Ten hours of intensive flying instruction pass ever so quickly for a
group of air-minded boys, determined to make a place for themselves in
Uncle Sam’s most important fighting unit, the Marine Aviation Corps.
With a good deal of practical aerial knowledge under his belt and a
pressing desire to earn his wings, Lefty skipped through his instruction
period plus one hundred per cent courage and ambition and approximately
seven days of airsickness.
On this particular day, the flying field at Pensacola was buzzing with
unusual activity due to the fact that several new students, just through
their instruction period, were ready to make their first solo flight.
A line of five pursuit planes were ready in the center of the field,
each plane attended by a mechanic.
To the left, a small observation stand had been built that was now
occupied by both officials and officers of the Navy and Marine Corps.
Directly in front of the planes, Panama had his squad of pupils lined up
for their final instructions.
As the hard-boiled sergeant went into lengthy detail on what each man
was to do, the student flyers stood at ease, attentively listening to
their instructor, all except Lefty who, as usual, when facing a crisis
in his career, completely lost control of his nerves, due to an
uncontrollable feeling of over-anxiety and a lack of faith in himself.
“Don’t forget your stuff now,” Panama finished by warning each man,
“Climb up eight hundred feet, circle the field and make a three-point
landing. Now remember—that stick ain’t no pool cue!”
Steve sensed that the last warning was entirely for his sole
consumption.
With a sickening self-assuredness, he left the line and strutted
nonchalantly over to the first plane, stepping on the wing and climbing
into the cockpit.
Panama followed the man with his eyes and as Steve adjusted his Gasborne
helmet, the sergeant issued the word to “give her the gun.”
Every man’s eyes followed the course of Steve’s plane as she taxied down
the field, making a careless and sloppy take-off.
“Do you see what he did?” Panama roared angrily, turning to Lefty and
pointing after Steve’s rising plane. “He forgot everything I told him.
The lame-brained son of a half-wit tries to take off before he gets
flying speed. Now when he comes down, you take your hop, and don’t make
the same mistake!”
All eyes, including the nervous boy’s, peered heavenward, watching Steve
circle as a mechanic came running across the field to where Lefty was
standing.
“Your name Phelps!” the mechanic asked, holding out a piece of folded
white note paper.
Lefty nodded and, taking the note from the man, opened it hurriedly,
instantly recognizing Elinor’s handwriting.
“I am rooting for you. Good luck!” she had scribbled across the paper.
Lefty smiled confidently as he placed the note carefully away in the
breast pocket of his regulation windjammer. A strong feeling of
self-confidence arose within him, stifling his anxiety and nervous
tension.
He looked over in the direction of the reviewing stand and saw Elinor
sitting on the narrow wooden steps, waving to him, clasping her hands
over her head in a gesture of good luck.
Once more, his own problems took possession of his mind and he found
himself mechanically rehearsing the action of the stick that Panama had
taught him, concentrating upon each different movement.
Just then a major, in charge of flying instruction, approached and after
returning Panama’s salute, called the sergeant aside.
“Are you certain that man is ready to make his solo?” he asked, pointing
to Lefty. “He seems nervous to me!”
Panama knew what this opportunity meant to Lefty and, so long as it was
up to him, he was determined to see to it that nothing arose to prevent
the boy making his last lap in the struggle for wings.
“Just a bit overanxious, sir,” he explained, “He’ll come through O.K.,
though. He’s one of the best in the new squad.”
The major looked in Lefty’s direction again, shook his head doubtfully
and, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, said, “All right, but I am
depending upon your word, sergeant. If anything happens, the
responsibility rests upon your shoulders.”
Panama smiled confidently, brought himself to attention and saluted.
“I’ll take that chance with any man I’ve trained, sir!”
As the major walked off, the nose of Steve’s plane was turned toward the
earth. In another few seconds, he was making a three-point landing in
veteran style.
He taxied his ship deftly around into position and Panama and Lefty ran
to greet him. “That was a peach of a landing, Steve,” Lefty announced as
the other man crawled out of the cockpit, removing his helmet and wiping
the grease from his face.
“Not so bad, young feller,” Panama added, unbegrudgingly.
Steve looked at them both, very much self-satisfied, and, in his usual
indifferent and aggravating manner, replied, “I’m afraid you’re right,
sergy!”
He then proceeded to unstrap his parachute and, as Lefty walked toward
the plane, handed it to him.
“Here you are, Phelps,” he heckled derisively. “You’ll probably need
this ’chute, but when you jump, don’t forget to pull the ring!”
Steve’s uncalled-for remark completely upset Lefty’s confidence in
himself. He turned upon the now successful pilot with a menacing look in
his eye, slowly moving toward him until Panama stepped between them.
“Now be on your way,” he warned Phelps. “Remember, climb eight hundred
feet, circle the field and make a three-point landing!”
Lefty climbed up into the cockpit just as Panama came over alongside of
the fuselage, followed by Steve.
“If you fly backward, it doesn’t count,” Steve added with derision. “And
remember, you’re not playing Harvard!”
Upon hearing these words, Lefty became so rattled that he was unable to
get his helmet over his head.
Determined to put an end to this merciless chiding for once and for all,
he rose and started to leave the cockpit just as Panama intervened.
“Never mind that fresh mug. Just keep your mind on your job, kid, and
you’ll show ’em all up!”
The sergeant’s words helped to quiet the boy but he was still in
anything but a calm and collected condition.
After attaching his Gasborne helmet, his hand managed to find the
throttle and the dormant motor came into action.
