“Beat it, King, and do your stuff instead of talking it.”
He went into the locker-room and got his flying clothes, coming out on
the outside platform with a determined grin on his square, snub-nosed
face. The freckles stood out prominently, as if he were slightly pale.
The foremost airplane laboratory in the world was spread before him as
he descended the stairs as if walking in his sleep. Drawn up in front
of the row of hangars was a collection of ships, some of which might
have been the fruit of a designer’s nightmare. Motors upside down,
monoplanes, triplanes, ships with both pontoons and wheels on them;
single seaters, two seaters, ships that could carry eight men; the
little Sperry, a gnat of the air with a tiny three cylinder motor, was
ranged alongside the mighty Barling bomber.
For once Finley’s mind did not indulge itself in a comparison of some
of those shining ships with the craft of his own early days in the air.
King Forell was taking off, he noticed, in one of the new pursuit jobs.
As the stalwart flyer walked up the line, seat-pack parachute under his
arm, he was searching for the ship he was to fly. There it was, its
dope cracked and discolored with age, looking the veteran it was. In
fact, a fit ship for a has-been to fly.
He forced his mind away from that subject. His eyes rested on the
Barling triplane. There was a ship! Weighing fourteen tons and capable
of carrying six tons more; six Liberty motors to fly it and a crew of
six men necessary to handle it properly, it was truly the leviathan of
the air. What it portended for the future of aviation was something
which the mind of a Finley could speculate upon forever.
“Jim! Jim Finley!”
It was the C.O.’s voice, and it cut through the drone of King Forell’s
twelve cylinder motor, now three thousand feet overhead. Finley turned
and saw the major standing with a group of men alongside some expensive
motor cars.
“Those Congressmen from Washington,” he remembered, and walked toward
them.
“This is Jim Finley, gentlemen,” the major said jovially, and went on
to introduce him.
“These gentlemen were discussing the first test flight of the Barling,
Jim,” he went on, “and I was telling them that you were the man who
hopped it off, just as you came along.
“At that time,” he pursued, turning to the interested Congressmen,
“Finley was chief test pilot of the Air Service. He flew the Barling
when it had never been off the ground before, and did a great job.”
One stout, jovial legislator shook his head smilingly.
“That must take a unique and extraordinary brand of nerve,” he stated.
“In fact, having your job must mean a continuous succession of--”
“We took him off a few months ago,” the major interrupted with a quick
look at Finley, “to give him a rest.”
“And a ---- of a rest, too,” Finley said with his slow grin. “Hauling
the oldest hulks on the field around.”
“A contrast to flying the newest, eh?” laughed one of the Washington
men. “Well, I congratulate you on being the first man to fly that--that
monster there. And doing it successfully.”
“No credit to me,” Finley explained. “I flew a lot before the war, was
an instructor a week after it broke out and shortly after that was sent
to the Caproni school in Italy. They’re three-motored babies, you know,
so big ships have been my dish.”
“Well, I guess Forell is about ready,” the major said, somewhat
awkwardly.
He seemed ill at ease, Finley noticed, when the past was mentioned.
“Glad to have met you all.”
Finley smiled, and started for his ship. Forell was evidently going to
give the visitors an exhibition. Well, no one could do a better job.
Despite himself, his mind roved back to that day when he had tested the
Barling, and particularly to the banquet which the manufacturers had
given that night in a Dayton hotel. The chief himself had been there,
and as toastmaster he had introduced--
“Undoubtedly the best big-ship pilot in America--Jim Finley!”
All in all, that had been the high point of his flying career, Finley
admitted, as his eyes caressed the great ship which lorded it over the
line.
Suddenly the roar above grew louder, and he stopped to watch. Three
lounging pilots looked upward, and the swarm of mechanics on the line
quit work entirely. When King Forell was flying there wasn’t a great
deal accomplished on McCook Field.
The little scout shot downward, motor wide open, in a terrific dive.
Two, three, four thousand feet it dropped like a bullet. As it swooped
out, barely five hundred feet above the ground, Forell fairly stood it
on its tail. It bored its way upward a full half mile in a few seconds.
