was falling thicker than
-ever. Vance realized that it would be pitch dark before he could reach
-Reno. With the chances ten to one that he would become lost in the
-snowstorm, and realizing that his gasoline supply was running low,
-Vance decided to come down.</p>
-
-<p>Gliding earthward at a sharp angle until he was within a few hundred
-feet of the ground, the pilot discovered that he was in the vicinity
-of the Last Chance mine. Picking out as a landing place what he
-thought was a patch of low brush, the pilot steered his ship in that
-direction. As he flew low over this area, Vance congratulated himself
-on having such a level spot on which to land.</p>
-
-<figure style='width:50%; float:right; margin-right:0; margin-left:0.5em;'>
-<img alt='' src='images/illus-006.jpg' style='width:100%' />
-<figcaption>
-Pilot Claire K. Vance
-</figcaption>
-</figure>
-<p>Skimming along the tops of the brush at sixty miles an hour, the
-ordinary landing speed of a De Haviland, Vance’s wheels finally
-touched the tips of the brush, cutting down the momentum of the big
-machine. Then, as Vance settled lower and lower, the plane was tripped
-like a roped steer. Brought up short in this way, the ship, with the
-heavy engine in the forward part of the fuselage, now turned on its
-back, and unceremoniously dumped Vance out on his head.</p>
-
-<p>The pilot, entirely unhurt, found that he had landed in a big patch of
-manzanita brush, six feet high and heavy in proportion. Here he was,
-almost sixty miles from the nearest town—and the nights are cold along
-the Nevada-California line.</p>
-
-<p>After learning that his landing gear, upper wings, and propeller had
-been damaged and that he could not hope to cut a path to freedom in
-the darkness, Vance decided to build a fire and camp near the machine.
-When he finally got the fire started, the pilot had only two matches
-left. This one fact indicates the close escape he had from freezing to
-death in the blizzard, or worst still, of becoming lost while fighting
-his way out of the manzanita brush in the darkness.</p>
-
-<p>A less resourceful aviator might have wandered about until he died of
-exhaustion.</p>
-
-<p>Vance lay awake all night feeding the fire with manzanita brush. He
-had landed about half a mile from the edge of the brush nearest the
-mine, instead of in the center of the patch. With the first ray of
-dawn Vance struck off toward the nearest edge of the brush, and within
-an hour had covered the half mile that separated him from freedom. At
-the mine, the surprised superintendent loaned him two mules, one to
-ride and the other to carry the 350 pounds of mail. One of the miners
-volunteered to ride out with him to bring back the mules. It was
-eighteen miles from the Last Chance mine to Michigan Bluff. This was
-covered on mule-back. There Vance caught a stage to Colfax,
-California—forty miles—where he put his mail aboard the eastbound
-Limited.</p>
-
-<figure style='width:50%; float:left; margin-left:0; margin-right:0.5em;'>
-<img alt='' src='images/illus-007.jpg' style='width:100%' />
-<figcaption>
-There are five radio systems to keep track on the air mail
-pilots as they wing swiftly from one edge of the United States
-to the other.
