Part 7

I was stationed at Selfridge Field after I graduated from the Advanced Flying School at Kelly. The Army Air Corps' First Pursuit Group was at Selfridge. The officers used to gather every morning at eight-fifteen in the post operator's office. We would be assigned to our various functions in the formation. Then we would fly formation for an hour or so, practicing different tactical maneuvers. After flying we would gather at the operations office again for a general critique, which was supposed to conclude the official day's flying. We would separate from there and go about our various ground duties. I discovered I could quickly finish my ground duties and have a lot of time left over for extra flying. I used to bother the operations officer to death asking him for ships. He usually gave me one, and I would go up alone and practice all sorts of things just for fun. It was no part of my work. It was pure exuberance.

One day I was flying around idly in a Hawk. I decided I would take the Hawk as high as I could, just for the hell of it.

I opened the throttle and nosed up. I gained the first few thousand feet rapidly. The higher I went the slower I climbed. At 20,000 feet climbing was difficult. The air was much thinner. The power of my engine was greatly diminished. I began to notice the effect of altitude. Breathing was an effort. I didn't get enough air when I did breathe. I sighed often. My heart beat faster. I wasn't sleepy. I was dopey. I was very cold, although it was summer.

I looked up into the sky. It was intensely blue, deep blue; bluer than I had ever seen a sky. I was above all haze. I looked down at the earth. Selfridge Field was very small under me. The little town of Mount Clemens seemed to be very close to the field. Lake St. Clair was just a little pond. Detroit seemed to be almost under me, although I knew it was about twenty miles from Selfridge Field. I could see a lot of little Michigan towns clothing the earth to the north and northwest of Selfridge. Everything beneath me seemed to have shoved together. The earth seemed to be without movement. I felt suspended in enormous space. I was 23,000 feet high by my altimeter.

I was dopey. My perception and reaction were ga-ga. I was cold, too. To hell with it. It said 24,500 feet. I eased the throttle full and nosed down.

I lost altitude very rapidly and with very little effort at first. After that it got more and more normal. I didn't come down too fast. It was too loud on my ears. I came down fairly slowly, so as to accommodate myself to the change in air pressure as I descended.

It was warm and stuffy on the ground.

I saw the Flight Surgeon at dinner that evening.

"I worked a Hawk up to 24,500 feet today," I told him proudly. "Gee, it sure felt funny up there without oxygen."

"Without oxygen?" he asked.

I nodded my head.

"You're crazy," he said. "You can't go that high without oxygen. The average pilot's limit is around 15,000 to 18,000 feet. You're young and in good shape. Maybe you got to twenty. But you just imagined you went higher than that."

"No, I didn't imagine it," I said. "I really went up that high."

"You went ga-ga and imagined it," he said.

He added: "Don't fool around with that sort of business. You're likely to pass out cold at any moment when you're flying too high without oxygen. You're likely to pass out cold and fall a long way before regaining consciousness. You might break your neck."

AERIAL COMBAT

I was flying in a student pursuit formation of SE-5s. Another student pursuit formation of MB3As was flying several thousand feet above us. The formation above us was supposed to be enemy pursuit on the offensive. My formation was supposed to be on the defensive. We were staging a mimic combat. Kelly Field, the army Advanced Flying School, lay beneath us.

I had to watch my flight leader, the other ships in my formation, and the enemy formation.

I saw the enemy formation behind us and above us in position to attack. I saw it nose down toward us.

I looked at my flight leader's plane. He was signaling a sharp turn to the left. He banked sharply to the left. Everybody in our formation banked sharply to the left with him. The attacking formation passed over our tails and pulled up to our right.

I saw the attacking formation above us to our right, banking to the left, nosing down to attack us broadside.

I looked at my flight leader. He was signaling a turn to the right. He turned sharply to the right. Our whole formation turned with him. We were heading directly into the oncoming attack of the other formation.