At the very top of the climb it arched over, as if to loop, but as it
got upside down it turned slowly on its horizontal axis. It ended up on
an even keel, without jerkiness or hesitation, and instantly went into
another one of those breath-taking dives.
“Boy, what ships!” Finley was thinking, as he saw the single-seater
flashing earthward at a speed of more than three hundred miles an hour.
Duralumin construction, even to the aileron controls, all-metal prop,
capable of a hundred and seventy-five miles an hour on the level. What
King was doing would not have been possible two short years before.
For this time King scraped the ground as he came out of that
bullet-like dive, and again the ship was darting almost straight
upward. But this time it was turning in a two-turn-upward tailspin.
“There,” reflected Finley, “is the best acrobatic pilot I ever looked
at. By the same token, he’s a bird that’s so far from being wise to
himself that he’ll ruin his chances if he don’t look out. He could be a
great guy in the service, if he doesn’t spoil his own chances!”
He moved slowly toward his ship as the “Kink” went into a continuous
series of stunts. Barrel-rolls, half-rolls, loops, spins, falling
leaves, upside down spirals--the whole gamut of aerial maneuvers was
accomplished without loss of altitude or a second of rest between
stunts.
And young Forell, less than two years out of West Point, was more of a
flyer than showed up there right then, Finley admitted to himself.
There wasn’t a test pilot on the field who could come down after flying
a new job and analyze its performance as well as the Kink. Finley’s own
ability to recommend changes in big ships’ construction which would
improve them, was Forell’s on the scouts, and there was no reason why,
with further experience, he shouldn’t be a whiz on any old plane at
all. Every wire and strut and spar, every eighth of an inch of span or
chord, every degree of incidence or dihedral--all had their message for
the brilliant youngster, and his recommendations on new jobs had been
uniformly accurate. They were thinking, Finley had heard, of sending
him to Tech for a four year course in aero-dynamics and design. Well,
they couldn’t pick a better man.
“If only he wasn’t such a pup. Shame, too,” Finley thought to himself.
* * * * *
Forell’s exhibition was done as Finley reached his ship and started
strapping his parachute around the back of his thighs. As he snapped
the shoulder and crotch straps together at his waist, his placid blue
eyes swept the mechanic.
“If anybody’s got any insurance they want to collect, come on and take
a ride,” he said with a grin. “Draw a chute, and hop in.”
The men glanced at each other beneath bent heads.
“I got to fix up Sixty-nine right away, sir,” the chief said awkwardly,
and the crew men had excuses.
Finley nodded. He was not surprized. Nevertheless, the lines were a bit
deeper, from nostrils to mouth, and his mouth a little thinner, as he
climbed up on the trailing edge of the left wing, and worked himself
ahead to the pilot’s cockpit.
The Larkin was a two-motored bomber, one motor set on each lower wing,
just far enough from the pilot’s cockpit to allow the propellers to
rotate. As it was, the tips of the big six-foot sticks almost grazed
the cowling of the compartment, which jutted forth in front of the
wings. It was a four-ton ship, with a wingspread of more than eighty
feet. Two years before it had been king of its kind; now it was
obsolete.
Finley’s hand dropped to the two throttles alongside his seat, and in a
second the left-hand Liberty was turning up fifteen hundred as his eyes
swept the instruments. Then the-right hand motor went into full cry,
and his eyes read the tale of the needles before him.
He nodded to the crew men, and after they had pulled the wheelblocks he
turned the ship on a dime by giving the right motor full gun. The aged
Larkin swept around to the left and, as it faced the field, Finley cut
the throttle.
Kink Forell was about to land, but he was coming down toward the
northern edge of the field in a nose dive. Fifty feet above the trees
the scout swept upward, and on its back. As it came swooping out of the
loop its under-carriage seemed to graze the trees. It zoomed upward,
banking as it rose, until it hung in the sky with idling motor, left
wing pointed at the ground. It dropped almost straight downward in a
vertical side-slip, straightening just above the ground.
It skidded wildly from side to side as Forell fishtailed it, and landed
lightly on three points.
“Landing out of a loop,” thought Finley. “He’ll get bawled out for
that, but he won’t mind.”
