CONDITIONS CHANGE
THE sun was getting lower in the heavens, but having spent so much time
in the murky twilight of the clouds, the light still seemed very bright
to them.
The clouds beneath them remained unchanged. Kiwi looked straight down
and watched them as they drifted by until he became almost giddy. He
called Jack’s attention to the shadow of the plane racing across this
uneven surface.
Soon the sun disappeared from view, but the uncanny light still held.
They flew on and on. There was nothing to see in all this vast plain.
No one seemed to be able to reason out where this uncanny light was
coming from since the sun had set. All felt that a change had come over
them. Where a few minutes before they had stared at disaster, now they
ceased to worry about their engine or its failure.
The plane nearly flew itself. There were no bumps, and it needed very
slight correction at the controls to keep it on its course. The clear
light seemed to come from tiny bright particles in the air such as one
sees on a dewy morning.
Gradually Kiwi became conscious of something ahead. Far off on the
horizon the rolling clouds seemed to merge into something else. Could it
be hills that he saw? He looked at their altimeter. It showed that they
were flying at about twelve thousand feet. He glanced back to the
horizon, and the land seemed plainer. He thought he must be dreaming. He
rubbed his eyes vigorously and looked again. It was still there.
He glanced at Dad and Jack to see if they, too, had discovered it.
Jack’s head was nodding and he appeared to be asleep. Dad was leaning
forward with an intent gaze, brushing the back of his hand across his
eyes as though he, too, could hardly believe that what he saw was true.
Kiwi saw him throw a quick glance across at Jack’s charts, study them
for a moment, and then look quickly ahead again. The apparition was
still there. The Skipper studied it for some minutes. It seemed miles
and miles away, but was getting plainer.
Kiwi thought he could see darker masses slightly to the left.
Dad was still straining forward, and without moving his eyes from the
horizon nudged Jack. Jack came to with a start, noticed the Skipper’s
tense attitude, and peered ahead through that peculiar light. Slowly he,
too, discovered those strange shapes. He consulted his map, then the
compass and drift-indicator. Puzzled, he turned to the Skipper. Plainly
here was something that neither could understand. At last Jack was able
to say:
“Can it be a mirage?”
Without moving his eyes from it, the Skipper replied:
“It’s possible. Early one morning over St. Omer in France, I saw
something like it for a few seconds. But this has been in sight now for
some time.”
With each passing second the apparition was becoming a little more
distinct.
Kiwi leaned forward, and asked:
“What is that, Dad? Have we reached land?”
Dad shook his head, and there was another long pause as they all studied
this appearance of land ahead. Jack looked at his charts and knit his
brows. He went over their course on the map and shook his head, as
puzzled as ever. He could find no solution.
Now the hills, instead of coming nearer, seemed to recede. It should be
night now, if their clock and watches were right. The dazzling light
still puzzled them.
A little later, Jack turned to the Skipper and said:
“Doesn’t that look like a plane just above the horizon?”
In another few minutes they made out several more circling just over the
hilltops. And then, off to the right, they could see about a dozen
planes flying in formation. They also decided that some tiny specks on
what seemed to be the surface of the clouds were other planes, resting
there.
A look of helplessness was beginning to cloud the Skipper’s face. There
had been few times in his flying experience when he had not had a very
good idea of where he was. Once or twice he had been lost in the air,
and it carried with it a feeling such as one never has when lost on the
ground. On the ground, even on the darkest night and in a strange
country, there was always the possibility of meeting someone who could
supply directions, or of finding a signboard that would locate one. But
in the air there was no passing stranger or friend that one could ask
for help.
The Skipper remembered the first time that he had been hopelessly lost
in the air.
It had happened while he was training in England. He had flown to an
airdrome several miles from his own, hoping to find there an old friend
and to renew acquaintances. He had followed a railroad line, which in
almost every case is perfectly visible from the air and is the shortest
connecting link between cities and towns. This particular railroad
skirted in a wide circle a town near the airdrome he was to visit, and
it was joined there by several other branches of the road.
Locating the airdrome, he landed. As he came down a severe rainstorm had
swept over the field. Upon learning that his friend had been transferred
to another airdrome, he was anxious to be off and away; but those at the
field counselled him to wait until the storm was over.
In about twenty minutes the heavens above the field were clear, and he
took off to return to his own airdrome. Picking up the railroad line
again, he was confronted with the problem of deciding which branch he
must follow. Relying on his compass, which he had every reason to
believe was accurate, he chose the one that seemed to lead off in the
right direction.
He had followed it for some time at an altitude of about five thousand
feet when he overtook the same storm. The tops of the clouds were too
high to surmount. They also extended nearly to the ground, and were
emptying torrents of rain over miles of country. There was nothing to do
but fly through them; and although in those days he had had little or no
experience in flying a compass course, he felt that now would be a good
time to practise it.
Entering the clouds he had been appalled at the turmoil. The swirling
winds carried him this way and that. He was dropped down fifty or a
hundred feet and as quickly snatched up and carried upwards. He fought
the storm for half an hour, marveling at the force of it.
His whole attention was devoted to keeping his plane on an even keel.
