THE FLYING REPORTER
by
LEWIS E. THEISS
Wilcox & Follett Co.
Publishers—1945—Chicago
Copyrighted, 1930,
Wilcox & Follett Co.
All rights reserved
The Flying Reporter
Made in United States of America
FOREWORD
It will probably come as a surprise to many readers to know that when
this story was written, more than one hundred American newspapers owned
and operated airplanes as a regular part of their news-gathering
equipment. By the time this tale is between covers, there will doubtless
be many additional planes cleaving the skies in the swift search for
news, in the carrying of relief to marooned and endangered human beings,
in the hunt for those who are lost, in the transportation of news
photographs, and not infrequently in the carrying of important papers
and documents. For although the primary end of the newspaper is to
collect and distribute news, it also carries on a host of activities for
the direct benefit of mankind.
Some of these news planes are elaborately equipped for their work, with
desks and typewriters for reporters, darkrooms and developing equipment
for photographers, and special equipment for the taking of aerial
photographs. Some of these planes ordinarily carry as many as four
men—a pilot, a mechanic, a camera man, and a reporter. Thus they are
equipped for almost any emergency.
Among the eight airplanes used by the Hearst newspaper forces to “cover”
the arrival of the _Graf Zeppelin_ on the Pacific Coast were some huge
tri-motored ships. One of these was equipped like a real news room. It
carried one reporter, one photographer, one announcer, one radio
operator and technician. The plane flew two hundred miles along the
coast, and sent descriptive stories direct by radio to the _Examiner_
office in Los Angeles, where a short-wave station copied the despatches
and rushed them to the editors at their desks.
It would be easy enough to “invent” adventures for news fliers, but it
would be foolish to do so for the reason that few “made-up” stories
could equal in interest the actual experiences of flying reporters.
Consequently, practically all the material in this book is based upon
actual occurrences.
The bit of Warren Long’s parachute that Jimmy Donnelly prized so highly
is merely the counterpart of a piece of the parachute of that fine young
pilot, the late Thomas Nelson. It is from the parachute he had when he
stepped out of a burning mail plane at Ringtown, Pa., in the fall of
1929. This keepsake was given to me by Dr. Leigh Breisch, of Lewisburg,
Pa., with whose father Pilot Nelson spent several hours after that
thrilling leap. His parachute was partly burned, and the bit of silk in
my possession is scorched by fire. It is a prized possession, for I knew
and greatly admired the dauntless young man who wore it.
The descriptions of the radio beacons are as accurate as the writer can
make them. The installation of these beacons marks a great step forward
in the development of flying. Radio beacons are being erected as fast as
possible along the entire transcontinental airway, and will also be used
to guide befogged fliers on other routes.
In the course of this story Jimmy Donnelly awakens a sleeping family
whose home was afire, by diving at the house and making as much noise
with his plane as possible. On various occasions Air Mail pilots have
done exactly this thing. That excellent flier and former Air Mail pilot,
Paul Collins, is one of the airmen who performed this trick.
Covering floods, scouting out the marooned and helpless, and making
aerial surveys of districts suffering from great calamities, is a
commonplace among news fliers. Time and again they have carried food and
medicine and clothing, and even newspapers, to persons marooned in
floods or on ice-blocked islands or on stranded ships. In this story
Jimmy Donnelly transports the stereotype matrixes from a flooded
newspaper office to another newspaper plant miles distant, where the
stereotype plates are cast and the edition printed. This thing actually
happened in the Middle West, when a flier took the “mats” of the
Hutchinson (Kans.) _News and Herald_ to the plant of the Wichita
_Eagle_, where the papers were printed and then rushed back by plane to
Hutchinson for distribution in that city.
Many of the incidents pictured in the chapter about the New Hampshire
flood are actual occurrences.
