Bunny had trusted me on the outward trip, so now, returning to March
Field, Calif., I comforted myself in the rear cockpit of our army DH
with the thought that Bunny could fly as well as I.
San Francisco lay behind us. The Diablo Mountains were beneath. Snug
around us, familiar and friendly, was our ship.
But beyond, strange and ominous by now to Bunny and me because we had
hardly ever flown in it before, and never for so long, stretched like a
white, opaque, and directionless night the fog.
The ship felt as if it were flying straight, but when I peeked over
Bunny's shoulder I saw the needle on his bank and turn indicator leaning
halfway over to the right. I watched it start back then--Bunny was all
right--to the center. But slowly then, inexorably--Bunny! Bunny!--the
needle leaned over to the left. The ball was centered, so the turns were
good. But that was not enough. Where were we going? Were we weaving?
Circling? Which way were we turning mostly? The ocean was not far off to
our right.
Then something else--ice! Its white hands gripped the front of wings, the
leading edge of struts and wires. The prop got rough. The motor beat and
strained. Once the ship shivered. I saw one aileron go down. Bunny was
trying to hold a wing up. I saw the needle straighten. He had held it.
But I saw something else too! I saw the altimeter losing. No hope for
blue sky now. No hope to ride on top until we found a hole, as our
weather report had indicated that we would. How far were the mountain
tops beneath us? Would the ice melt off before we sank too far?
I saw the throttle moving backward, heard the motor taper off its
friendly roar, heard Bunny's voice sound out like thunder in white doom.
"Let's jump," he shouted, turning his head halfway.
Were there mountains to land on and walk on in the depths of that white
down there? Or had we circled out over the ocean?
"Let's not. Let's wait. Let's try once more," I shouted back.
Then I shouted again, scraped my fingers on the windshield, reaching,
grabbed Bunny's shoulder, but too late. Even as I shouted, reached, and
grabbed, the ship banked on its ear, wheeled over, and dove safely
through a brown passage tunnel to the earth. Bunny had seen it too--a
hole in the fog, and through it, ground.
The warmer lower air flowed over us. The ice dripped from our wings in
glistening drops. We came out in the San Joaquin Valley with plenty of
ceiling, and it was plain sailing from there on.