Flying Blind Over the Graveyard of Airplanes
Jimmy looked very sober as he climbed into his plane. He was about to
tackle the meanest job a pilot is called upon to attempt. Had he been at
the other end of the line, starting westward, with the wind in his face,
instead of starting eastward, with the breeze at his back, he would
hardly have dared to attempt it. But inasmuch as he did not have to make
a landing in Pennsylvania, he was willing to try it, although the
weather man had suggested that by the time he reached Long Island it
might be foggy there also. Jimmy decided to take the chance.
But he wasn’t going to take any more chances than he absolutely had to
take. So he switched on his navigation lights, tested his landing
lights, made sure his flares were hooked, ready for release, and glanced
at his instruments. Then he speeded up his engine and listened to its
roar. The instant he was satisfied that everything was working
perfectly, he took off.
He hopped into the wind, then circled back to the east, and was away
like an arrow. Although the atmosphere at Cleveland was only beginning
to grow foggy, before Jimmy had risen a hundred feet in the air the
bright lights of the airport began to be blurred. As Jimmy passed
directly over the great hangar, after circling, he could barely tell
where it was. In another minute low clouds had wiped out every trace of
the earth. No matter where he looked, nothing was visible but thick,
clinging banks of fog.
Jimmy had been in fog before, but he had never made a trip such as this
one promised to be. Always the fogs he had ridden through had dissipated
after a time, but this fog-bank bade fair to cover every inch of the
four hundred and fifty miles or so to his home field. The possibilities
of getting lost, of crashing, of meeting with dire disaster in a flight
of such length, were too many for Jimmy to allow himself to consider
them.
He did not permit himself even to think of these possibilities. Instead,
he called up every bit of flying ability he possessed to meet the
situation. At two or three hundred feet elevation he had gone blind.
From that point onward, he had to fly wholly by his instruments.
Setting his course by his compass, he sat listening to the guiding note
of the radio beacon, his eyes glued to the instrument board. From his
compass his eyes darted to his turn-and-bank indicator, then to his air
speed indicator. Occasionally he glanced at his engine instruments, to
see that his propeller was making the necessary revolutions per minute,
that the engine temperature was not too high, that his oil pressure
remained constant.
But mostly he kept watch of his speed and of his position. The steel
ball in the centre of the turn-and-bank indicator had to be kept right
in the centre. Every time the ball began to slide one way or the other,
Jimmy had to bring his ship back to a level keel, for the moving steel
ball showed that he was beginning to dip to one side or the other. Sense
of balance told him little or nothing; and had it not been for his
indicator, he might soon have been flying upside down, as many a pilot
before him had done. Nor could he allow his ship to drop below a speed
of sixty miles an hour, lest it come crashing to earth.
All the while the radio beacon signal was buzzing loudly in his ears.
“Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” the signal sounded. It came to him with
startling intensity. That was because his ship was close to the beacon
itself. As he traveled onward, Jimmy knew, the signal would grow fainter
and fainter, for during the first half of the flight to Bellefonte he
would be guided by the signals from the airport he had just left. Beyond
that he would be guided by the Bellefonte signals, and he knew these
would grow ever louder as he neared that field.
Up he climbed, and up and up, seeking to get above the fog. Again and
again he glanced at his altimeter, but though he had risen to five
thousand feet, and then six and seven and eight thousand, he was still
in dense mist. He continued to climb, to watch his instruments, to
listen to the radio beacon. All the time he was trying to check his
position. He watched his air speed indicator. He watched his tachometer,
which indicated his revolutions per minute. He watched his clock. He
checked one against the other. With a twenty-mile wind at his back,
Jimmy figured he must be making fully one hundred and fifty miles an
hour. At that speed he should make his home field in close to three
hours. Then he should have to make the trip to the New York office of
the _Press_. It looked to Jimmy as though he ought easily to reach the
_Press_ office by eleven o’clock. The thought heartened him.
He could travel faster, if he had to, but he did not want to drive his
ship as fast on the return trip as he had driven it in coming west. It
was too hard on the ship. So he watched his instruments and held his
plane to the speed indicated.
