FIRST STEPS
A month after the Brighton boys had commenced their duties at the
airdrome at the old Frisbie place, they would have been missed by more
than one person about the camp if they had failed to put in an
appearance some morning. It was astonishing to see how much routine
work could pile up around the headquarters' offices.
The machines arrived in some numbers. One by one they were unpacked
from their great crates and set up, then wheeled into their respective
places in the broad hangars which had been built to house them.
The first one of the Brighton boys to settle himself into a regular
billet was Fat Benson. He had been watching the uncrating of box of
spare engine parts one afternoon when no specific job claimed him for
the moment, and fell into conversation with the short, stocky
sergeant who was to be the store keeper. The sergeant was tired and
worried.
He had counted a consignment of sparking plugs twice and obtained a
different total each time. Worse, neither of his totals tallied
with the figures on the consignment sheet. He was fast losing his
temper.
Fat was of most placid, unruffled temperament. He saw that trouble
was toward, and was about to walk away and avoid proximity to the
coming storm when he thought: "This may be a chance to help." He
turned and said to the sergeant: "If you like, I will count those
plugs for you while you sort out the spanners from the other crate."
"Good boy!" at once said the sergeant. "I have got to a point where
those little red pasteboard boxes sort of run together, and I couldn't
count them correctly to save my life. If you can make them come out
to suit this consignment number they have sent with the plugs you
will be a real help, I can tell you."
Henry set to work with a will, and not only checked the number of
spark plugs, which he found to be correct, but at the sergeant's
direction began placing them in neat piles on the shelf of the
store-room that had been set aside for plugs of that type. He was in
the middle of this task when who should come by but the sergeant-major!
"Hello!" exclaimed that worthy, who was nothing if not a martinet, "who
told you to be puttering about here?"
Before Fat could answer, the stores sergeant spoke up. "This man is
giving me a hand, and I need it," he said. "If you don't need him
for something else to-day I wish you would let him stay with me. I
am supposed to have a couple of soldiers detailed for this job, but I
haven't seen anything of them yet. Why can't I have this man?"
Fat seemed to grow bigger than ever round the chest as he heard
himself referred to as "this man." That was getting on, sure enough.
More, he was mightily pleased that someone really wanted him.
"I guess you can have him if you want him," answered the
sergeant-major. "Have you anything else to do to-day, Benson?"
"Not that I know about," was Fat's reply.
"Stay here, then, until the sergeant is through with you."
That night the stores sergeant suggested that Fat come to him next
day. The stores were just starting, and the work of setting things
in their proper places was far from uninteresting. The boy took a
real delight in his new task; and when, three days later, the
sergeant-major called into the stores on his way past and said to
the stores sergeant, "Are you going to keep Benson here for good?"
the stores sergeant replied without hesitation, "I sure am."
To have been among the stores from the time they were first unpacked,
and to have assisted in the work of first placing them where they
belonged, gave Fat a sort of sense of proprietorship. Stores still
poured in every day or so. The two soldiers who were to help at last
made their appearance, but neither of them seemed to particularly
appeal to the stores sergeant, who was by that time depending more
than he realized upon the quick intelligence and persistent application
of his big-bodied boy assistant.
Fat's prime chance came at the end of the first fortnight, when the
stores sergeant was kept in bed for a few days from unusually severe
after-effects of vaccination. The pair of soldiers had not been in
the new stores sufficiently long nor taken keen enough interest in
them to be of much use except when working under direction. So the
real storekeeper was Fat for the interim. The sergeant-major
discovered the fact and reported it casually to Major Phelps, who
spoke to the colonel about it. Both of these officers had their
hands very full at that time, and both of them had felt the blessing
of having the ever-ready and ever-willing Brighton boys always on
tap, as it were, to run quick errands and be eyes and feet for anyone
that required an extra pair of either.
It was a source of gratification to Colonel Marker that the boys were
doing well; and that one of their number had worked his way into the
organization of the camp unostentatiously, on his own merits, pleased
the colonel immensely. He even went so far as to stop in the stores
on his way to dinner and say a kindly word to Fat, whose coat buttons
seemed ready to burst in consequence.
Thereupon Fat became a fixture in the stores, studying carefully
everything that came through his hands, until at length he knew at a
glance what each part or store might be, and whether it was in good
condition or not when received.
The dark French boy, Louis Deschamps, was a general favorite. So
much so, in fact that he could have had almost any job that it lay
in the sergeant-major's power to offer him. One day Louis casually
mentioned that he wished he could get nearer the engine work, and
the sergeant-major at once decided the boy should have his wish.
