ABOVE THE STORMS
While he fought the blasts of wind that tried to twist the Dragonfly
out of control, climbing to get beyond their influence, Don tried to
decide on the best course.
His ship was not equipped for navigation. No compass or radio was
provided to aid him in such a difficult situation: otherwise it would
have been easy to rise beyond the storm levels, to set his propeller
toward some predetermined objective where he could land safely and be
within reach of a hospital to care for the injured mail 'plane pilot.
"But I don't know wind direction at different levels," he reflected,
catching the ship as a gust of fierce wind caught the tail and swung
the ship around, broadside to the wind.
"I don't dare to run before the wind, because it has grown so black and
we've drifted so far off by now that I might not get near the base," he
added to himself.
Garry, in the second seat, realized how difficult the situation was for
the youthful pilot.
A run before the wind, he understood, might take them out over the
ocean before they knew their danger: there it would be a question of
time only before the gas would be exhausted.
Long Island, with the Atlantic to its East and South-East, with the
broad Sound along its Western side and New York's bays in the South,
was not the best place over which to fly "blind."
The safest course, Garry thought, was to go on climbing. Don, without
being able to exchange ideas, felt the same way.
As the gusty wind got under the wings he operated his controls to right
the ship; when the tail lifted, he compensated with the elevators,
always climbing when he dared. Rain swept in stinging sheets across the
wings and into their faces, cold and stinging, making the wings heavy,
but Don gained slowly but surely in his fight for altitude.
Finally they emerged from the clouds, and soon were able to rise beyond
the worst of the turbulent air.
"I'll go higher," Don determined. "I want to be safe from the upsweep
of warm currents; they upset the ship too much."
As he gained altitude, going close to the "service ceiling" or safest
and highest altitude at which engine power was not dragged down too
much by the lightness of air, Don saw, with dismay, that a worse
complication confronted him.
The storms they had overcome were not the only ones existing.
After the humid, torrid day, storms were visible to the North, to the
East and to the West, as far as his eyes could probe the lower strata
of air.
Theirs would be a poor chance if he flew toward the South: although
only the beginnings of turmoil lay in that direction, the sea was
waiting, and Don's only choice seemed to be to stay aloft as long as he
could, hoping for a lull between the periods of stress, through which
he could drop to a lower point, get his location and perhaps make a
landing.
With unexpected fury an eddying uprush of air took the Dragonfly in its
fierce grip, twisting and turning it, flinging the right wing high.
Swiftly, and with more than his usual force, Don threw the stick to a
position that should correct and right the ship.
His heart turned cold, a sickish feeling came into his stomach.
Somewhere in the heart of the control cords something parted.
On wingtip, the nose began to fall.
Instinctively, knowing that in that position the rudder functioned as
an elevator, Don changed the position of the stick, using the rudder
bar to elevate the rudder, gunning on full power to pull up the nose.
In that position, however, while the nose came up momentarily, saving
them from a dive, Don understood that they would very soon slip, on
wingtip, sidewise, down into the turbulence below them.
Garry, thanking his good fortune that he had studied airplane design
with Don, during their work in the design and blue-print departments,
acted.
He knew each rib, brace, strut and cable of that ship, could picture
their positions from the multitude of drawings and of blue-prints he
had handled.
With swift accuracy he kicked through the flooring, light and very easy
to demolish.
Plunging his hands through the openings, bent low, he probed with
hurrying fingers for the loose cables of the elevators.
He found them.
The tug he gave informed him that the break of the cord lay between him
and Don's stick. He could operate the elevators, but Don could not.
With the cords tautened he waggled them, shaking the ship.
Don turned his head.
He discerned Garry's bent position, realized what it meant.
Garry, though not a trained pilot, knew the operation of the controls
and could co-operate with Don.
With a swift movement of the stick Don began to right the ship as it
started its sidewise slip.
Immediately Garry, knowing that the elevators would then function in
their proper capacity and that the rudder no longer could lift and
depress the nose, worked his cables.
Before the ship could fall off again, Garry drew the "flippers" upward.
The engine, full gun, helped their effort, the ship began to surge
forward, gaining flying speed in the proper horizontal course.
Watching the nose, his head lifted, his position cramped, the broken
end of the cable in one hand and the slack of the other side held in
his other fist, Garry watched the ship's fore and-aft spirit level
because his mission was to hold the nose on a level.
Don, with the customary signal of his arm, pointed straight ahead.
Garry agreed with his decision to maintain a level course, flying into
the wind.
The gas gauge showed that they had fuel to last several hours. From the
other instruments it was evident that oil feed and pressure, and other
necessary functions, were operating correctly.
If they could fly beyond the worst of the storm area, in the time their
fuel reserve gave them, they might, by dint of careful cooperation, get
down without serious disaster. Don looked back, pointed ahead.
Garry nodded.
Thus they flew on. Don knew that Garry, bent almost double, stretching
his neck upward, was in a straining, difficult posture.
It would be a question of his muscular ability to hold himself against
the torture that must come with the unnatural pose: aching muscles
could in time compel him to relax, perhaps to let go of the cable.
"Good old Garry!" whispered Don to himself. "If it's in human power to
last, he will be the one to stick it out!"
It was torture, as Garry came to know before they ended that flight.
Ignorant of the drift of the wind, unaware of the real course, only
able to guess at the flight direction by the position of the rising
moon, Don surmised that they were flying in a somewhat Northerly course.
Ahead he saw, with thankful eyes, an edge of a cloud dispersing its
fury in rain. There the flashes of celestial fire diminished in
intensity.
Finally, with hearts that thanked a power greater than storm force, by
dint of careful manipulation of signals and of controls, they made a
landing in a field, amid quiet, storm-washed hills!