All the while he climbed. Up he went steadily. From eight thousand feet
he climbed to nine, then ten. Still the fog was unbroken. But his engine
worked marvelously in the heavy air and he kept his ship nosing higher
and higher. Suddenly, at eleven thousand feet, he shot up above the fog.
The night was clear as crystal. Above him twinkled innumerable stars.
With a deep sigh of relief Jimmy climbed a little higher, then
straightened out and rode on level keel. Below him spread endless masses
of cloud, more wonderful than an ocean, dimly lighted by the stars
above. So long as he could ride above the fog his trip was now an easy
one. He had only to follow his compass and the radio beacon. The
difficulty would come when he had to drop down through the fog and make
a landing.
While Jimmy was thus fighting both to insure his safety and to gain his
goal, agencies of which he was not aware were also at work to try to
make his progress safe. Hardly had Jimmy left the ground at the
Cleveland Airport before Beverly Graham hurried into the radio room.
“Sparks,” he said to the radio man, “I wish you would send a message on
your printer saying that Jimmy Donnelly, flying for the New York
_Morning Press_, just left here, heading for Long Island. The message
will reach caretakers at beacons all along the route. Tell all
caretakers to report his progress to me as he goes over their beacons.
Nobody else is flying east at this time that we know of and it’s very
doubtful if anybody else will go over the route to-night.”
The wireless man turned to his printer and began to pound out the
message on the keyboard. But the machine on which he was writing, though
it somewhat resembled a typewriter, was not a typewriter at all, but an
electric printing or teletype machine, which reproduced the message on
similar machines at Bellefonte and Hadley Field and other stations as
fast as it was written. In no time, therefore, these two Air Mail
stations and the caretakers at various landing fields, knew that Jimmy
was flying east in the fog. Thus as Jimmy passed over Mercer and Clarion
and other points on the airway in western Pennsylvania his progress was
promptly reported to his friend, the chief forecaster.
But long before Jimmy reached the “graveyard of airplanes” he himself
was aware that Beverly Graham was making a special effort in his behalf.
When he was only a short distance out of Cleveland he heard the hourly
weather broadcast from the Cleveland radio man. Jimmy listened intently,
though there was little they could tell him about the weather that he
did not already know. The usual, stereotyped broadcast contained no
reference to the wind. That was the one thing Jimmy wanted to know
about. A moment later he heard the Cleveland radio man saying: “Mr.
Donnelly, in the New York _Morning Press_ plane, will please note that
the wind has shifted slightly from west to southwest and has increased
to twenty-five miles an hour. He will also please listen carefully for a
message when he passes over Bellefonte.”
“Good old Beverly,” said Jimmy. “He never forgets a friend. He didn’t
want me to fly tonight, but now that I am up in the air he’s doing all
he can for me. I wonder what he has instructed Bellefonte to do. I’ll
thank him at once.”
When Jimmy’s plane was built it had been equipped with a radio receiving
set. But about two weeks before he was ordered to Cleveland, Jimmy had
succeeded in having a sending set installed in the plane, thus bringing
his ship right up to date. Not even all the mail planes had sending sets
as yet, though some of them did.
Jimmy picked up his instrument, put the mouthpiece to his lips, and sent
this message into the air: “Jimmy Donnelly, of the _Morning Press_,
speaking. Cleveland weather forecast received. Also special notice as to
force and direction of the wind. Will get into touch with Bellefonte as
I go over. Thanks very much for help. I shall need all I can get.”
He replaced the mouthpiece and settled back in his seat. A quick glance
at his instrument board assured him that all was working well. He looked
at his clock and tried to figure out his position. Suddenly he became
aware that the buzzing in his ears had altered. No longer did he hear
the regular “dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” which told him he was directly on
the air line. Instead Jimmy heard the signal “dot dah, dot dah, dot dah,
dot dah, dot dah.” He knew he was to the left of the course.
“That’s the work of the wind,” thought Jimmy. “Shifting to the
southwest, it has blown me to the northeast of the line. I’ll move over
to the right a little.”