He could see the Kink now as he came up to the group of distinguished
guests to receive congratulations. Tall and slim and smiling, the sun
glinting from his red hair, he’d laughingly deprecate the compliments
which he loved so well.
Finley taxied out, turned his ship and shoved both throttles ahead. He
leaned against the wheel, and got the nose down as the Larkin bumped
massively along the ground. As he eased it off the ground, however, it
suddenly became easy to fly-- the controls answered the mere hint of
pressure on the wheel.
Finley’s square face was set and his eyes abstracted, as he circled the
field for altitude. There was no doubt that most of the men on the
field suddenly lost their wild desire to take a flight when it was
Finley who invited them. Perhaps it was accidental, but--
Of course, he had had a streak of bad luck lately. Four wrecks, as a
matter of fact, in a little more than a month. It was just a run of
accidents, of course. On that forced landing the wheels had hit a log
and the ship turned over. Another time, one of those ---- reversible
pitch propellers had suddenly gone into its negative position ten feet
above the ground and snapped the nose down. The other crashes had been
right on the field--bad air currents. When a man got into a run of luck
of that kind he’d crash into an oasis with the whole Sahara desert to
land on.
Perhaps that was the reason for his flying assignments, too. Like this
Larkin, for instance. When the Larkin was a brand-new wonder he had
been chief test pilot. In fact, he had been responsible for setting
those motors on the wings themselves. They had been trussed up between
upper and lower wings then. Five miles an hour more speed and greater
ease of handling had been the results of that suggestion. That was the
sort of stuff Kink Forell could do. He’d be even better with more
experience.
Suddenly Finley’s mouth widened in a wintry grin. When he and this
Larkin had taken their first flight they had been kings, with a
thousand people watching admiringly. Now they were limping through the
sky--a couple of has-beens.
It was starting to darken a little. The sun was down, and it was time
to land. He eased the great ship down over the trees and leveled off
with both motors cut to idling. It was slowing, now. Time to pull back
on the wheel.
As he pulled the wheel back the ship settled. But, as it dropped, there
was no contact with the earth. Finley, suddenly tense, felt the
sickening rush downward. It was a full ten feet before the wheels found
the earth, and there was a crash as the huge plane staggered back into
the air. His hand found the throttles in a split second, and the
Libertys were roaring. The ship settled again, and he fought it off the
ground for a taut ten seconds. Gradually it picked up flying speed, and
then he dared to look back.
A crumpled wheel marked the spot where he had hit. Doubtlessly the rest
of the under-carriage was an ugly mess of splintered struts and a
crushed wheel.
There was wild excitement on the line as the Larkin thundered low
across the field. They were pointing, jumping up and down, pointing to
the under-carriages of other ships. The Larkin was vibrating so that
Finley himself was bounced from his seat, at times, against his loose
belt. The wreck of the under-carriage had weakened the basic
spar-structure of the entire ship.
“Do they think I’m a ---- fool?” Finley raged suddenly, and the
fingernails of his free hand dug into the flesh.
“Steady, now,” he advised himself, and throttled the wild uprising
within him.
There was but one thing to do. He couldn’t land four tons at fifty
miles an hour, without wheels. And the Larkin wasn’t worth saving,
anyhow.
It was so left-wing heavy now that it took all the strength in Finley’s
powerful shoulders to keep it on an level keel, and the vibration was
so terrific that he could see the wing tips oscillate. The
thousand-pound motors seemed to be striving to tear themselves loose,
and each landing and flying wire gave an illusion of being a dozen.
If only the old hulk would hang together for five minutes! That would
get him over the vast expanse of Wilbur Wright Field, seven miles
north. He circled houses and avoided traveled roads as he fought
desperately to keep his stricken ship in the air. It was weakening
fast. At any moment it was liable to tear itself apart. He must not let
it fall in a thickly settled section.
As he reached the edge of the vast airdrome, seven miles outside of
Dayton, it was impossible to keep the left wing up at all. The Larkin
was like a bird with a broken wing, falling sidewise.
He unstrapped his belt, holding to the wheel as he tried to keep the
nose up. Facing the rear of the ship, one hand on the wheel behind him,
he gathered himself.