Just as I straightened out of my turn my ship lurched violently and I got a fleeting impression of something passing over my head. I couldn't figure out what had happened. My leader was signaling for another turn. I followed him through several quick turns in rapid succession. We were dodging the enemy formation. I kept trying to figure out what had happened when my ship had lurched.

Then it occurred to me: Somebody in the attacking formation, when the formation had been diving head on into ours, had pulled up just in time to keep from hitting me head on. I had passed under him and immediately behind him as he pulled up, and the turbulent slip stream just back of his ship was what had caused my ship to lurch.

I felt weak all over. God, how close he must have come, I thought!

Later, on the ground, we stood around our instructors, listening to criticism of our flying. I wasn't listening very much. I was looking around at the faces of the other students. I saw another student looking around too. It was Lindbergh. He had been flying in the attacking formation. After the criticism was over I walked up to Lindbergh.

"Say," I said, "did you come close to anybody in that head-on attack?"

He grinned all over.

"Yes," he said. "Was that you?"

"Yes."

"Did you see me?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I _felt_ you."

"It is a good thing you didn't see me," Lindbergh said, "because if you had seen me you would have pulled up, too, and we would have hit head on."

WINGS OVER AKRON

Tom was flying in front of me to my left. We both had PW-8s. We were heading toward Uniontown, Pa. They were opening a field there. We were going to stunt for them. We were flying 7,000 feet high in a milky autumn haze. The rolling Ohio country beneath us was visible only straight down and out to an angle of about 45 degrees. Beyond that the earth mingled with the haze and was invisible.

I saw a town over the leading edge of my lower right wing. I recognized it as Akron, O. I pushed my stick forward and opened my throttle. I had always wanted to jazz the fraternity house in a high-powered fast ship.

Down I came. Roaring louder and louder. I couldn't see a soul in the yard of the fraternity house.

I missed the house by inches as I pulled sharply out of my dive and zoomed almost vertically up for altitude. I looked back as I shot up into the sky. The yard was full of fellows.

I kicked over and nosed down at the house again. I came as close to it as I could without hitting it as I pulled back and thundered up into the air.

I nosed over into a third dive at the house. As I pulled up this time I kicked the ship into a double snap roll as I climbed. I didn't look back. I just kept on climbing, heading for Uniontown. I overtook Tom a little while later.

On my return trip from Uniontown I was forced down at Akron owing to bad weather. Tom had gone back a day earlier than I. I was alone.

Friends of mine at the airport came up to me as I climbed out of my ship. They asked me if I had flown over Akron in a PW-8 a few days before. I said, "No. Why?" They showed me a clipping from a local newspaper. It said:

AIRMAN STARTLES AKRON--MANY LIVES ENDANGERED

At noon today a small fast biplane appeared over Akron and proceeded to throw the populace into a panic by performing a series of zooms and dives and perilous nose spins low over the business section of town. Onlookers said that the plane narrowly missed hitting the tops of the buildings and that it several times almost dove into the crowds in the streets.

Hospital authorities complained to city officials that the plane roared low over the hospital, frightening many of their patients and endangering the lives of others. Other complaints have rolled in from all over the city.

City officials told reporters that the name of the pilot is known. He was a former resident of Akron and was a student at Akron University. At present he is on duty with the Army Aviation Service. Officials said they had reported the outrageous act to the military authorities at the pilot's home station.

"I wonder who that damned fool could have been," I said as I handed the clipping back to my friends. I grinned.

I was staying with my uncle. I didn't have much appetite for dinner that night. I didn't sleep very well.

"What is the matter, Jim?" my uncle asked me at breakfast the next morning. "Why don't you eat more?"

"I don't feel very well," I said.

I got back to Selfridge that afternoon. Nobody there had heard of my escapade.

I ate a big dinner that evening.

TEARS AND ACROBATICS

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

"Yes, sir," the cadet in the rear cockpit behind me shouted back.

I felt the throttle under my left hand go all the way forward with a jerk. I pulled it back.

"Open that throttle slower and smoother," I shouted back. I didn't look round. I just turned my head to the left and put my open right hand up to the right side of my mouth. That threw my voice back.