-</figcaption>
-</figure>
-<div style='height:1em;'></div>
-<p>Returning from San Francisco, I stopped at Salt Lake, where Ellis and
-Bishop were stationed. Theirs is a story stranger than fiction, and it
-exemplifies the best traditions of the Air Mail Service.</p>
-
-<p>Late in October, 1923, Bishop, one of the oldest pilots, in point of
-service, was caught in a blizzard forty-five miles south of Rock
-Springs, Wyoming, and forced down twenty-five miles from the nearest
-point of civilization and communication. The sky above the Sierra
-Nevada Mountains was thick and overcast, with the wind blowing at
-forty miles an hour. The thermometer registered 18°. Snow of the dry
-and powdery sort was falling heavily. Bishop could see less than a
-hundred yards, and could make no headway whatever against this typical
-Utah blizzard.</p>
-
-<p>Concluding that it would be best to land on the route between Rock
-Springs and Salt Lake City, with which he was familiar, rather than to
-try to find his way through the storm, Bishop finally “sat down” on a
-comparatively smooth and—at that time—bare plateau, known as Bridger’s
-Bench. He landed without accident, and for approximately an hour kept
-his motor turning over slowly, in the hope that the storm would
-subside. By that time at least a foot of snow had fallen. Realizing
-that he must get out of his predicament immediately, if he expected to
-get out at all, Bishop began charging backward and forward with his
-powerful machine, in an attempt to clear a runway with the “backwash”
-from the propeller. For an hour he sent his plane at full speed over
-the top of the plateau, backward and forward for two hundred yards at
-a time, in an effort to clear a path ten feet wide. But each time he
-had finished digging a runway long enough, and turned around, the snow
-had drifted in, and the process had to be repeated all over again.</p>
-
-<figure style='width:50%; float:right; margin-right:0; margin-left:0.5em;'>
-<img alt='' src='images/illus-008.jpg' style='width:100%' />
-<figcaption>
-An alarm is sent out by telegraph and radio whenever a plane
-is missing. Often a man’s life has been saved by this information.
-</figcaption>
-</figure>
-<p>At the end of two hours snow covered the plateau to a depth of two
-feet. It now became more and more difficult to charge with his machine
-up and down the runway; but Bishop carried on. Perhaps the wind would
-cease, so that he could shovel a runway two hundred yards long and ten
-feet wide. Finally, however, after he had tried unsuccessfully for
-three hours to extricate his machine from the drifts; when snow had
-fallen to a depth of three feet and the powerful Liberty motor could
-not force the plane through the snow, Bishop climbed stiffly out of
-the cockpit, shook himself free of snow, drained off the water from
-the radiator, covered up the mail in the cockpit, and started walking
-in the general direction of the nearest settlement—Lyman, Wyoming.</p>
-
-<p>Bishop was familiar with the country, having flown over it dozens of
-times, yet, being a careful and methodical pilot, he took the compass
-from the machine. He had no emergency rations. He had neither
-snowshoes nor rifle. He saw no game. There was no shelter within
-twenty miles that he knew of. If worst came to worst, however, he
-could still return to his machine and start a fire with his batteries
-and some gasoline.</p>
-
-<p>The pilot was strongly tempted to lay aside his heavy fur-lined flying
-suit, but, as it seemed likely that he might have to use it for a
-blanket that night, he threw the legs of the suit over his shoulders,
-strapped them there in order to walk more freely, and floundered forth
-into the snow, now three feet deep.</p>
-
-<p>Soon Bishop was wallowing in drifts higher than his waist. For hours
-he continued on, overheated by his exertions, and rapidly growing
-weaker with each stride. There was nothing from which to make
-snowshoes for his feet, even if he had had the tools and the time
-before darkness fell. The storm still howled about his ears and shut
-off the view ahead. But with his compass he kept a course toward a
-farmhouse which he knew nestled at the foot of a mountain some twenty
-miles to the westward.</p>
-
-<p>For more than six hours Bishop, who was born on an Iowa farm and is
-sturdily built, staggered wearily along through the snowdrifts,
-traveling in that time about ten miles. At this critical juncture,
-half way between the ship, where he could at least have built a fire,
-and the farmhouse where he was sure to find warmth, food, and shelter,
-Bishop realized that his fast waning strength was not equal to the
-task of reaching the one or retreating to the other. He was becoming
-drowsy by this time, but he struggled onward, still carrying his heavy
-flying suit, for it seemed certain that he would be compelled to spend
-the night in the open. No one could possibly have seen him land, and
-certainly he, a mere speck against the spotless white, could not be
-discerned from the farmhouse, even with the aid of glasses. Besides,
-no one would expect even an Air Mail pilot to venture out in such a
-blizzard.</p>
-
-<figure style='width:50%; float:left; margin-left:0; margin-right:0.5em;'>
-<img alt='' src='images/illus-009.jpg' style='width:100%' />
-<figcaption>
-The field flood-light&#8212;a powerful searchlight&#8212;makes the
-landing field lighter than at noontime.