Incredible though it may seem, even the affair with the bootlegger, in
which Jimmy Donnelly is forced to fly a rum runner to Canada, actually
happened. Shirley Short, former Air Mail pilot and flier for the Chicago
_Daily News_, told me the story. Hamilton Lee, piloting a plane for the
Chicago _Tribune_, transported food to folks marooned on an island in
Lake Michigan. A bootlegger, flying over the island at the same time,
broke a connecting rod bearing and got down safely, although his engine
was torn half out of his plane. He clapped a pistol to Lee’s head and
forced Lee to carry him the rest of the way to the mainland. For the
purpose of this story it was necessary to transfer the incident to Lake
Ontario, but that does not alter the essential truthfulness of the tale.
The fact is that almost everything in this book is based upon an actual
occurrence, or was suggested to me by fliers as the result of their
experiences. I mention this fact because, although this book is purely a
piece of fiction, the purpose of the book is to show the part that
fliers play in news coverage. Hence it had to be truthful in essence.
For material and other assistance, the writer is indebted to many
persons connected with the business of flying. In particular I wish to
express my indebtedness to Pilot Warren J. White, of Albany, who “flew”
the New York _Times_ from Albany to Lake Placid. Mr. White has had years
of experience as pilot and manager of flying enterprises. He supplied
much material, suggested many situations and incidents for this book,
and finally checked the manuscript for inaccuracies and “touched up” the
flying technique to give that part of the story a truly professional
air. To Mr. C. G. Andrus, chief of the Eastern Division of the Airways
Weather Bureau, I have long been indebted for information concerning the
work of the forecasters in aiding pilots. To these men and to many
others who have assisted me in the work of collecting material for
flying-stories, I wish to express my hearty thanks.
News fliers do the most remarkable things and have the most wonderful
adventures. But like most other things connected with the business of
collecting news, these adventures are seldom heard of excepting in
newspaper or flying circles. If this story makes these achievements more
evident to readers, the writer will be gratified.
Lewis Edwin Theiss.
_Lewisburg, Penna._
Table of Contents
I—Jimmy Donnelly Scents a Story in a Scorched Piece of Parachute
II—A Flight in Quest of News
III—Jimmy Meets an Old Friend—Johnnie Lee, of the Wireless Patrol
IV—Jimmy Makes Good
V—The Long Flight to a Fire
VI—Flying Blind Over the Graveyard of Airplanes
VII—A Forced Landing in a Fog
VIII—Jimmy Saves a Boyhood Friend
IX—Covering a Great Flood by Airplane
X—Jimmy Visits a Lightship off the Coast
XI—Jimmy is Tricked by His Rival
XII—Jimmy Lands a Job for Johnnie
XIII—Jimmy Has an Adventure with a Bootlegger
XIV—Taking Help to Marooned Islanders
XV—Jimmy Joins the Caterpillar Club
XVI—The Bootlegger Repays Jimmy’s Kindness
XVII—Jimmy Triumphs Over Rand
The Flying Reporter
CHAPTER I
Jimmy Donnelly Scents a Story in a Scorched Piece of Parachute
Jimmy Donnelly had just arrived at the hangar at the Long Island flying
field where his plane was housed. To be sure, the plane really wasn’t
Jimmy’s, because it belonged to the New York _Morning Press_; but Jimmy
was its pilot, and had flown it ever since that great newspaper had
decided that it must have a plane of its own. And Jimmy had piloted it
so long, and had taken such loving care of it, that he felt as though it
were his very own. Indeed, he could not have lavished more attention on
the plane if it _had_ been his own. He was forever polishing and
cleaning it, and checking over the engine, and keeping it tuned up to
concert pitch.
But just now Jimmy was not thinking about his plane. The morning mail
lay before him on the table in the little hangar office. There were the
daily papers, some circulars, and several letters. Jimmy had already
slit the letters open. The one he picked out of the bunch was a rather
bulky letter that bore, in the upper left hand corner, this return
address: Warren Long, Hadley Airport, New Brunswick, N. J. But Jimmy did
not need to read this return address to know from whom the letter came.
He recognized the handwriting instantly. That was why he selected this
letter in preference to any other letter, to read first.
He knew perfectly well that it was from his old friend Warren Long, dean
of Air Mail fliers, the pilot who had helped him to get into the U. S.
