READY TO HOP
THE christening was over, and the publicity that it brought had added
interest to their flight. In the days before the christening they had
scarcely ever been bothered by crowds around the hangar.
Now things were changed. Whenever the plane was inside the hangar, the
doors had to be kept closed, or ropes stretched, to keep the idle
curious from interfering with the work in hand. Rumors were continually
being broadcast that a surprise take-off was imminent, which brought
throngs to the field at all hours of the day and night.
Reporters on special assignments were always bothering the Skipper and
Jack with questions about the performance of the plane, how long they
expected it would take them to get to India, and about incidents in
their lives that the reporters thought would be of interest to the
public.
From one source or another they found out about the Skipper’s war
record—how he had gone to a ground school in this country, had been sent
to England to finish his flying training, and, this completed, had
waited in England for weeks for an assignment to an American Squadron;
how the shortage of planes on the American front had prevented this; how
the British, who had spent time and money in training American pilots,
found themselves with plenty of planes and a scant supply of their own
men to fly them; how the British government had finally asked and
received permission from the American authorities to send some of these
American pilots to France to work with the British flying corps; how the
Skipper had gone out under this arrangement and fought with great
distinction with his British comrades.
[Illustration]
The newspaper men had also looked up stories about the Skipper that had
been printed in his home papers during the war. These they
reprinted—stories of the miraculous way in which he had come through
months of hard flying with scarcely a scratch; of his spending a couple
of weeks at one of the base hospitals in France, recovering from a
slight wound made by a machine-gun bullet as he was diving on a balloon
near Armentieres, and then, without waiting for the usual sick leave, of
his hurrying back to his squadron and plunging once more into the daily
round of patrols, shooting down two enemy planes the very day of his
return.
[Illustration]
During one fight, when he was within a hair’s breadth of adding one more
enemy machine to his score, his engine had stopped in the midst of a
zoom, and the enemy, realizing he was getting the worst of it, had
streaked for home, leaving the Skipper several miles behind the enemy
lines with just enough altitude to glide down to No Man’s Land, where he
had scrambled from his machine into a shell hole. There he crouched
while the enemy artillery battered his plane to pieces with shell fire.
Getting his direction, in the failing light, from the line of enemy
balloons, he had made his way, as soon as darkness came, to his own
lines.
Stumbling across the torn and broken country, he had come across a
British Tommy badly wounded, and had dragged him to safety. For this and
other of his exploits he had been awarded the Distinguished Flying
Cross, one of the highest British decorations given to airmen.
Then, when the Skipper’s leave to England had come around, after six
months at the front, he, with several others, had been summoned to
Buckingham Palace to be decorated by the King. He had nervously awaited
his turn at the end of a long red carpet which led to the platform where
the King stood. He had walked forward and saluted, more frightened than
he had ever been in the midst of a scrap in the air. The King had pinned
on the cross, had asked him one or two questions about his flying, had
thanked him for his splendid services as an American with the British
army, and before he knew it the interview was over and he was on his way
out.
[Illustration:
DISTINGUISHED
FLYING CROSS
]
The newspapers printed all this, and drew on their imagination for a
great deal more.
They gave a full description of Jack’s training and work with the Navy
and his flying ability. But most of all, they devoted many paragraphs to
his development of a device which was a really practical drift
indicator. This ingenious instrument, upon which they were going to rely
during their long hop, seemed to solve the problem of correcting their
drift, even in clouds and fog. Heretofore, pilots attempting to navigate
over long distances of fog-obscured areas had found themselves unable to
tell whether or not the wind was carrying them sideways off their
course.
The story of Kiwi’s life and his adventures also became public property.
Billings was not much help to reporters. Naturally taciturn, he became
even more so with newspaper men, and was almost surly in his refusal to
help them out with their stories.
Cosgrave, however, liked the chance to talk, and did so on every
occasion. The Skipper finally warned him he had better say little or
nothing at all, and that if there were any information the papers should
have, he, the Skipper, would give it.
One evening the Skipper had taken Billings back to the houseboat with
him, and during supper he tried to draw him out about Cosgrave and what
he, Billings, thought of him.