-</figcaption>
-</figure>
-<p>By resting at frequent intervals, this husky Iowan accomplished two
-more miles in as many hours. But now, after an eight-hour battle with
-the elements, the pilot had arrived at the stage where he was
-absolutely exhausted and almost in despair. How simple a solution of
-the problem, he thought, merely to lie down and go to sleep. Just
-then, however, he heard above the whistling of the wind the familiar
-drone of a Liberty motor. Glancing up, and almost unwilling to believe
-his eyes, the weary flier saw a plane directly above him. A miracle
-had happened. One of the boys, Bishop concluded, had learned by
-wireless that he was missing, and was now in search of him. The
-“shipwrecked” pilot frantically waved his heavy flying suit, but,
-despite his efforts, the plane passed a thousand feet above him,
-flying eastward, without even a signal. Within a few minutes it was
-out of sight.</p>
-
-<p>Bishop now gave up hope. Was he to die almost within sight of a haven?
-By this time it had stopped snowing, but a moderate gale still howled
-out of the southwest. Bishop sat down to rest and think things over.
-He was now on a “hogback,” perfectly level and almost free of snow. As
-he sat there, another miracle happened; a miracle to stir one’s blood.
-It was this: Bob Ellis, Bishop’s companion, flying from Salt Lake City
-to Rock Springs, had seen his machine on the ground, but had noticed
-that the engine was running. Ellis, anxious to keep to the schedule,
-and believing Bishop was not in difficulty, continued on. But soon
-after his arrival at Rock Springs, Salt Lake reported by wireless that
-Bishop was missing. Ellis thereupon asked permission of the Division
-Superintendent to retrace his flight to the spot where he had seen
-Bishop’s plane on the ground. This was a splendid thing for Ellis to
-do. He was weary from his four-hour flight. The wind was still blowing
-at forty miles an hour. Nevertheless, this fearless pilot waited only
-long enough for a ship to be fueled.</p>
-
-<p>Taking along a mechanic in case of accident to his own motor, and food
-and coffee for Bishop, Ellis set out in the face of the gale to find
-among a thousand hills a stalled machine and its helpless pilot.</p>
-
-<p>When I remarked to Ellis, a few weeks ago, in a conversation at Salt
-Lake City, that this was a “mighty fine thing” for him to do, he
-replied: “Oh, that’s nothing; Bishop or any other pilot would do the
-same thing for me. We realize that any one of us may get into a jam at
-any time. And then it’s up to his fellow pilots to get him out of it.”
-This is the code of those who go down to the sea in ships.</p>
-
-<p>After a flight of less than an hour, Ellis and his mechanic sighted
-Bishop’s machine, half buried in the snow; a dead thing. There was no
-sign of Bishop. Moreover, his trail had been blotted out by the
-drifting snow. Ellis, flying low and in wide circles about the stalled
-machine, asked himself what he would do in similar circumstances.
-Immediately he concluded that he would make for the farmhouse, twenty
-miles away. With an Air Mail pilot, to decide is to act and within
-fifteen minutes, Ellis, flying a hundred feet above the snow, had
-“picked up” a floundering figure half way between the stalled machine
-and the farmhouse. Settling gradually, in order not to break the
-undercarriage of his plane and thus leave all three at the mercy of
-the blizzard, Ellis and his mechanic landed near their exhausted
-comrade.</p>
-
-<p>After a meal and some hot coffee, Bishop was able to “sit in” at a
-council of war. Ellis’s machine, they agreed, could carry the three of
-them, provided it could get into the air. But ground conditions were
-so unfavorable—the drifts were so deep—that this seemed impossible. It
-was then agreed that they would “taxi” the machine to a clear spot six
-miles to the westward, from which to take off.</p>
-
-<p>For four miles, with each mile rapidly eating up their fuel supply,
-they churned their way through the powdery drifts, with Bishop huddled
-in the cockpit and the mechanic, comparatively fresh and warmly
-clothed, clinging to a precarious position on one of the wings.