To slip would be fatal now. Those two propellers were like buzz-saws
and should he be thrown into either of them he would be carved up as
butter by a knife.
One foot was on the seat. Directly ahead of him was the bomb
compartment, its top three feet below the upper wing, even with the
back of his seat. Eight long feet away was the observer’s cockpit, a
round hole in the wide fuselage.
Using one leg as propelling force, he loosed his grasp on the wheel and
hurled himself forward, sliding on his stomach across the bomb
compartment. Instantly the great bomber fell into a whirling spin. He
was being hurled off his perch as his hands found the cowling around
the cockpit, and he hung there desperately, dragging himself forward.
The spin was terrific now, due to the wingheaviness, and four tons were
screwing earthward in a hell of shrieking wires. He fought to one knee,
then got one foot on the fuselage.
Just as one hand found the ripcord ring he was hurled from his ship
like a drop of water flung from a speeding wheel. An uncontrollable,
strangled cry of fear escaped him as he found himself in space with a
pack which was supposed to open on his back.
He fell end over end as he forced himself to count a full, slow five.
His brain was numb, but the one idea which gripped him was that he must
avoid that ship.
He jerked the ripcord, and with a sob of relief felt the little pilot
chute snap out. The next second it had pulled the folds of glistening
silk from the bag, and his body was jerked double as the shoulder
springs rose.
His waist was sore as a boil as he swung in sickening arcs below the
chute. Sometimes he was even with it. As the pendulum-like rushes
through the air slackened, a great ball of fire burst from the ground.
The Larkin had made its last flight.
He was nearing the ground now, and it seemed to be coming up to meet
him with ever-increasing speed. Fifteen feet a second, that was the
speed of the drop, but now, less than a hundred feet high, it seemed
terrific. He was close to the hangars, too, but he’d hit the ground
before he was blown against them.
His hands grasped the shroudlines which ran from the harness to the
edges of the big silk umbrella, and he loosened his muscles. As he hit
the ground he pulled his body upward, and bent his knees like a man who
lands from a jump.
He snapped off his harness before the breeze could drag him, and had
the billowing silk in hand as Captain Adams puffed up to him.
“What happened?” gurgled the captain. “Or do you always come down that
way?”
Finley wet his lips with his tongue. Seemed as if he did always come
down that way, at that.
“Wiped the under-carriage off at McCook,” he drawled equably. “There’s
a ship landing to bring me home right now, I guess. Will you have the
boys clean up the fire?”
“Sure. Want a drink?”
He did, but he shook his head. Somehow he wanted to escape before the
other officers at Wilbur Wright gathered around to ask questions.
“That’s Dick Redding, I think, after me.”
He walked out to meet the McCook ship, and Redding, who had succeeded
Finley as chief test pilot, motioned to the rear cockpit. As Finley got
in, Redding threw a “Glad you got out all right!” over his shoulder,
and took off without delay.
* * * * *
As they walked side by side, back at McCook, from the line to the
flying office Finley could barely restrain himself from bursting into
wild self-condemnation. Why was wiry, weatherbeaten little Redding so
quiet? Finley wondered as he threw cheerful answers to the questions
which bombarded him from mechanics.
“Well,” Redding said finally, “The Larkin’s not much loss, at that. She
was due.”
“Uh-huh. But I ought to be given twenty kicks in the pants and the
booby prize! Thinking about everything else but flying! When that
pocket hit me I was in dreamland.”
They were going up the steps, and as they approached the door of the
office some one was talking as if he were laying down the law.
“--kill himself, I tell you! There’s something the matter with him!
Why, how in ---- could--”
Redding fairly threw himself in front of Finley, and pushed the door
open. Sudden silence fell over the four flyers who were lounging around
on the desks.
“Got out without a scratch, eh?” queried fat, blond “Brad” Sparks.
“Well, you can’t kick!”
Kink Forell’s loud laugh rang out.
“Let’s see, Finley, this makes you a German ace, doesn’t it? You’ve
brought down five American ships within a month.”
“That’s nothing,” Redding slid in. “I once--”
“---- if you haven’t got the world’s record for short landings!” The
vibrant youngster went on loudly. “When you land a ship, it doesn’t
roll a foot!”