During the conversation, Kiwi suddenly remembered the things he had
overheard, on the morning that Dad and Jack were at Trenton, in the back
room of the hangar. He told Dad about it.
Dad frowned, and for several minutes seemed deep in thought. Then he
said, “Billings, I don’t want to be unfair to Cosgrave—he may be all
right. We have very little proof that he isn’t. But I am going to ask
you to keep an eye on him. Watch his work on the plane, and if you see
the slightest thing that looks suspicious, I want you to come and tell
me.”
Billings had promised to do this, and the Skipper tried to dismiss from
his mind the thought that there might be forces working against them
other than the natural ones which they expected to have to contend with.
The Skipper and Jack pushed ahead with their preparations. Their
collapsible boat was delivered and they tested it. When folded, it took
up very little room. Attached to it was a metal cylinder containing
compressed air, and it was the work of a moment to open the valve in
this cylinder and inflate the boat. With it were two tiny oars and a
water-tight pocket in which could be packed medical supplies and
condensed food.
They inflated the boat, and Dad and Jack and Kiwi navigated their
strange craft about the harbor, returning to the houseboat all too soon
to please the boy who enjoyed this novel way of traveling.
The time before the hop-off was getting short, and there was still one
detail that gave them considerable concern. They could not seem to
prevent the vibration of the engine from interfering with the proper
functioning of their instruments. It was annoying to have one or the
other of their dials go wrong.
Jack finally decided to remove the whole thing, and regroup the
instruments so that all those which had to do with navigation would be
in one part of the board and the engine instruments in another. The
compasses, the drift-indicator, the dial which registered their turn and
climb were placed on one side, and in front of the Skipper were the
oil-pressure, engine temperature, tachometer or engine revolution
counter, the fuel gauges and the dial which showed their altitude.
The entire instrument board had to be protected in some way from the
vibration, and it was Billings’ scheme to set it on four rubber blocks
which he cut from ordinary rubber bath sponges.
All this took hours of Billings’ time, for each instrument had to be
disconnected and replaced. However, late one night it was finished, and
the Skipper decided that, inasmuch as the time was getting very short,
they would test it at once.
As the plane was rolled out of the hangar, the news spread that they
were about to go, and the crowds gathered. Their announcement that it
was only a test flight was not believed.
When they were ready to leave the ground they found the field covered
with people, and try as they would they could find no open space long
enough to make the take-off safe. It was a warm summer night, and
apparently everyone for miles around had driven to the field. The
Skipper and Jack eventually had to abandon the night test and wait until
morning.
A plan had been forming for some time in Kiwi’s mind. He had a queer
sinking sensation every time he thought of Dad and Jack going off
without him. He saw no reason why he, too, should not go when the plane
left.
[Illustration]
The stories he had heard of India made him want to land there, too. He
liked to think of the warm, tropical days and nights in that strange
country. Bert had brought him a book of stories about India which had
thrilled him. These stories told of hunting wild animals from the backs
of enormous elephants. He liked to imagine himself seated in one of the
howdahs—the canopied, chairlike saddle strapped to the back of a richly
decorated elephant.
He remembered one story of a playful elephant, said to be over a hundred
years old, who pretended to be thoroughly frightened every time he
crossed a stream of water for fear quicksands would suck him down.
He would picture himself wandering through the narrow streets of the
cities, with vistas of temples ahead—their domes shining in the
sunlight, covered with layers of pure gold that had been added to them
through the centuries, until, on some of the oldest temples, the gold
leaf was a quarter of an inch thick.
Kiwi had asked Dad a number of times to take him along, but Dad had
always dismissed his request as being out of the question. However, in
the darkness and confusion of that night attempt, Kiwi thought he saw
how it could be accomplished. He was sure that if there were as much
confusion at the actual take-off, it would be a simple matter for him,
in the darkness, to crawl under the plane, open the trapdoor in the rear
compartment, and slip in unobserved.
Kiwi realized that Dad would be upset about his disobedience, but he
felt sure that he could make himself useful on the trip, and that both
Dad and Jack would be glad he had come.