Air Mail Service as a “grease monkey,” and who had afterward assisted
him up the ladder, rung by rung, until he, Jimmy, had attained his
present enviable position as a flying reporter for the New York _Morning
Press_.
Jimmy wondered why Warren Long had written to him. He opened the
envelope eagerly.
Out dropped what looked like a white silk handkerchief. Jimmy was more
puzzled than ever. With growing curiosity he pulled the letter from the
envelope, spread it out on his desk, and read as follows:
Dear Jimmy:
Last night I had occasion to join the Caterpillar Club. It is
odd how a fellow’s brain works at such times. As I was on my way
to the ground I thought of you. Why I should think of you at
such a time I do not know. But I did, and I said to myself,
“Jimmy would like a piece of this parachute. He’s always
collecting souvenirs.” So when I got my feet on solid ground
once more, I cut a piece of silk out of the ’chute, which was
already badly torn by the bushes, and here it is. You may like
to add it to your museum.
I suppose you’ll read in the daily paper about my losing the
mail. I’m all cut up about it. This is the first cargo I ever
lost in ten years of flying the mail. I tried to save it, but it
was impossible. You see, my plane somehow caught fire. I tried
to extinguish the flames; but the fire must have been in the
crank-case or somewhere where the extinguisher fluid couldn’t
touch it. Then I tried to reach the nearest emergency landing
field; but my engine went dead. The flames were spreading fast
and shooting back into the cockpit in sheets. There was nothing
to do but step out. My, how I hated to abandon the mail. But I
had no choice. So I disconnected my head phones from the
instrument board, picked up my flashlight, and stepped out.
The instant I did so the plane turned on her side and dived
straight after me. It was interesting to watch it. I was
evidently falling head down, for I could see everything without
even turning my eyes. My ship plunged like a rocket stick. She
was just one long streak of fire. I thought sure she was going
to hit me. I tried to crowd over and get out of the way. You
can’t imagine what a funny, helpless feeling a fellow has when
he can’t touch anything with either his hands or his feet.
Anyway, the ship just grazed me, but a miss is as good as a
mile. The instant she was past I started to pull the rip-cord. I
found my flash-light was in my right hand. I had to shift it to
my left hand. That didn’t take very long, but I was then so near
the ground that every second counted. I made the shift and gave
the rip-cord a quick jerk. It wasn’t a moment too soon, either.
While I was floating down the rest of the way to the earth I
thought of you.
While I was still in the air, my ship hit with a terrific
explosion. It was utterly consumed. Everything about it was
burned. Much of the metal was melted by the terrible heat. The
place where I came down was nearly half a mile from the spot
where the ship landed. There was a thick woods between me and
the ship. I could see the glare of the fire plainly, and I
hurried right over to the spot. A lad from the neighborhood
helped me. Some farmers were already there.
I am sending this bit of my ’chute for _you_ to add to your
collection, as I said, and I also write to tell you that if you
ever have to step out of your ship at night, be sure to take
your flashlight. I found mine more than useful. For I landed in
a scrub patch on a hillside. It was rough country and I was far
from being at my best. But with the aid of my flash-light and
the help of the lad I mentioned I had no trouble in getting to
my plane, and later in reaching a town.
I hope everything is going well with you. The best of luck to
you.
Ever your friend,
Warren Long.
Jimmie stared at the letter incredulously. For a moment he was silent.
Then, “Thank God Warren wasn’t hurt!” he cried. “I wonder where it
happened. And I wonder where Warren is now. And how in time did he get
that letter to me so quickly?”
For a time Jimmy was silent, thinking the matter over. Presently he
thought he had solved the problem. “Warren left Hadley with the
9:35 p. m. section of the mail,” he muttered. “The fire probably
occurred before he had been flying more than an hour or so. He was
likely near some town where he could catch a late train, and he probably
got back to Hadley early this morning. He must have written this note at
once and got it into a mail for New York. It was mighty quick work, no
matter how he did it. And it was just like Warren Long. He wanted to
tell me about the flash-light and was afraid he would never think to
mention it when he saw me. Gee! I am sure glad to have this piece of his
’chute. You bet I’ll put it in my ‘museum,’ as he calls my little
collection of aviation keepsakes. Who wouldn’t be glad to have a piece
of Warren Long’s parachute?”
