Chapter I: SEE (3)

George thought to himself that if the Commander had got in there, by golly, he could too. He said he finally squashed down over the trees, falling more than gliding, and dropped into the field with a smack that should have cracked the ship up but didn't. He stopped fifty feet from the row of trees by standing on his brakes and cutting the switches. He said he didn't know how the hell he was going to get out of the place without dismantling the ship.

That night, in the Commander's house, over a drink, George asked him, "Come, now, Commander, tell me the truth. Did you really land in that field?"

"Certainly I did," the Commander said. "It was back in 1912, and I was flying a Wright pusher." George sneezed into his drink. The Wright pushers land so slow they can be flown off a dining-room table.

"And do you remember those trees around the field?" the Commander asked. George remembered. "Well, they were only bushes in 1912."

"LOOK WHO TAUGHT HER"

I was trying to teach my wife to fly. I thought every flyer's wife should know something about flying. It would be so convenient on cross-country trips if Dee could spell me off on the controls. I was having very little success. In the first place, Dee's eyes weren't good, which is a decided disadvantage, and in the second place she just couldn't seem to catch on. She had no coordination. I sweated and struggled and cursed. "Don't skid on the turns," I moaned. "The rudder and the stick must be used together. If you put the stick to the right, push the right rudder. If you put the stick to the left, use the left rudder." And the ship would grind around on another skid.

Dee didn't take her flying as seriously as I did. She didn't particularly want to learn to fly except to please me. I thought if I could instill in her a sense of shame at her lack of coordination maybe she would improve. I picked a day when she was more than usually bad. The plane had been in every conceivable position but the right one. She had skidded and slipped and wobbled all over the sky. My temper was getting the best of me.

"Dee," I said, "haven't you any pride about learning how to fly? Other women learn how. Look at all the girls who fly, and fly damn well. Look at Anne Lindbergh, for instance. She has been doing a wonderful job on that Bird plane. She solos all over the place, and she only took it up a little while ago."

Dee looked at me a minute and said, "Well, look who taught her."

I gave up teaching my wife how to fly.

A FAULTY RESCUE

Eddie Burgin, one of the oldest pilots on Roosevelt Field, tells me this one about how they used the last remaining outdoor "outbuilding" on Roosevelt Field as a homing device to lead a troubled pilot down into the airport.

Russ Simpson, American flying instructor in the Gosport School in England during the war and at present an airplane broker on Roosevelt Field, took off in one of the old Jennies to fly the first electric sign ever flown over New York City at night. While he was gone a ground fog rolled in over the airport.

Pretty soon the fellows on the ground heard him coming back. They could hear his motor, but they couldn't see his ship. They knew he couldn't see the airport. He was stuck on top of the fog.

They decided to help him. They got cans of gasoline and poured them on the old outbuilding which stood a little way out from the hangars and set fire to the rickety structure. They tore up all the spare motor crates they could find and piled them on top of the blaze. They got the fire so big they were afraid for a while that the hangars were going to catch. They were trying to make a red glow in the fog so Russ could tell where the field was.

Finally they heard Russ's motor cut. They heard the ship glide in and heard it hit. They could tell from the noise it made when it hit that it had cracked up.

They jumped into a car and went rushing all over the airport in the darkness and the fog looking for the wreck. It took them half an hour to find it, so Eddie says.

When they did, they found Russ sitting on top of it, smoking a cigarette. Their almost burning the hangars down had all been in vain. Russ hadn't seen any red glow at all. He had simply mushed down through the stuff and hit the airport by luck.

HELPING THE ARMY

After I was graduated from Brooks and Kelly, the army transferred me to Selfridge Field in Detroit. There was nothing much doing around Selfridge, and I was getting a little bored. I heard they were giving an air show at Akron, right near my home town. I thought it would be fun to go out there to see my old friends and give a stunt exhibition. I got the necessary permission from the higher-ups and started out in a Tommy Morse. The Morse planes were pretty near obsolete by that time, and the service was trying to replace them as fast as possible with newer models. There were only a few of them left.

When I got to Akron there was a lot of excitement going on over the air show. I told myself I was going to give them the works--show them what a local boy could do. The first part of my program went off fine. I looped, barrel-rolled, dove, etc. I had figured out a trick landing as the grand finale that would pull the customers right out of their seats. The landing didn't turn out so well. I misjudged my distance and ended up on one wing. It was pretty humiliating. There was nothing to do but wire Selfridge Field to ship me another wing. They wired back to the effect that there were no more wings available at the moment and that I should crate the ship home. That stumped me. I had no idea how to dismantle a plane. I studied the old Morse from every angle, but I couldn't find the solution. I had to get the plane in a crate, and I had to do it quickly. I used a saw. I sawed off the good wing, the damaged wing, and the tail surfaces. I crammed them into a crate and sent them on their way. The plane of course had to be junked.

I had helped the army to get rid of one more Tommy Morse.

APOLOGY

I was sitting alone in a movie not long ago. The newsreel came on. Jimmie Doolittle's capable but impish face flashed upon the screen. Behind him was the fast, low-wing, all-metal Vultee plane in which he had just failed to better by more than a few minutes the Los Angeles--New York record for transport planes.

"I'm sorry I didn't make faster time," his picture spoke. "I didn't do justice to the ship I flew. I wandered off my course during the night and hit the coast 200 miles south of where I should have hit it. It was just another piece of bum piloting."

I saw Jimmie in Buffalo not long after that.

"What was the matter, Jimmie?" I asked him, referring to the flight he had spoken about in the newsreel. "Were you on top of the stuff for a long time?" I continued, generously implying that of course he had had enough bad weather to force him to fly on top of the clouds and out of sight of land for so much of the trip that naturally he got off his course.

"No," he explained, "I wasn't on top. I was in it for ten and a half hours. I couldn't get on top because I picked up ice above sixteen thousand feet. I couldn't go under for several reasons. I had high mountains to clear. I would have made even slower time and run out of gas before I got to New York if I had flown low, because my supercharged engine required 15,000 feet to develop its full power and its most efficient gas consumption. So I had to fly in it. Also I got mixed up on some radio beams. Some of them are stronger than others. I figured the strongest ones the closest, which wasn't always true. I learned a lot on that trip. I think I could hit it on the nose the next time."

He was talking shop to a fellow professional. I could immediately see that 200 miles off under the conditions he had had to contend with had not been bad at all. I wouldn't have blamed him if he had explained to the public a little more than he did. But when he said to them, without the shadow of an alibi, "It was just another piece of bum piloting," I thought it was pretty swell.