The more he thought about it, the more he knew he couldn’t bear to be
left behind, and the more determined he was to go with them. During the
next two or three days, as Dad and Jack were making the final test
flights, he worked out in his mind all the necessary details.
Weather reports were taking up more and more of Jack’s time, but Kiwi
kept up with his wireless practice. He could now send twelve words a
minute and receive almost ten.
About eleven o’clock one night, as Jack got his weather reports and
checked them up from his chart, he called the Skipper over and said:
“Things look as favorable now as they have for some time. There is a
storm near Chicago moving this way, but I don’t think it can possibly
arrive until about eight in the morning. There is another one directly
in our path in about the middle of the Atlantic; but from the reports I
have it is moving northward and should be well out of our way by the
time we get there. If you say the word, I’m for starting in the
morning.”
The Skipper replied, “The plane is ready. The weather is up to you,
Jack. Let’s go!”
Telephone calls were put through to the field and to the official who
was to seal the barograph[5] before they started. They sent word to Old
Bill at the lunch wagon to pack the food and to get the thermos bottles
filled.
Footnote 5:
Barograph—An instrument which records on a chart the variations in
height above sea level.
About twelve-thirty, when everything was packed and ready and they were
about to start for the field, they got another report from the weather
man. In the two hours that had elapsed since the previous report,
conditions had changed for the worse. The mid-ocean storm which they had
known about, had altered its course and was heading in toward
Newfoundland.
Jack and the Skipper talked it over and decided they had better put off
the attempt until there was a better chance of having favorable
conditions. This meant more telephone calls to tell of their change in
plans.
When they talked to Billings on the phone, he said that the field was
already covered with people and cars, and that it was more than likely
the crowd would refuse to believe the take-off had been postponed. He
said the plane was in perfect condition, and that he believed he would
stay at the hangar the rest of the night.
[Illustration:
_The Skipper_
]
It was a great disappointment to Kiwi, for his excitement had risen to
fever pitch. However, he was packed off to bed, and for the next few
days all their plans waited on favorable news from the weather man.
Conditions over Long Island seemed perfect for the take-off. The moon
was just approaching the full.
Kiwi, for the first time, realized how many others were helping in this
tremendous undertaking. Wireless operators on many ships plunging across
the ocean were flashing their news of conditions as they found them at
sea. Other wireless operators in lonely places were sending their data
of wind velocities, rain and sleet. All this information was being
gathered and carefully analyzed for these two men who would soon come to
know the vagaries of nature at first hand.
Kiwi was already in bed and asleep one night when an unusual bustle
about the houseboat awoke him, and he sensed that something was up. Word
had come through that the path was open for the great dash across the
Atlantic.
Preparations to start were again made, with innumerable last things to
be thought of. Kiwi was able to pack a tiny lunch and stuff it into his
pocket unobserved.
[Illustration:
_Jack_
]
They were rowing ashore to pick up Bert when Dad said to Kiwi:
“Now, boy, after we leave, you will be taking your orders from Bert.
Everything is taken care of, and he will look after you until we come
back. See that you always do what you know I would want you to do.”
Kiwi smiled, sheepishly, but could think of nothing to say.
The ride over to the field seemed to take hours. Neither Dad nor Jack
talked much, but Bert managed to say to Kiwi:
“Well, they will soon be off, and then you and I will sit and wait for
news of their arrival.”
As they drove onto the field they saw cars parked everywhere, and crowds
thick about the entrance to the building. They pushed through them, and
there in the lighted hangar stood the great bird ready for its flight.
It had been planned to start from the long runway on the adjoining
field, and the greater part of their load of fuel had been stored there
in readiness. Before the hangar doors were opened, all their kit had
been stowed in the plane, even Kiwi finding an opportunity to hide away
his little package of lunch in the rear compartment.
At last the hangar doors were opened, and ropes having been stretched to
keep the crowd back, the plane was rolled out, its tail lashed to the
rear of a truck and, followed by the crowd, it began its mile-and-a-half
journey to the other field across the rolling ground. Its mighty wing
bobbed and rocked about as if anxious to be off and away.
The moon was partly hidden by a thin layer of clouds so that the night
seemed unusually dark. There was practically no wind.