No finer fellow on the grounds could be found than the big Scot,
Macpherson, who was head engine hand of the first lot of mechanics
to arrive at the airdrome. Macpherson talked little unless he was
speaking to some prime favorite, when he became most voluble. The
sergeant-major and Mac were cronies. Consequently it took little
laying together of heads before the sergeant-major went before the
colonel one day and asked if Louis Deschamps could be spared from
headquarters to go and give Macpherson a hand as helper.
The colonel smiled. He knew what was in the wind. The Scot knew well
where he could obtain helpers in plenty if he needed them. But
Colonel Marker was as ready to help the Brighton boys as was the
sergeant-major, so he smilingly acquiesced, and the next morning Louis
came to camp attired in a suit of blue dungarees over his khaki.
In ten days' time Macpherson had taken the French lad to his heart,
and was never so happy as when working away with him over a refractory
engine and chatting along in a seemingly never-ending stream of
engine small-talk. All of which was meat and drink to Louis, and was
rapidly acquainting him with much that it would otherwise have taken
him years of experience to acquire.
Joe Little and Jimmy Hill had a council of war with Louis Deschamps
one night. These three were fast growing to be closer than brothers.
What one of them had he was anxious the other two should share at
once.
"I think I can see my way to get you fellows working in the hangars,"
Louis said.
"Mac will help us. I never saw such a good friend. I told him you
fellows were anxious to get closer to the planes and he is turning
it over in his mind. He will have a scheme soon, and when he does,
it will go through all right."
Macpherson had a scheme, but just how and when to try to put it into
operation was the question. He had a talk with Parks, the head
instructor, one afternoon, and told Parks about the Brighton boys
and their keenness to learn more about flying.
"You could do with those kids," said Mac "They are really too big by
now to be called kids, as a matter of fact. Why, they will be flying
soon themselves. Why don't you ask the major if you can't have two
of them down here to help clean and tune up the school machines?
It is a bit irregular, but so is their being here at all. I don't
see why, if the Old Man can use them around the offices, we can't
have a couple of them here. I have had the young Frenchman here
with me now for some time, and he is worth a lot to me. He says two
others, one named Hill and the other Little, want to get down to
the hangars. Be a good chap and ask the major about it."
Parks did. The major was very busy at the time, and said, "I guess
so," and let the matter go at that. Parks passed that laconic
permission on to the sergeant-major, and the two boys reported to
Parks forthwith.
That left Bob Haines, Harry Corwin, Archie Fox and Dicky Mann at
headquarters to be generally useful. They had come to be on the best
of terms with the sergeant-major, and when they pointed out to him
that the three boys in the hangars were "having all the fun," he
suggested that he so assign them to duty that but two of them would
be "on" at the same time. Thus when Bob and Dicky Mann were standing
ready for whatever might be required of them, Harry and Archie were
free to spend their time in the hangars, where the sergeant-major
could lay his hand on them in case of sudden calls.
Thus the summer was not far advanced before the Brighton boys were
in the very thick of the flying game, not as onlookers, but as parts
of the machine into which the various component parts of the camp
and its numerous units were rapidly becoming merged.
If they had not tried to learn, the Brighton boys must have picked up
some general information about aeroplanes and flying. With their
special eagerness they were rapidly becoming well acquainted with
most details of the work of the airmen. No casual word in their
hearing fell on barren ground. When one of them mastered a new idea,
he passed it on to the others.
None of the boys studied the machines themselves more devotedly than
did Harry Corwin. Close application to many a dry volume bore good
fruit. He felt he could set up a Farman type biplane by himself.
One morning Harry was standing beside a monoplane of the Bleriot type,
which had come from somewhere as an old school machine, and had not
been much in demand owing to the fact that no other monoplanes were
in evidence at the camp, when an army airman, an entire stranger to
Harry, came out of the hangar and glanced at the engine in evident
preparation for a flight.
The airman was about to start the engine when Harry noticed that the
elevator control wires were crossed. Whoever had attached them had
done so mistakenly. Harry could hardly believe the evidence of his
eyes, yet there it was, undeniable. Stepping forward, he said to
the airman: "Excuse me, but your control wires are not right."
The flying man was little more than a novice, and sufficiently young
to resent interference on the part of one obviously younger than
himself. Besides, he had connected up those control wires himself.
He glanced hurriedly at the terminals, and seeing that they were
apparently secure, thought the boy beside him must be mistaken.
He missed the crossed wires. He said to Harry, with just a suspicion
of superciliousness, "Oh, she is quite O.K., thanks," and started his
engine and sprang into his seat as the plane moved off across the meadow.
Harry stood watching the receding plane with something akin to
consternation in his heart. Naturally shy, he did not think of
pressing his opinion, but he knew trouble was in store for the young
airman, though in just what form it would come he could not figure out.
The monoplane had not gone far along the grass before the flier tried
to raise it. As the machine did not answer properly to the elevator,
he thought something must have stuck, and jerked the lever as if to
free it. Afterwards the airman was not clear as to just what happened.