"Yes, sir," came the cadet's voice from the rear cockpit.

I felt the throttle under my left hand move forward slowly, smoothly. The engine noise rose louder. The ship rocked and bumped slowly forward over the rough ground. The tail of the ship came up, and the nose went down. The nose of the ship veered to the left. I wanted to kick right rudder to bring the nose back. I just sat there. The nose swung back straight and then veered badly to the right. I wanted to kick left rudder and bring the nose back. I didn't move. The nose stopped veering. We were going pretty fast. We bumped the ground once more and bounced into the air. We stayed there. I took my nose between my left thumb and forefinger and turned my head to the left so the cadet behind me could see my profile.

The ship banked to the left. I felt a blast of air strong on the right side of my face and felt myself being pushed to the right side of my cockpit. We were skidding. I wanted to ease a little right rudder on and stop the skid. Instead, I patted the right side of my face several times with my right hand so the cadet could see it. I felt the rudder pedal under my right foot jerk forward. We stopped skidding. The ship straightened out of the bank and flew straight and level for a little way. It made another left-hand bank, leveled out again, and flew straight again for a little way. It did it again. I felt the throttle under my left hand come all the way back. The engine noise quieted down, and the engine exhaust popped a few times. The ship nosed down into a glide. It made another left turn in the glide and then straightened out. We were gliding toward the little field we had just taken off from. It was a little field near Brooks that the Army Primary Flying School used as a practice field.

"That was lousy," I shouted back. "You jerked your throttle open. You veered across the field on your take-off like a drunken man. Are you too weak to kick rudder? You skidded on your turns. You landed cross-wind. Go around and try it again. See if you can do something right this time." It was about the twentieth speech like that I had shouted back to the cadet that morning.

I felt the throttle under my left hand jerk forward. I pulled it back.

"Damn it, open that throttle slower and----"

A voice from the rear cockpit broke in on me:

"I hope you never get anyone else as dumb as I am, Lieutenant."

The voice was choked. The kid was crying.

"Hey, listen here," I said, "I give you a lot of hell because I'm as anxious for you to get this stuff as you are to get it. I wouldn't even give you hell if I thought you were hopeless. Sit back and relax and forget it a while now. You'll do better tomorrow."

The cadet started to open his mouth. I turned hastily around and sat down in my cockpit and opened the throttle wide open. The engine roared. I didn't hear what the cadet said.

I took off in a sharp climbing turn. I dove low at the ground, flew under some high-tension wires. I pulled up and dove low at a cow in a pasture. The cow jumped very amusingly. I pulled up and did a loop. I came out of the loop very close to the ground. It was all against army orders. It was all fun. I pulled back up to a respectable altitude and flew sedately over Brooks Field. I cut the gun to land. I looked back at the cadet. He was laughing. There were little channels in the dust on his face where the tears had run down.

ACROSS THE CONTINENT

It was 1:45 a. m. The lights of United Airport at Burbank, Calif., where I had left the ground fifteen minutes before, had disappeared. I knew the low mountains were beneath me, but I couldn't see them. I knew the high mountains several miles east of me were higher than I was, but I couldn't see them. I could see the glow of the luminous-painted dials in my instrument board in front of me. I could see the sea of lights of Los Angeles and vicinity south of me, stretching southeastward. I could see the stars in the cloudless, moonless sky above. I was circling for altitude to go over the high mountains.

At 13,000 feet I leveled out and assumed a compass course for Wichita, Kan. I passed over the high mountains without ever seeing them. I saw only an occasional light in the blackness beneath me where I knew the mountains were. I knew from my map that there were low mountains and desert valleys beyond.

Greener country. Fertile valleys. Mountains looming. The Sangre de Cristo range loomed high in front of me. Twelve thousand feet. I passed over it into the undulating low country beyond it. Soon I was flying over the flat fertile plains of western Kansas.