Jimmy picked up the little square of silk and smoothed it lovingly. The
fabric was creamy white, beautifully woven, with a lovely sheen. It was
thin and delicate and almost gauzy in effect, and one could hardly
believe that so delicate a fabric could possibly have withstood the
terrific strain imposed upon it when it suddenly opened by Warren Long’s
two hundred pounds—for with his heavy flying suit and the ’chute pack
itself, the pilot must easily have weighed as much as that.
In one corner of the square of silk was a dark, scorched space.
“Gee!” said Jimmy. “That fire was a lot nearer getting Warren Long than
he intimated. But that is like him. He would hardly have mentioned it if
he had had a leg burned off. If his parachute got scorched like that, he
certainly had a close call himself. I know that, all right.”
Jimmy spread the square of silk on his desk and smoothed it out with his
hand. It had evidently been roughly and hastily cut from the parachute.
The edges were jagged and uneven. “I’ll get some woman to trim these
edges and overcast them,” thought Jimmy. “Then the silk can’t unravel.
And if I ever _should_ want to use it as a handkerchief, I could.”
A sudden thought came to him. Hastily he folded and thrust the bit of
silk into the envelope. Then he reached for the _Morning Press_.
“I wonder what the paper says about the affair,” he muttered.
The item he was searching for Jimmy found on the front page, near the
bottom of column six. It was a brief story, hardly three inches long,
telling how Long’s plane had caught fire and how the pilot had jumped
from the burning ship, after finding that he could not extinguish the
blaze. Jimmy read the story and frowned.
“Some country correspondent who doesn’t know a good story when he sees
one sent that in,” growled Jimmy, indignantly. “Why, it’s evident from
Warren’s letter that he had a most startling experience, with that
flaming ship diving straight at him, while he was utterly powerless to
help himself. That’s great human interest stuff. It ought to be good for
half a column any day. And if we had the details, I’ll bet there’d be a
front page spread in it.”
With Jimmy, to think was to act. He reached for the telephone.
“Please give me the _Morning Press_,” he told the telephone operator.
A moment later he was talking to the city editor of that paper.
“Mr. Davis,” he said, “I have just been reading the story about Warren
Long’s parachute jump last night. I have had a note from Warren Long,
too. It seems that when he stepped out of the burning plane he fell head
first, and in that position he watched the plane as he dropped. The ship
turned over almost as soon as he stepped out of her and dived straight
at him, like a flaming arrow. Warren didn’t dare open his ’chute for
fear the plane would foul it and he would be killed. So he just kept on
falling head first, watching the blazing plane as it tore after him, and
hoping the thing would pass him clean and in time. For he wasn’t very
high up when he jumped. The ship barely missed him as it shot by. The
instant it was past, Warren yanked his rip-cord, and it wasn’t a moment
too soon, either. The ’chute opened and kept him up in the air for a few
seconds, while the ship hit the ground with a tremendous explosion. The
fire that followed was terrific. Fortunately, the wind blew Warren well
to one side. But he must have been burned some before he jumped, for he
sent me a bit of his parachute, and the silk is badly scorched.”
“Do you know where Warren Long is now?” asked the city editor.
“No, sir. But I suspect he came back to Hadley Airport on a train, and
is probably at his home in Plainfield.”
“The story we printed is an A. P. despatch,” said Mr. Davis. “All the
papers will have it. Likely that is all the story any of them will
carry. We ought to be able to get a good exclusive follow-up story. I’ll
send a man over to Hadley to get into touch with Long and get all the
details from him. Meantime, I wish you would fly over to Ringtown, where
the crash occurred, get all the facts you can there, and take pictures
of the burned plane, the spot where the plane crashed, and anything else
that will help the story.”
“All right, Mr. Davis. I’ll be off as soon as I can get my plane warmed
up. Be sure to tell the man you send to see Warren Long that I want
Warren to give him the whole story. Otherwise he won’t talk. But he’ll
do anything for me. Good-bye. I’m off.”