“And go down to Panay after a voodoo native to take the spell off you,
I’ll bet!” I jibed.
But Prop only narrowed his eyes on the burning Douglas. I swore softly
as I thought of the luck that had caused the Jinx to hit Burton Field
while Bert Allen was stationed here. The Islands were bad enough when
everything was peaceful. The air was bad enough, without a sky jinx.
Yes, I figured it the way Prop figured it, only I tried to kid myself
that I was all wrong. And like Old Man Smith’s helicopter, it wasn’t a
hell of a success.
* * * * *
Just before sunset the Jinx took up a DeHaviland two-seater. His air
work was sweet. He did about everything that can be done with that type
of ship. When he landed he did two things that can’t be done—not along
with a perfect landing. He forgot to get down close enough to the field
and he pancaked the last ten feet. That was the first thing.
Then, when she hit flatter than some last week’s Chinese beer, he gave
her the gun. She blew both tires and went over on her nose. The prop
splintered. They pulled Bride out with a nasty goggle cut over his right
eye. I happened to be at the hospital getting a dose of quinine for some
dengue I’d picked up during the rainy season, when they brought him in.
Captain Lewis, the adjutant, had seen the noseover, and he talked sharp
about it while Doc Kennerly fixed the glass cuts up.
“Why in hell did you give her the gun, Lieutenant?” he finished up. “She
was coming down flat; she’d have cracked her under gear, that’s all.”
The Jinx swore.
“Thought she’d pick up and get forward speed before we hit,” he stated.
“Heat waves off the field make it deceptive, Captain.”
That was pretty true. Burton isn’t any cinch, and it had been Bride’s
first solo flight in a month. The adjutant muttered something about
Bride’s making a report and left the room. The Jinx looked out of his
good eye and saw me.
“Well,” he stated sarcastically, “it’s too bad you missed that one,
Lieutenant.”