Finley despised himself for the inclination he had to answer the cocky
Forell in blazing words. It was hard to control himself.
“Sort of hard on wheels, though, my method is,” he said slowly, a set
smile on his face.
“Prettiest landing I ever saw!” gibed Forell, hard mockery in his eyes.
“Perfect dive, great leveling off, tail skid down just as she was
losing speed--ten feet in the air! Boy! What a darb that one was! I
never--”
“Shut up, Kink!” snapped Redding. “Come on Jim, let’s get the report
out of the way and shoot it over!”
“Why don’t you issue muzzles along with helmets around here?” snapped
Forell, his eyes flashing his resentment at the curt command. “I
suppose I hurt the poor old boy’s feelings, eh? I’m sorry, papa, if I
caused any tears.”
“Are you going to talk all day, for ----’s sake?” exploded Redding.
“For the love of Mike get out of here until this report’s fixed up,
will you?”
“No. I’m not ready yet. Listen, Finley, though, on the level. You ought
to get out of this flying game. You get old young in this racket, and
you’ll kill yourself before you know it. I’ll bet the flight surgeon’d
find more things wrong with your eyes than--”
“Oh, ----,” breathed big Franklin wearily. He darted a look at Finley,
who was seated at the desk. “Say, Kink, I need a little advice, too.
Have you any suggestions to make as to how I can improve my
cross-country?”
“---- if you don’t need some, at that!” the youngster shot back
nastily. “You get lost enough. Well, so long. I’m going to town. Better
take my tip, papa, on the doc.”
He slammed the door after him. Brad Sparks’ round, good-natured face
wore a frown as he remarked--
“In just about six months the Kink’s going to know so much that he
won’t be worth a single, solitary ----!”
As Finley took up the pen, the labored conversation of the others
reached his brain without making sense, as the knowledge smote him that
they were trying to avoid hurting his feelings, and were sore at Kink
for that reason. He, Jim Finley, who’d been flying bamboo kites-before
they’d ever seen a plane, and was leading flights of bomb-laden
Capronis across the mountains when they thought a ninety horsepower
Jenny was the only airplane in the world! They didn’t kid him-- didn’t
kid him when the favorite trophy of McCook Field was an elaborate
bronze shield whereon were engraved, with great pomp and ceremony, the
names of the men who pulled really classic bones!
----, they were sorry for him!
He got very drunk that night with Frankie DeShields, a jovial airman
whose firm belief it was that any landing from which one emerged alive
was a good landing, and that there were no good flyers dead nor poor
ones alive.
Finley’s head was throbbing dully next morning as he went through
reports listlessly. It was ten o’clock when the telephone rang. He
stiffened as he recognized the voice which reached his ears.
“Jim? Major Carrol, Jim. How about dropping over right away for your
six hundred and nine?”
“Why, doc, I just had my semi-annual three months ago. It’s not due
until--”
“I know it, but we’re getting at ’em early this time to ease the rush.
Come right over, eh? Good.”
There was a curious constriction around his heart as he walked to the
hospital. He wondered whether the doctor thought he’d fallen for that
stuff about starting the regular physical examinations earlier? Why in
---- couldn’t anybody around the field come out in the open, and say
what they had to say, with no bones about it?
The spry, scrawny little medico kept up the bluff, though, and filled
out long questionnaires and put the big flyer through the revolving
chair and went over his scarred body from feet to ears. Finley,
outwardly placid, felt the growing tautness of every nerve within him.
Why bother with all this junk? Why not get to the most important item
at once, instead of stalking around?
“All O.K.!” the chipper little doctor said cheerily. His eyes were
glinting behind his sparkling glasses. “Now we’ll take a peek at the
eyes, and we’ll be through.”
In a moment Finley had the end of two twenty-foot strings in his hands,
attached to two small, movable uprights which ran on runners in a
lighted box on the wall. Straining his eyes to the utmost, he strove to
adjust those small sticks until they were side by side. The major,
silent and intent, made him do it three times, and then set him to
peering through special lenses and trying to adjust them until a line
of light cut the center of an electric bulb squarely. He peered through
a stereoscope, and picked out different shades of pink and red from a
collection of colored yarns. Finally, he was in front of the vision
chart.