Harry could see the airman was trying some maneuver, and as he looked,
the plane rose nose first from the ground, almost perpendicularly
and then took an odd nose-dive head into the ground. The plane was
not many feet from the earth when it dived, but was far enough up to
come to the ground with a bad crash. Harry could see a dash of
white spray in the sunlight as the gasoline splashed upward at the
moment of the smash. The monoplane heeled over and the pilot went
out of sight behind the wreckage. The graceful white tail stood
high in air.
Running as fast as he could, Harry got to the scene of the accident
before the airman had risen from the ground. The strap which had
held him into his seat had burst, and he had suffered a nasty spill.
Investigation showed, however, that he was but little the worse,
save for the shock and the fright. He was as pale as a sheet.
Harry helped him to his feet and assisted him to take stock of his
injuries. By the time they had discovered that no bones were broken
and the bruises the young fellow had sustained were quite superficial,
Parks, the head instructor, dashed up in a motor car. As he leaped
out beside the wrecked plane, there was a frown on his face. "Another
smash?" he queried.
Harry learned later that the young airman had already smashed up two
machines that week before demolishing the old monoplane.
"What was wrong this time?" Parks spoke sharply.
Without hesitation the young pilot answered: "I must have hitched
the old girl up wrong, some way. This friend here," nodding toward
Harry, "was good enough to tell me before I started that I had mussed
things up before I got into her. I was a fool not to have listened
to him, but," and he paused, smiling, "but he looked pretty young to
be giving advice. I wish now I had listened to him."
Parks turned to Harry. "You knew where the trouble was?"
"The control wires were crossed," Harry answered simply.
"You noticed that, did you?" continued Parks. "When have you seen
this type of plane before?"
"This one is the only one I have ever seen," was Harry's reply. "I
have read up on this type, though, quite a bit. I had a book that
contained an awful lot about this particular sort of machine, and I
could almost put one together. It's easy enough to see crossed wires
if your eye happens to light on them."
"Yes," said Parks. "It's easy enough if you have the right sort of
an eye. That's the real question. You are one of those boys from
Brighton Academy, are you not? Are you in the same bunch that Hill
and Little came from? If you are, I guess I can use you in the way
I am using them. Would you like to get some practical experience
round the hangars? You youngsters seem to be under the chief's eye,
from what I hear, and I understand he wants to see you all get a
chance to push on."
"We all want to get into the hangars when we can be spared from our
regular work," answered Harry. "There are four of us left, at the
headquarters' offices, and whether or not they want us to stay there
I don't know."
"Humph!" Parks had not great respect for anyone around an airdrome
who was not intimately connected with the actual flying. "Lot of
good you will be doing there. If they want to see you boys amount
to something, why don't they let me have a chance to see what's in
you? Fellows who know at a glance that elevator wires are crossed
ought to be encouraged. That's my view." Parks left the subject
and turned his attention to the bruised pilot, who came in for a
curtain lecture. Harry Corwin busied himself with trying to ascertain
the extent of the damage to the wrecked plane. As Parks finished
talking to the pilot he stepped to Harry's side and asked: "What is
left of her?"
"Plenty," said Harry. "She will need a new propellor and her running
gear is crumpled up badly, but I doubt very much if the planes are
damaged, and I don't see that the engine has suffered." Park's
critical eye ran over the wreck and he nodded. Without further
comment he jumped into his car. As it started away he said: "Don't
bother with the old girl any further. I will send a gang out to tend
to her. I will see if a chance won't come along soon to get you boys
into better jobs, if you want them."
"Want them?" said Harry. "I should think we do."
But Parks was a very busy man, and as the work at the new air camp
increased he found his hands so full that his promise to Harry was
for the time being crowded out of his mind.
The four boys held at headquarters chafed a little, but were careful
to keep the fact to themselves. Archie Fox felt it most keenly of all,
for he was very fond of Jimmy Hill, and thought it hard fate indeed
that took Jimmy away from him. Jimmy was learning rapidly. He had
made friends with one of the instructor pilots, a little man named
Reece, who spent much time tuning up and going over the school machines.
Reece was never idle, never quiet. An hour in which nothing had been
done was to him an hour wasted. If he had nothing else to do he would
go over work just completed and make sure it had been done well. In
consequence, Reece had few accidents, and rarely suffered delays and
waits while something was being "put right." Jimmy appreciated this
quality in Reece, and saw its results.
By tuning his inclinations and point of view with that of the instructor,
Jimmy got into very close touch with the little man, who was never
tired of answering questions and making explanations. Reece had been
for some years working for one or another of the crack international
fliers who traveled in various parts of the world. He had no ambition
to become a star himself, but knew most of the well-known airmen of
two continents, and contained a store---house of anecdotes about them
and their doings.
