FIGHTING THE TORRENT
To make the trip from Axion down into the flood-tortured southland
without any further loss of time, Hal Dane set out to fly all night. He
had already signed up with the Red Cross department in his own city, and
had gotten his instructions. He was to report to Major Huntley, in
charge of the Alabama flooded district, who would assign him his work.
The squat gyroscope had been planned for safety, rather than making
mileage records. Yet when those limber, awkward-looking rotor blades
began to reach their maximum of two thousand whirls a minute, why, the
strange craft achieved a speed of near a hundred miles an hour!
Late afternoon had been hazy, with the sun going down an ominous ball of
red. Now as the night wore on, Hal swept into heavy weather. Mist
changed into a dense, clinging fog. The wind rolled up into a gale that
seemed to strike from all sides at once. For safety's sake, Hal rode
high, at something like ten thousand feet. He had the feeling of a lone
human survivor drifting above a fog-shrouded world. He must have passed
over hamlets and cities innumerable, yet no glow of home or street
lights penetrated upward through the fog blanket to point him a guiding
beacon.
Hal's training in blind-flying stood him in good stead here, for relying
on his marvelous earth inductor compass and his instrument of artificial
horizon, he managed to keep an even keel. He held a wary eye to the
altimeter, however, for come fog or come wind, safety demanded that he
ride at a vast height to avoid a death-dealing crash against some
jutting mountain crag. Three times, the multiple raging of the gale
engendered by the tempest swinging upward through the gorges, told Hal
that he was crossing mountain ranges.
On through the night the aviator drove his strange rotor, dodging,
twisting, tacking, riding down the wind gusts. Then towards morning
nature seemed to soften and grow milder. The wind sank to a breeze.
Stars came out just before the darkness lifted for the first pale
pearl-gray of dawn. A rose glow spread till the whole horizon seemed
aflame.
It was glorious here, high above the earth, but as Hal turned his eyes
downward a dreadful view met his eyes. Dismay shot through him.
Had his famous compass failed him? Had winds driven him far off his
track? Had he crossed the whole length of Alabama and the top of Florida
to go drifting like a derelict above the Gulf of Mexico?
There was a sea of water below, a limitless, shoreless stretch. But
instead of white-capped waves and the clear blueness of the tropical
waters of the gulf, here lay a muddy, ochre-colored ocean.
Then the horrible truth swept over Hal Dane. He was flying the flood!
These ugly waters covered no natural sea bed, but swirled sullenly above
the homes, the villages, the cities of the southern section of a whole
state.
All landmarks had been blotted out, but the aviator got his bearings by
compass, and studied the map he drew from his pocket. This must be it,
the country drained in normal times by the three rivers, the Conecuh,
the Pea and the Choctawhatchee. But now the waters followed no separate
river beds down to the sea. Instead they had burst all bounds and
covered the face of the land.
He drifted down until he hovered at only a hundred feet of altitude.
From this height he could clearly vision the astounding panorama of
watery waste.
Spires of churches and here and there taller buildings in a group
showing partly above water told that here lay some town. Straight lanes
of water between the tops of forest trees meant that beneath the flood a
highway ran. Borne on the yellow tide of the foul, swirling sea were the
dead and swollen bodies of mules, hogs, horses and cows. Mingling with
these were houses swept from their foundations and drifting with the
current.
At intervals, he would catch sight of some hill or some turtle-backed
Indian mound on whose crest was huddled a village of tents--frail
shelters for the refugees fleeing from the wild onrush of the flood.
Was Jacky Wiljohn found and safe within one of those tents, or was the
little fellow still out on some half-flooded land ridge or marooned in
some drifting building?
Now that he had come and seen for himself, Hal Dane realized for the
first time the awful magnitude of this peace-time tragedy. Here was a
disaster that equaled pestilence and battle in its devastation. He had
read of these things--but seeing them was different, more awful.
Fog and storm had drifted Hal somewhat off his course. He consulted his
compass, took his bearings again, and decided that he must be to the
west of Troja, the hill city on the edge of the flood where were
situated the Red Cross headquarters.
He whirled the nose of his plane into the east. A little later he caught
sight of what he knew must be his destination. Below him lay a little
city whose outskirts were lapped by the sullen yellow waters. Up in the
heights a whole new city section had been developed with its streets
lined by rows of little army tents. Some seaplanes lay at rest in a
sheltered bay of flood water. Out on a stretch of meadow army planes
were roped to stakes, tails to the wind.
Hal circled about the field a few times until he could pick a good
landing spot. Then he cut his motor dead and began to drop. With
outspread rotor blades acting like a parachute, the curious sky boat
with its short stiff side wings, drifted straightly, gently down towards
earth.
By the time Hal settled to his landing, he was surrounded by a ring of
civilians and soldiers with a sprinkling of keen-eyed, sun-tanned
fellows that he felt were likely aviators. Some of the crowd guffawed
loudly over the squat, awkward look of the old hen as they immediately
dubbed the odd, square-built machine. The majority of the men, though,
applauded the unusual feat of the straight-down drop.
A heavy-set, haggard-eyed man in uniform, who appeared to be the one in
authority here, stepped out and extended a hand in greeting.
Hal returned the warm grasp. "You, sir, I'm sure must be the Major
Huntley I was to report to."
"Yes, and you," the fatigue lines on the officer's face were momentarily
lifted by a whimsical smile, "you must be the Hal Dane our man up in
Axion wired us about last night. His message read, 'Fellow with the most
curious-looking plane in the world coming down to help you!'"
"That just about describes us," said Hal with a grin, as he cocked his
eye over toward the old hen.
"Well, Hal Dane, Camp Number One welcomes you and your help. That's a
strange contraption you've brought down though. We've had about
everything else sent in to help us--coast guard cutters, steamboats,
flatboats, army planes, navy planes--but never any such sky boat as
that--something new on me--"
"Something new on everybody," said Hal, "but if it works like we hope,
it may be a help in getting folks out of tight places."
"From all accounts, you flew the whole night through. Come on up to
officers' quarters for breakfast and some rest." Major Huntley led out
in the direction of a row of tents.
"I'll take the breakfast--the sleep can wait," Hal stretched his long
legs to the Major's brisk stride. "Reckon I'm a good bit fresher than
you folks that have been in this thing from the beginning."
"Oh, we've all gotten flood-toughened. There are fellows here that
haven't had their clothes off in six nights." Huntley had piloted Hal to
a bench before a long, rough trencherboard table. While the hot,
nourishing soup, bread and coffee were being ladled out, the Major went
on. "Since you're willing to keep on working for the day, we're too
shorthanded not to accept your help."
Hal found the men of the officers' mess a fine, capable lot of fellows,
even if they were haggard from overwork and their uniforms all yellow
stained and mud caked. Grim days, grimmer nights of toiling in flood and
muck left no time for dress parade formalities.
At his first chance, in a voice out of which he couldn't force the
tremble, Hal asked after Colonel Wiljohn. Was he here? The little Jacky
Wiljohn, had he been found yet?
Yes, the Colonel was here, a fine old fellow, doing great work with his
crew of aviators. Too bad about the boy, though! Not a sign of him and
the mother had ever been found. The big hotel at Malden, just below the
forks of Pea River and the Choctawhatchee was flooded now, but it had
been deserted for days, everybody had been gotten out in boats early in
the flood. That young Mrs. Wiljohn and the boy had gone off in a canoe,
picnicking, it seemed, up some little creek the day the floods had begun
to rise. They'd never been heard of since. Which was something of a
mystery, considering the number of boats and planes that had combed all
sections in a special hunt for these two.