His eyes watered with the effort he made to read the twenty-twenty
line, and there was perspiration on his forehead as he tried to pick
out letter after letter from that blurred mass. He was weak as a kitten
when he followed the major into the office.
The kindly medical man settled himself behind his desk.
“Jim, I’ve got to take you off flying.”
Finley’s tongue licked his parched lips as he stared at the major, like
a man paralyzed.
“Your vision is way below normal--possibly due to overstrain--and more
important still, your muscle balance is out of plumb. Your stereoscopic
vision is imperfect. It may be curable with rest, or it may be simply
the natural result of growing a little older. Anyhow, I must take you
off.”
“But, doc, can’t you get a waiver from Washington? Once before--”
“In that case, Jim, I couldn’t recommend it. You can fly as an
observer, of course.” Finley took the blow standing up.
“Sure. I won’t lose--any pay.”
He could scarcely comprehend the full meaning of what had happened as
he walked slowly to the mess-hall. He was numb, somehow, mind and body.
As the babble of voices from within reached him he gathered himself,
and forced himself to lounge in and nod smilingly to a couple of
visiting flyers. When he settled himself at the long table which the
test pilots gathered around, he saw the unspoken question in the eyes
of Redding, Sparks and the others.
“Well,” he drawled. “You boys seem to be eating with a corpse.”
“Huh?” barked Redding.
“Just saw the doc,” Finley went on, his eyes busy with his plate as he
shook three times as much salt on it as he wanted. “It seems that my
dandruff is gradually making me just a shell of my former self, and the
left tonsil, I believe, is about to explode. And my halitosis--why,
it’s a wonder I’m alive!”
“What happened?” demanded Brad Sparks, looking squarely into Finley’s
eyes.
“I’m taken off flying,” Finley said calmly.
“I told you so!”
It was Kink Forell, just taking his seat.
“So you took my tip, eh? I knew it was the thing to do. You’d of killed
yourself in another week. You get old young in this game!”
Finley’s brows knit. ---- the weakness which made him bridle at every
cocky word of Forell’s. The red-head had his goat. Just then his words
had been a crow of triumph, Finley thought, because he, Forell, had
called the turn.
“I wish to ---- you’d get old enough soon to keep your mouth shut once
in a while,” Fairbanks told him levelly, but the Kink did not resent
it. He was in high good humor.
“Conversation,” he said airily, “is the spice of a meal.”
Finley went through his office work mechanically that afternoon, and at
four o’clock he was through. He got up from his desk wearily, lighted a
cigaret and stared out of the window at the flying field. The Kink was
testing a new monoplane pursuit job. The trim, shining little plane was
cavorting madly through the sky, like a dragon-fly at play. It
frolicked among the silvery, cumulous clouds, and as it darted in and
out, hung on its back and dived furiously in joyous exuberance, Finley
suddenly sat down at his desk again. His eyes were still staring
unseeingly out of the window.
For a moment his mouth worked, then was still. He leaned on the desk.
At thirty-five he was a discard in the flying deck--an outcast from the
kingdom he had helped to build, part of which he had ruled.
“And now, gentlemen, I want to introduce undoubtedly the greatest
big-ship pilot in America.”
His head dropped to his folded arms. That afternoon was his Gethsemane,
and he got very drunk again that night.
* * * * *
As the weeks passed his tranquil exterior was not entirely assumed. It
wasn’t as bad as he had thought, and the ache within him became only a
dull one. Dick Redding took over the big-ship work after Brad Sparks
was killed, and Finley was always a passenger on test flights. His
judgment of performance, and analysis of it, was as accurate as ever,
which helped his self-esteem. It warded off the time when the ground
would be his exclusive habitat, and the work of the air would go
completely past him.
Nevertheless, the pride of the pilot, which passeth all understanding,
was strong within him, and there was no earthly eminence which could
replace what he had lost.
And Kink Forell never missed an opportunity to remind him of what he
had lost. The Kink was going wild. His callous kidding of Finley,
unrelieved by any undercurrent of humorous raillery, had crystallized
the growing weariness of the little group of flyers with Forell and all
his works. The brilliant youngster sensed the change in feeling toward
him, and something indomitable in him made him deliberately pursue the
course which had caused it.