Jimmy always walked or rode home with Archie when he could, and much
of their time on Sundays was spent together. The colonel had from
the first insisted that they should have the Sundays to themselves
and they had got into the habit of going to church each Sunday morning
in uniform, with the army men, who always turned out in some force.
Sunday afternoons generally found them at the airdrome, and often
they might be found at work, but they were considered free to do
as they chose. These Sunday afternoons were of great value to Archie,
for Jimmy Hill, whether working or not, never failed to give Archie
a sort of resume of what he had picked up during the week.
One Thursday afternoon the colonel was making a round of the hangars.
Archie was on duty with him, accompanying him as a sort of extra
orderly, the soldier orderly having been sent to the town with a message.
As they passed down the front of the hangars the colonel turned to
watch one of the pupils trying his first "solo," or flight by himself,
not far away. "Handles her nicely," he said, half to himself. Then,
turning to Archie, he added: "How would you like to be up there in
that machine?"
To his surprise Archie looked very thoughtful and shook his head
soberly before he replied: "I hardly know, sir."
"What!" said the colonel. "Have I found one of you Brighton boys
that is not anxious to fly?"
"I am anxious enough to fly. It's the machine I was thinking about."
"What's the matter with the machine?"
"I don't know if anything is the matter with her, but that is the old
biplane they call the 'bad bus.' She has given more than one man a
spill, sir. Everything goes well with her for a while and then she
plays a trick on someone. Last time I saw her cutup she side-slipped
without any explanation for it. Some of us have got the idea that
she has always got to be watched for sideslip. I would not mind going
up in her after I had learned to fly, but she would not be my choice
for my first solo."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Colonel Marker. "You talk as if you knew
all about the different machines. You have never worked around them,
have you?"
"Those of us that happen to be off duty at headquarters generally spend
our spare time around the machines, and, of course, we hear the talk
that goes on. I am sorry if I have said what I shouldn't, sir."
"Tut, tut!" from the colonel. "You have said nothing wrong. You may
be quite right. I have known of machines that had bad habits, plenty
of them. But if they let that lad take his solo in the machine it
must be all right."
Ten minutes later Colonel Marker was at the back of a hangar inspecting
a newly arrived scout machine of a much---discussed type when he heard
a shout from outside. A moment later a soldier came into the hangar
and reported a bad smash. The colonel walked to the door. There
across the meadow, was a wrecked airplane. Men were picking up the
still form of the pilot beside it. Parks, seeing the colonel,
pulled up in his runabout to take the colonel with him to the wreck.
"Looks bad, sir," said Parks. "They had orders not to let novices
go up in that machine. I hope the boy is not badly hurt."
"Was it the 'bad bus' that smashed?" asked the colonel.
"Yes, sir. That is what some of the boys called her. She is not a
really bad machine, but plays tricks."
"Did you see what she did this time?"
"Yes, sir. I was looking at her from the end hangar. I was some
distance away, but I happened to have my eye on her as she crocked."
"Did she side-slip?"
"That is just what she did do." Parks glanced at Colonel Marker
inquisitively. What was the colonel driving at?
"The reason I asked," said the colonel, "was on account of something
one of those Brighton boys remarked to me not more than ten minutes
before the smash. He said the 'bad bus'---as he called it---side-slipped
at times unexpectedly. Those youngsters do pick things up, don't they?"
Just then they reached the scene of the accident, and both of them
forgot the Brighton boys for the moment.
The machine was smashed badly and the young pilot had received a
broken leg in addition to a nasty shaking.
"I think I will let that plane go," said Parks as he and the colonel
drove toward the hangars. "I will just pile up the old thing and let
her sit in a corner until I need her worse than I do now. She has
played her last trick for a while. You were speaking of those
Brighton boys, sir. What are you planning to do with them?"
"Make flyers of them some day."
"I have three of them in the hangars now. You have one at headquarters
named Corwin that knows a bit for a lad. Why not let me have him?"
"The four I have at the offices are really valuable, but I suppose if
they are to learn flying they had better be with you. Can you find
something to do for the lot?"
"I guess so. If they are all as good as the three I have already
I can do with them."
"Well, it's rather irregular, the whole business. But they began
with us when we came here, and they are just the sort of stuff, as
far as I can see, that we want in this game, so the sooner we push
'em along the better, I think."
Thus it was settled. The Brighton boys were one step further on their
way to membership of an air squadron at the front, far off as the
front seemed to them. With Fat Benson in the stores and the other
seven boys in the hangars, they felt themselves truly part and parcel
of the airdrome. This feeling of responsibility was aging them, too.
Already they looked years older, every one of them, than they had
looked on that day in the previous spring when they had decided to
study aeronautics in concert.