Arriving at the far end of the runway on the other field, the tail of
the plane was set on the ground, and flood lights were temporarily
placed which threw a ghostly glow over the “Dauntless.”
Cosgrave and Billings started at once to pump in the precious supply of
fuel. Jack went back to the hangar to get the last minute weather
reports, while the Skipper, easily the coolest person in the crowd,
chatted with the backers of his flight.
As the hours passed the crowd grew, but this time they were being held
back behind lines by the police.
Old Bill from the restaurant came puffing up with the thermos bottles
and sandwiches, and with a sly wink to Kiwi handed him a couple of
oranges, saying, “You may need these, Kiwi.”
Kiwi became more and more confused. He began to wonder if it were going
to be as easy as he had thought to stow away when the plane left. He had
not counted on those blinding lights. But he stuck close to Dad and
hoped for the best.
About four o’clock the tanks were filled. Fifteen spare cans, holding
four gallons each, had been stowed in the rear compartment and lashed
tight. The barograph was put aboard and sealed by the official from
Washington.
Billings, in a fever of excitement, decided they’d better give the
engine one more try; so the canvas tarpaulin over the engine and
propeller was removed and the engine roared into life. Billings ran it
long enough to satisfy himself that it was working perfectly, then
turned it off.
The heavy silence that fell was almost oppressive. A meadow lark sprang
into the air, with the exultant little song they sing at dawn. Everyone
was tense with the thought of the great test that was soon to come.
Jack came back from the hangar with the report that conditions were as
favorable as they had been at any time.
They waited for the daylight.
There was the sound of a motor overhead, and a plane with a news
photographer aboard swept over them.
Still the darkness lingered.
The sun by now should have been lighting up the eastern horizon.
Instead, came a patter of raindrops, and Billings rushed to cover up his
precious engine and propeller to protect them from the dampness.
It rained harder. Many of the crowd, seeing the engine covered up,
decided that the flight was off for that day.
A little group stood under the protecting wing of the plane and waited
to see how bad the storm would be.
Dad turned to Kiwi. “Kiwi, you had better look up Bert and go back to
the hangar with him.”
Kiwi’s face fell. Plainly disappointed, he nodded his head and
disappeared into the darkness toward the place where Bert’s car had been
parked.
The crowd thinned with the usual remark that this was another false
alarm.
As suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped.
Jack, who had expected these local showers, said he thought it would
clear up soon. Not long after, a faint, gray light appeared in the east,
telling of the approach of a new day.
The Skipper was impatient to get away. He told Billings to take the
cover off the engine, and he and Jack made a last examination of the
whole plane. They looked at the shock absorbers, noting that with the
heavy load there was very little play left in them. The Skipper said,
however, that there was enough.
By this time Billings was ready to start the motor. Before the eyes of
the small group who had waited through the rain, Jack and the Skipper
got into their flying suits.
The big moment had come.
In the excitement of the last minute preparations Kiwi had been missed,
and although Dad asked several of the men about the plane if he had been
seen, there were conflicting rumors. Some thought he had gone back to
the hangars; others were not sure but that he had found shelter in one
of the cars.
[Illustration]
Precious minutes were passing. The Skipper felt that the time had come
to go and that saying good-bye to Kiwi would be too much of an ordeal
for him. So he turned to Bert and said huskily:
“Say ‘good-bye’ to Kiwi for me. I am trusting you to take good care of
him. As far as I can see, everything has been provided for, and I know
he will be safe in your hands.”
Fearing to trust himself to say more, he hurriedly shook hands with his
close friends, gripped Billings’ hand hard and slapped him on the back.
Then he climbed up into the cockpit, where Jack was already waiting, and
the motor was started.
As the engine was warming up, the crowd could see through the glass
window the Skipper laughing nervously at some remark of Jack’s. Then he
opened the throttle and the huge engine made a tremendous uproar as he
gave it a final try.
Billings stood at one side, his practised ear listening for the
slightest skip in its measured beat.
The Skipper throttled back the engine, leaned out of the window, and
motioned for Billings. As he came up, the Skipper said, “How does it
sound? All right?”