He received no more casual compliments about a particularly skillful
bit of work, so he went wild trying to force them from the taciturn
airmen. His flying brought frequent gasps from even the old-timers, and
scarcely a day passed, toward the end of the month, when Forell’s
matchless airmanship was not a topic of conversation--when he was not
around.
Finley’s animosity toward him grew in strength. That the Kink was like
an annoying hornet, buzzing around him constantly in an endeavor to
sting him, was not important. Forell grew to blame Finley for his
ostracism, and never missed an opportunity to get in a dig. That didn’t
matter. A fat-headed young fool like Forell couldn’t affect Finley’s
peace of mind for a moment.
Rather, the older man’s dislike was the result of his utter contempt
for Forell’s blind insanity. There was a bird with a brilliant future,
he reflected a thousand times, who was throwing away his chances for an
ideal life, through sheer egotism. A born aerial engineer, a flying
genius, young, handsome, loving his work--why, the Kink could be one of
the biggest men in the service, and an asset to it.
But because he was a stubborn, unbearably conceited brat, a year or so
would see him dead, or an outcast, unless he mended his ways. Never had
he been so cocky and domineering, nor his tongue so nasty, as now, when
the dislike of his fellow-pilots was something tangible in the very
atmosphere.
But he was showing the strain, Finley observed when he met him one
Saturday morning in the adjutant’s office. The Kink’s lean face was
thinner, he was somewhat pale, and there was an unhealthy glitter in
his eyes as he said--
“What are you doing here?”
“Got to see the major at ten.”
“That’s funny as ----! So’ve I! What does he want with the two of us?”
“You go in together,” the adjutant informed them. “Shoot!”
The C.O. was standing behind his desk, a paper in his hands.
“Morning, gentlemen. Get ready to take off in a Briston as soon as you
can pack a bag,” he said crisply. “The reserve squadron down at
Nashville are dedicating a hangar they’ve built on some lot they’ve
leased for a flying field. They’re getting a couple of Jennies to get
in flying practise on. There’s a banquet tonight. Forell, you give ’em
a flying exhibition this afternoon. Finley, they want you for a speech
at the banquet tonight. Don’t go crazy, Forell--just give ’em a little
show.
“Better start right away. It’s a two hour and a half trip. You’ll be
put up down there. If you’re having a good time, you needn’t come back
until Monday morning.
“Good luck. That’s all.”
“Boy, this’ll be fun!” Forell chuckled jubilantly as they went out.
“Ever been in Nashville? They sure have good-looking Janes there, and
we’ll be cocks of the walk. You’re not too old to like the women, are
you?”
“How soon can you be ready?” demanded Finley. “I’ll be set in half an
hour.”
“Me too. Let’s hope you don’t crash as a speechmaker, anyhow! I do the
flying and you tell ’em how, eh?”
“See you in half an hour.”
They took off promptly in the trim observation plane. It was of
duralumin construction, and capable of any kind of acrobatic work. It
could do a hundred and fifty miles an hour on the level, and
represented the last word in a two-seated fighting plane.
Finley, like all pilots, was uncomfortable without his own hand at the
stick, but Forell was not called on to meet any emergencies as they
roared down the Big Miami to its junction with the Ohio, thence down
that majestically muddy stream to a point above Louisville where they
cut southwest across the Kentucky mountains until they hit the
Louisville-Nashville railroad. From there it was but a half-hour run
across the brooding, wooded hills to their destination.
* * * * *
There were fully five thousand people at the field, and shortly after
they had landed Forell went up for his exhibition.
With that swarm of spectators intent on his every move, the Kink was
inspired. Finley watched him send the Briston hurtling across the sky
in a breath-taking dive, upside down, and then bring the ship out of it
through a straight nose dive that drew shrieks from the women and awed
comments from the men. It darted upward on its tail, spinning a full
turn, and there was speed enough left under Forell’s handling to allow
him to arch it over on its back once more. For a moment it gathered
speed, upside down, and then did a complete roll which left it upside
down again. Another instant to gather speed, and he had flopped it over
on an even keel once more.