Test Pilot Part 15

"Go around and try it again," I shouted.

"Yes, sir," the cadet in the rear c.o.c.kpit 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 c.o.c.kpit.

I felt the throttle under my left hand move forward slowly, smoothly.

The engine noise rose louder. The s.h.i.+p rocked and b.u.mped slowly forward over the rough ground. The tail of the s.h.i.+p came up, and the nose went down. The nose of the s.h.i.+p 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 b.u.mped 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 s.h.i.+p 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 c.o.c.kpit. 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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.

"d.a.m.n it, open that throttle slower and--"

A voice from the rear c.o.c.kpit 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 h.e.l.l because I'm as anxious for you to get this stuff as you are to get it. I wouldn't even give you h.e.l.l 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 c.o.c.kpit 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 alt.i.tude 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 alt.i.tude to go over the high mountains.

At 13,000 feet I leveled out and a.s.sumed a compa.s.s course for Wichita, Kan. I pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+p 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+p 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 flas.h.i.+ng beacons along the Cleveland-New York mail run were visible off to my left.

New York. An ocean of s.h.i.+mmering 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 flas.h.i.+ng beacon. Then I remembered it was Fourth of July night. I would have a h.e.l.l 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 c.o.c.kpit. 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 h.e.l.l," 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 Was.h.i.+ngton and maybe by that time the weather would clear. When we got to Was.h.i.+ngton 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 s.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sengers 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.