Gas trucks were waiting for me at Wichita Airport. Reporters asked me questions. They took pictures. They told me I was behind Lindbergh's time. A woman out of the crowd jumped up on the side of my ship and kissed me. I was off the ground, headed for New York, fifteen minutes after I had landed.

It was very rough. It was hot. I was miserable in my fur flying suit. I ached like hell from sitting on the hard parachute pack and wished I could stand up for a while. I hadn't had a chance to step out of the ship at Wichita.

Clouds gone. Towns closer together. Towns larger. Farms smaller. More railroads and paved roads. Industrial towns. On into the rolling country of eastern Ohio.

Pittsburgh was covered with smoke. The Allegheny Mountains were dim in a haze. It was getting dark.

Mountains beneath me in the dusk like dreams floating past. Stars appearing in the clear sky. Lights coming on in the houses and towns.

It was dark now. The flashing beacons along the Cleveland-New York mail run were visible off to my left.

New York. An ocean of shimmering light in the darkness, spreading immensely under me. Beyond stretched Long Island. I could see where the field ought to be. Did I see the Roosevelt Field beacon? Was that it? What was that beacon over there? I saw hundreds of beacons. Beacons everywhere. Every color of flashing beacon. Then I remembered it was Fourth of July night. I would have a hell of a time locating the field. Finally I distinguished Roosevelt Field lights from the fireworks, and dove low over the field. The flood lights came on. My red-and-white low-wing Lockheed Sirius glided out of the darkness, low over the edge of the field, brilliantly into the floodlight glare, landed and rolled to a stop.

There was a crowd at the field. Roosevelt was giving a night demonstration. People ran out of the crowd toward me. George jumped up on the wing and leaned over the edge of my cockpit. I was taxiing toward the hangar.

"That did it," Pick shouted over the noise of my engine.

"Did what?" I shouted back.

"Broke the record, boy!"

"You're crazy as hell," I answered. It took me sixteen and a half hours. Lindbergh made it in fourteen forty-five.

THE FLYER HIKES HOME

I was hanging around Roosevelt Field one afternoon with nothing much on my mind when a couple of friends came up and said they were just taking off for the South. They wanted to catch the Pan-American plane from Miami the next day. They were amateur pilots. The weather was lousy toward the South and they hadn't had much experience in blind or night flying. I said I would fly with them as far as Washington and maybe by that time the weather would clear. When we got to Washington the weather had pretty well closed down. I didn't like to see them start off in a fog bank with the sun already setting, so I volunteered to go to Greensborough. The stuff grew thicker. We were flying at two hundred feet and getting lower all the time. So when we landed at Greensborough there was nothing to do but stick with the ship. We took off for Jacksonville after a scanty supper. It was one o'clock in the morning. By that time I could barely make out the beacon lights. I turned to the girl sitting next to me and told her that if we lost the beacon behind us before we saw the one ahead of us we would have to turn back. At that moment both beacons disappeared. I started to bank the ship towards home. And then suddenly the whole sky lightened up. It looked as though a huge broom had gone to work to tidy up the clouds.

We landed at Jacksonville at five in the morning without further mishap. I said good-bye to plane and passengers and then started wondering how I was going to get back to New York. I decided to hitch-hike and save the train fare. It took me three days. When I appeared at the house with a straw behind each ear and a suit full of holes my wife thought I had gone crazy.

KILLED BY KINDNESS

Earle R. Southee was so good-hearted he killed a guy. I don't mean that he actually killed him, but you can see for yourself from the following story that, nevertheless, he killed him.

Southee was a civilian flying instructor to the army before the war, when the Signal Corps was the flying branch of the army. He was also an instructor during the war, after the Air Service had been created.

It was while he was instructing at Wilbur Wright Field during the war that he met up with this guy. The guy had come down there to learn to fly and then go to France and shoot Germans--or get shot by them. For some reason or other he couldn't pick the stuff up. Some people are like that. They simply can't get going when they first start to learn to fly. Most of them actually have no flying ability and ought to quit trying. It's not in their blood. But occasionally you run across one who later gets going and is all right.

