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.