Occasionally he glanced at his compass to see it turning this way and
that, so that he had only a hazy idea of his general course. He watched,
fascinated, as the lightning played through the thick clouds. Always he
kept a close watch downward to catch the first view of the ground,
hoping against hope that his guiding railway line would appear
somewhere.
When the air did clear below, he was horrified to find nothing but water
beneath him. For a matter of seconds he flew on, hoping that it might
prove to be a lake or the wide mouth of a river.
Slowly it was borne in on his consciousness that he was out over the
North Sea and that very probably his compass had been playing him tricks
and could not be depended upon. However, the right way _must_ be back,
and losing no time he swung his plane around and started in that
direction.
Almost at once he was again swallowed up by the storm, the rain coming
down upon him in torrents.
His goggles became obscured and he pushed them up to get a clearer view
ahead. The unaccustomed rush of wind and rain in his eyes made it
impossible for him to see with any distinctness. After coming through
the storm the first time, he had promised himself that never again would
he voluntarily repeat such an experience. But here he was back in it
again, fighting as hard as before to keep the plane flying in some
semblance of a straight line. He could keep no track of the time, and
when the storm did lessen he felt that it must have been hours that he
had been fighting those contrary swirls of air.
A great feeling of relief welled up in him as he at last saw land
underneath. Even though he had no idea of his location, at least there
was solid ground under him. Bewildered, he looked for a sign—some town
or some familiar forest formation—that would locate him.
Off to one side he saw a railroad line. Whether it was the same one that
he had been following or not, he could not tell. But it would surely
lead him to a place that might help him. The plane he was flying was a
difficult one to land on a small or uneven field, and he had no
intention of taking that risk unless it was necessary.
Sighting a town ahead he flew low, hoping to read the sign on the
railroad station. His eyes still smarted from the rain. The station
proved to be too well surrounded by telegraph wires on tall poles and
the chimneys of a factory to permit him to fly near enough to make out
the name.
He was completely lost. There was no doubt of it. There was nothing to
do but go on, even though his fuel supply was getting dangerously low.
Another town, some distance away, lay wrapt in a haze. Approaching, he
was overjoyed to recognize in the center of it a large, star-shaped
building, probably a hospital. From this point he knew he could find his
way. He remembered that near by there was a large country house
surrounded by a formal garden. He looked in the direction where he
expected to see it, but it was not there. When he did locate the house
it seemed completely turned around, and he had to readjust himself to
this changed condition before he could shape his course for home. As he
did so, and the compass ceased its slow turning, he discovered that it
was off many points and had been one of the causes of his bewilderment.
He was now able to find his way to his own airdrome without further
trouble.
Now, again, the Skipper had the same peculiar, lost sensation. Even
though he had Jack, an expert navigator, with him, the situation in
which he found himself brought back the old baffled, hopeless feeling.
It had been a long time since they had left the ship behind—since they
had seen anything but this rolling plain of clouds—and now they were
facing a situation so unusual that he felt numb trying to understand it.
Land seemed to be ahead where their charts told them no land could be.
Several planes were flying in their direction. One, large and unwieldy,
approached quite close, its occupants leaning over the side, studying
them.
Kiwi thought he knew every type of plane that was being flown in his day
and age, but he had never seen one like this before. Jack pointed it out
to the Skipper and they both examined it closely.
Suddenly the Skipper blurted out, “Why it’s a Gotha!”
As the plane came nearer to them it dipped lower and made its ponderous
way to one side; then it swung in a wide circle and drew close behind
them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
As they flew on, other planes passed above and beneath them, and the
Skipper’s face grew more and more bewildered as he identified, one after
another, planes long obsolete in the flying world. A monoplane, such as
Bleriot had made history with in crossing the English Channel some
twenty years ago, appeared. Early types used in the war swooped down
upon them.
As they sailed along the great plateau, more and more planes whose
pilots seemed filled with curiosity came into view.
They were being hemmed in closer and closer. Dotted here and there on
the surface were machines of every conceivable design. The crew of the
“Dauntless” were at a loss to explain it all.
Stretched out on his perch on the top of the tank Kiwi was immensely
interested in the sight.
One pilot in an old bombing plane, a clumsy flyer at best, edged in so
close to get a better view that the Skipper had to turn sharply to avoid
a collision. Everywhere they looked were antiquated planes continually
closing in on them.
The Skipper began to fear that he would never be able to pilot the
“Dauntless” through this swarm. As they twisted and turned, Jack leaned
from his window and tried to signal the other planes that they _must_
stay farther away. They were like a cloud of birds pecking at an owl who
had looted their nests. The Skipper grew nervous at the thought of being
driven down to a landing.
There seemed to be a concerted action to keep the “Dauntless” from
continuing its flight. Try as he would, the Skipper could find no way in
which to shake off these persistent pursuers. Their motor which a short
time before, with its missing and spluttering, had brought their hopes
of ever seeing India to an end, now functioned with absolute perfection.
Constantly they were being driven closer to the surface, and even though
they had outdistanced some of the heavier and slower machines, others
had taken up the chase and were frolicking about them.
Kiwi was delighted with their tumbling antics.
In a few minutes more they were so close to the ground that there was
nothing left for them to do but land. The Skipper, his face red with
anger, yanked back the throttle; the motor quieted down till the
propeller was just ticking over. They glided rapidly in. The wheels
found support on the surface. They had landed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]