This guy came up to Southee for washout flight. He was so obviously broken up over the idea that he was going to get kicked out of the Air Service into some other branch of service, he loved flying so much, that Southee took pity on him, held him over a while, gave him special instruction, and finally got the guy through. The guy even became an instructor himself, and a very good one.

Later, most of the gang was transferred to Ellington Field, Houston, Tex. At Ellington, this guy had such a tough time at first, got so hot, that he was made a check pilot and put in charge of a stage or section.

One day one of the students came up to him for washout check. The kid was just as broken up about it as he was. He gave the kid a chance, like Southee had given him. Three days later the student froze on him, spun him in, and lulled him.

THE FIRST CRACK-UP

I sat in the cockpit of an army DH, high over southern Texas. I was heading toward Kelly Field, the Army Advanced Flying School. I was returning from a student trip to Corpus Christi.

I was looking behind me. Beyond the tail of the ship I could see the Gulf of Mexico. Far out over the Gulf was a low string of white clouds. The sky was very blue. The water flashed in the sun.

Occasionally I turned to scan my instrument board, but mostly I looked behind me. Purple distance slowly swallowed up the Gulf.

I turned around and faced forward and lit a cigarette. I looked at my instrument board. I looked at my map. The course line on my map lay between two railroads. I looked down at the earth. I was directly over a railroad, flying parallel to it. To my right a little distance ran another railroad, parallel to the one I was flying over. Another railroad lay off to my left. I could not decide which two of the three railroads I should be flying between.

I saw a little town on the railroad under me. I throttled back and nosed down. I circled low over the town and located the railroad station. I dove low past one end of the station and tried to read the name of the town on the station as I flashed past it. I didn't make it out. I opened the throttle to pull up. The engine started to pick up, then sputtered, then picked up all right. I paid no attention to its sputtering. It had done that when I took off from Kelly Field that morning. It had done it when I had circled the field at Corpus Christi on the Gulf. There was a dead spot in the carburetor. The engine was all right. It was airtight above or below that one spot on the throttle. I continued to pull up. I went around and dove low at the station again. Again I failed to read the sign. I opened the throttle to pull up. The engine started to pick up, then sputtered, then picked up beautifully. I went around and dove at the station again. I got it that time. It was Floresville, Tex. I knew where that was. I opened the throttle to pull up. The engine started to pick up, then sputtered, then died. The prop stood still.

I swung my ship to the left. I held it up as much as I dared. I headed toward the open space. I was almost stalling. I barely cleared the last house. I was dropping rapidly. I eased forward on the stick. No response. I eased back. The nose dropped. I was stalled. I was about ten feet above the ground. There was a fence almost under me. Maybe I would clear it.

I heard a loud rending of wood and tearing of fabric. I felt a sensation of being pummeled and beaten. Something hit me in the face. Then I was aware of an immense quietness.

I just sat there in the cockpit. The dust settled slowly in the still air. The hot Texas sun filtered through it. I still held the stick with my right hand. My left hand was on the throttle. My feet were braced on the rudder bar.

I was on a level with those fences. I stepped over the side of the cockpit onto the ground. I looked at the wreck. The wings and landing gear were a complete Washout. The fuselage wasn't damaged.

I looked into the gasoline tanks. The main tank was empty. The reserve tank was full. I looked into the cockpit at the gas valves. The main tank was turned on. The reserve tank was turned off. I turned the main tank off and turned the reserve tank on.

I phoned Kelly Field from a house near by.

An instructor flew down to get me. He landed his ship and then walked over and looked at my ship. He looked at the gas tanks. He looked in the cockpit at the gas valves. He turned to me. His eyes twinkled.

"What was the matter, wouldn't your reserve tank take?" he asked.

"No, sir, it wouldn't take," I lied.

"That's the first tough luck you've had during the course, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "I have never cracked up before."

He flew me back to Kelly Field.

A POOR PROPHET

"What is the weather to New York?" I asked the weather man at the air-mail field at Bellefonte, Pa.

"Clear and unlimited all the way," he told me.