Billings, who had listened to many engines in his day, who had seen many
men trusting their lives to them, and who had heard that same question
asked many times before, felt a lump rise in his throat as he realized
the tremendous responsibility that rested upon him and upon his answer.
He gulped hard, and then choked out, “All right, Captain—and the best of
luck to you,” waved to Jack, and motioned to Cosgrave to pull out the
chock from under the wheel on his side.
Billings and Cosgrave stepped back, and for a few moments that were
awful in their suspense they waited for the flight to begin.
The engine opened up gradually, took hold, and the plane slowly started
to roll along—the slow roll which was to start the Skipper and Jack off
on an epoch-making flight that would carry them across the wide
Atlantic, over the Mediterranean, and on to India. The engine had
started, and for seventy hours it would have to keep up an uninterrupted
flow of power.
The plane gathered speed, rocking gently as the tail left the ground.
Billings and Cosgrave had leaped onto the running-board of a fast car
and were speeding after it, watching it gather momentum for the
take-off.
Camera men took hurried pictures and scampered out of the path of the
approaching plane.
The end of the runway was getting perilously near when the first sign of
lift came. The Skipper was evidently coaxing her into the air, and the
first lift was a bit too soon, for she settled back to the ground for a
moment, seemed to gather new energy, and then rose surely from the field
just as they reached the brink of a little ravine.
[Illustration]
They were off!
In the early morning light the plane was hard to follow. It could
faintly be seen lifting its way upward.
Other planes, now that the “Dauntless” was up, soared alongside the big
ship as it carefully made a turn and headed for the east and the rising
sun. The entire group came back over the field at an altitude of about a
thousand feet.
[Illustration]
The crowd hoped that there would be a last fluttering good-bye from the
cockpit, but both men were too busy to do more than glance out.
The flight was on!
Billings and Cosgrave returned to the old hangar. Its vast emptiness
oppressed them so that they could hardly speak. They would have to wait
hours and hours to know what all their work would accomplish. They
looked forward to the long wait with dread.
Bert came up in a car and asked if they had seen Kiwi. Surely by now he
would have returned to the hangar. But no one had seen him since the
rain storm that had seemed, for a time, to blot out the Skipper’s
chances for a take-off. Bert hurried back to the other field with the
hope that he might still be there.
[Illustration]
In the small room at the back of the hangar, Connors was busy with his
wireless set. With the earphones on he bent over his instruments at the
table and tried to pick up the first message to come back from the
plane. From time to time the click of his sending key could be heard
through the partition.
Both Billings and Cosgrave were absentmindedly picking up the scattered
evidences of the hurried departure from the hangar. They had closed the
big doors, when Billings, very tense, suddenly swung around and
confronted Cosgrave.
“Cosgrave, you and me have been working hard on this job for a long time
now, and there have been times when I thought you were up to some
crooked business. The plane is off and away. If anything happens to
those boys that I can trace to you, I’m going to make you the sorriest
man that ever walked onto this field.”
Cosgrave turned a bright red at all this, but said nothing for a few
minutes, while Billings glowered at him. Then, seeming to come to a
decision, he said:
“Well, Limey, I think I can trust you. I don’t want you to mention this
to no one, but when I have told you I think you will understand.
“At the beginning I was offered money—and a lot of it—to try and stop,
or postpone, this flight. I was in a jam and needed money, and I thought
I could do something—nothing serious, you understand—that would look
accidental. But the longer I worked for those two men, the more I
realized that I couldn’t go through with it.
“Then when the Kiwi started flying with them and came so close to
getting cracked up the time they lost the wheel, I phoned the people who
were trying to buy me and said, ‘Nothing doing.’ And Billings, you can
believe me or not, but since that time I have worked even harder than
you to make this flight a success. There is nothing about that plane
now, as far as I know, that isn’t in perfect condition.”
Billings felt his anger rise during Cosgrave’s confession, and for a
little time he could think of nothing but punishing the man. With his
jaw set hard, he looked straight into Cosgrave’s eyes, trying to see
through to his very soul, to discover if all he had confessed was the
truth. Cosgrave’s gaze never wavered, and Billings at last decided that
Cosgrave had done no harm and all was right with the plane.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]