-Finally, Ellis, realizing that his gasoline supply was becoming
-dangerously reduced, suggested that Bishop, with the aid of the
-mechanic, try to reach the farmhouse, now some four miles distant,
-while he flew back to Hock Springs to report Bishop’s safety—and get
-more gasoline. This they attempted, but Ellis, watching Bishop’s
-faltering footsteps from the air, realized that his exhausted comrade
-would be unable to accomplish the four miles. Swooping downward, Ellis
-again landed near the struggling pair, helped them to climb aboard,
-and swore that he would get the ship off the ground with the three of
-them on board, or “bust her up.”</p>
-
-<p>Finding a ridge comparatively free from snow, Ellis, with his motor
-racing at full speed, and his plane reeling drunkenly amid the
-entangling sagebrush and snowdrifts, succeeded, after swaying and
-dipping for two hundred yards, in getting into the air. Little by
-little, an inch at a time, then a foot, with his propeller racing
-faster than it had ever gone before, Ellis finally climbed twenty-five
-feet into the air. By facing directly into the wind, the pilot
-utilized its velocity to attain an altitude of a thousand feet. Then
-he turned, and with the wind at his back, he flew with his passengers
-to Hock Springs—and safety—in half an hour.</p>
-
-<p>Within a week Bishop’s machine had been recovered entirely whole,
-flown back to the field, and the pilot himself had recuperated. But he
-freely admitted to me in Salt Lake recently that if Ellis had not
-shown exceptional courage and excellent flying judgment, he, Bishop,
-would have perished almost within sight of aid.</p>
-
-<p>These are tales of Bishop, Ellis, Blanchfield, Boonstra, Huking, and
-Vance.</p>
-
-<p>Meager reports of other experiences are filed away, usually on single
-sheets of paper, in the office of the Superintendent of the Air Mail
-Service. For, with an Air Mail pilot, modesty amounts to an obsession.
-Those with whom I am acquainted would be the first to deny that flying
-is a dangerous game. Haven’t they been flying “crates” and “coffins”
-for ten years? Nevertheless, every day these pilots take grave risks,
-and in time of storm they undergo hazards comparable only to those
-which aviators at the front underwent during the war. For the pilot,
-once in the air, has nothing between the earth and himself but his
-Liberty motor.</p>
-
-<figure style='width:70%; margin-left:15%;'>
-<img alt='' src='images/illus-010.jpg' style='width:100%' />
-<figcaption>
-It is over this sort of country&#8212;wooded and treacherous&#8212;that
-the Air Mail pilots fly.
-</figcaption>
-</figure>
-<p>What sort of men are these sky-riders? They are a quiet, modest,
-efficient, hardy, intrepid, expert, and likeable group of young men.
-Many of them are in the Army Air Service Reserve. Most of them
-received their training before or during the war. They fly every day
-in the year, in darkness and fog, through snow, hail, “twisters,”
-lightning, sleet, and rain. The dangers of flying they accept as a
-matter of course. Even forced landings such as I have described, in a
-rocky and uninhabited country, are smilingly accepted as part of the
-day’s work. They fly at great altitudes, barely skimming the backbone
-of the continent. On every side they see only dense forests, turbulent
-streams, jagged peaks, and precipitous canyon walls. Yet they continue
-on, day after day, year after year.</p>
-
-<p>These pathfinders of the West have reduced the United States, in terms
-of transportation, to one-fourth its size. One can appreciate the
-value of the service they render only if he realizes that the
-prosperity of the United States depends mainly on doing business with
-ourselves on a bigger scale, and that business is carried on chiefly
-by correspondence. And no branch of the Post Office Department takes
-greater pride than the Air Mail Service in the motto from Herodotus
-that is carved above the portal of the New York Post Office:</p>
-
-<p>“Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these
-couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”</p>
-
-<div class='tn'>
-  <p style='text-indent:0'>Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in
-  the July 1925 issue of <i>McClure’s Magazine</i>. The cover image
-  was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.</p>
-</div>
-<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF THE AIR MAIL PILOTS ***</div>
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