All at once, that ill-fated day in the Yale Bowl came back to him,
throwing his senses into utter confusion and rattling his nerves.
He turned and caught the derision plainly visible upon the faces of all
except Panama’s.
Impulsively, his hand shoved the throttle and the plane eased forward.
His face became a blank, emotionless thing as he strived to concentrate
upon the mechanical contrivances. A sickening feeling gripped him,
making him feel that he was licked before he started.
Quickly he let his fingers drop from the throttle only to allow both
hands to “freeze” on the stick as the ship continued to rapidly gain
momentum.
His eyes became blurred and his head began to swim as the plane swiftly
swerved past barbed wire fences, nurses, soldiers, some sailors and
marines and an official car.
Back in the reviewing stand, Elinor became spellbound, jumping to her
feet as Lefty’s plane remained on the ground.
She ran across the field to Panama whose face, for the first time in his
life, was a death white, dripping wet from cold perspiration.
Just ahead, in the direction in which Lefty’s plane was tearing, was a
solid concrete wall, and certain death for the pilot if he was unable to
take off in time.
Panama saw this impending catastrophe, yelled to a Marine sitting on a
motorcycle and jumped into the side car, speeding away after the wild
plane just as the clang-clang of an ambulance was heard.
Lefty saw the solid, gray concrete wall directly in front of him as a
terrible look of horror overshadowed his face.
He knew what to do and he knew what every bit of mechanism in that
cockpit was meant for but as hard as he tried, he could not bring his
hands, frozen to the stick, into action.
Suddenly all went black before him as a terrible crash deafened his ears
and he felt himself jolted forward.
The plane had collided into the wall with its tail flying in the air and
its nose buried in the ground as vicious flames burst from the oil tank.
At this same moment, the motorcycle carrying Panama, and the ambulance
close behind, drew up alongside of the burning plane with its
unconscious pilot pinned in from under.
Panama jumped from the side car and rushed toward the ship now almost
completely devoured by the flames.
Braving the flames that seared his face, hands and arms, Williams
smashed in the side of the fuselage in a supreme effort to rescue Lefty
from this death furnace.
Unmindful of his own severe burns, he dragged the unconscious boy
through the hole he had made in the side of the fuselage, almost
overcome now himself from the deadly gas fumes.
The two men in white from the ambulance ran forward with a stretcher and
lifted the boy on to it as Panama watched eagerly for a sign of life.
“Is he—he hurt bad?” Williams asked the ambulance men.
“Can’t say how bad,” one of the doctors replied, “I think you had better
hop in yourself and come along with us. Those burns on your face and
hands don’t seem to help you remain in condition.”
“I’m Okay. Just hustle him along as quickly as you can,” Panama said in
a manner of dismissal, just as an official car pulled up and the flying
instruction major got out.
“Sergeant, I thought you said that man was ready to fly?”
Panama’s eyes rested on his dust-covered shoe tops, remembering that the
major had placed the responsibility of Lefty’s flight upon his
shoulders.
“He’s been an excellent student, sir. I considered him ready to go.
Something must have rattled him but he’ll do better next time.”
“There won’t be any next time,” the major announced curtly. “We can’t
afford to have any more exhibitions such as this. He’s through!”
Panama’s burned hands and face were beginning to cause him excruciating
pain and he had all that he could do to keep himself collected in the
presence of his superior officer.
The major studied his noncommissioned instructor for a moment, then
noticing the severe burns, his entire demeanor changed.
“Why, I didn’t notice before, Sergeant. Those are pretty bad burns. You
had better report to the hospital immediately.”
Panama saluted and the major smiled, proud of a member of his command
who had executed such a splendid act of bravery.
“That was mighty fine work, Williams, in getting him out of that ship.
It took brains and courage to work that fast. I’ll remember this
incident in my reports to the Department.”
Panama smiled gratefully as the major acknowledged his salute and
returned to the waiting automobile.
One of the Marines, who had been an interested onlooker, walked over to
Panama with wide, excited eyes.
“Didja hear what the Old Man said?” the Marine asked, all enthused. “He
said he’d remember you in his reports. Maybe you’ll get a medal.”
Panama looked down at the man with a disgusted look of indifference.
“Yeah! Well, I’ll trade anybody that medal and a dozen like it right now
for a chew of tobacco!”
That evening, two flying Marines, temporarily inactive, sat in wheel
chairs in the cool and quiet ward of the base hospital that stood as a
silent warning just south of the flying field.
“I feel sorry for that guy, but I can’t help but laugh,” one of them
said, looking in the direction of the bed in which Lefty was sleeping.
“He didn’t even take the ship off the ground.”
The other incapacitated Marine nodded good-naturedly. “I’m not so good
but I did better than that. I got my plane off the ground but I couldn’t
get it down!”
His companion signaled him to be quiet as Lefty showed signs of coming
out of his long sleep.
As he slowly opened his eyes, Elinor and Panama entered the ward and
walked directly to his bed, standing beside him.
“How do you feel?” Elinor asked as Lefty showed signs of recognition,
and her hand gently stroked his bandaged head.
A look of abject pain crossed the weary boy’s face. “I did it again! I
failed you both just as I failed Yale. Oh, I wish I’d been killed!”
“It’s all right; you mustn’t worry,” she consoled him. “You’ll come
through with flying colors the next time.”
Panama tried to laugh and, forgetting Lefty’s condition, slapped him a
resounding blow on the shoulder.
“Wait’ll you see that concrete wall—you certainly knocked hell out of
it! I never saw anyone equal your speed!”