He kicked his rudder bar, shoved his stick over ever so slightly, and
sat listening. “Dot dah, dot dah, dot dah,” sang the ear phones, but
presently the signal changed. “Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” it went. He was
back on the course.
“Gee, but I’m glad I’m flying in the year 1929, and not half a dozen
years ago,” thought Jimmy. “I’d soon be way off my course and never know
the difference if I didn’t have this radio set. I tell you, a compass
doesn’t help much when there’s a cross-wind. Half a dozen years ago,
before there were any radio beacons, I’d have had to make this trip by
dead reckoning, and I’d probably have landed in Connecticut, or
Massachusetts, or any old place except Long Island.”
He flew on, listening carefully to the buzz of the radio beacon, and
intent upon his task. He was pleased to know that his friend, the
forecaster, had taken so much trouble on his account. He would have been
still more pleased could he have known to what extent the weather man
was laboring in his behalf. For after Jimmy left the Cleveland Airport,
Beverly Graham sat down at his desk and devoted himself to doing all
that he could to get Jimmy through in safety.
Suddenly Jimmy heard a sharp signal, sounding above the dull buzz of the
directional beacon. A smile of satisfaction flitted over Jimmy’s face.
“I’m right over Brookville,” he muttered. Quickly he glanced at his
clock, then made a rapid calculation. “I’m right on the line and right
where I ought to be at this minute,” he thought. “I’m making almost
exactly 150 miles an hour.”
What he had heard was a marker beacon. At intervals along the airway,
radio signals are sent up vertically, just as they are sent horizontally
from the radio beacons at Cleveland, Bellefonte, and Hadley Field. These
vertical radio beams are audible only for the brief spaces of time it
takes a plane to sweep over the stations sending them. The present
signal was gone almost as soon as Jimmy heard it, but it gave him a
world of information and assurance. It told him, not merely that he was
on the line, which he already knew, but it also told him the exact point
on that line which he had reached. He soared onward with increased
confidence.
Intently he watched his instrument board. From time to time the radio
beacon warned him that he was being blown from the direct line, and he
nosed his plane back to the path. Everything seemed to be going well.
His clock told him that he should be nearing Bellefonte, the half-way
point between Cleveland and Hadley Field. Also, the radio signals were
now so much more powerful that he knew he must be close to the beacon
emitting them.
For some time Jimmy rode with only the roar of his own engine and the
buzzing of the radio beacon reaching his ears. He was certain, however,
that he must be near Bellefonte. The radio beacon signals came so
loudly. Suddenly, above the steady buzz of the directional beacon came
the sharp signal of the Bellefonte marker beacon. Jimmy drew a breath of
relief. “Halfway,” he muttered, “and everything as fine as silk.”
Hardly had he heard the marker beacon before a voice sounded in his
ears: “This is Bellefonte Weather Bureau speaking to Jimmy Donnelly, of
the New York _Morning Press_. As nearly as we can judge by the sound of
your engine, you are directly over the field. Fog continues bad
throughout Pennsylvania. Wind remains unchanged—southwest, twenty-five
miles an hour. Conditions much better after you pass the mountains. Some
fog in New Jersey and may be more before you get there.”
Instantly Jimmy answered through his sending set. “This is Jimmy
Donnelly speaking to Bellefonte,” he said. “Your message received.
Thanks ever so much. Have you any information about weather between
Hadley Field and Long Island?”
“No,” came the reply, “but will tell Hadley to get latest information
and talk to you as you go by. Good luck to you.”
“Please tell Long Island I am coming,” said Jimmy. “I ought to hit there
about ten o’clock. Please ask the radio man there to listen in for me
about that time. I’ll get in touch with him after I pass Hadley. Thanks
ever so much.”
Jimmy went sailing straight on through the fog. Ahead of him lay the
worst place on the entire mail route, the Woodward Pass. But he was
light of heart. He knew where he was, he knew how high he had to be to
pass safely over the mountains, and he had no fear of losing his way.
Had he been left to reckon out his position himself, he would have been
worried and uncertain, no matter how regularly his propeller turned, no
matter how accurate his clock. But with the radio keeping him on the
course and telling him the precise moment when he passed over
Bellefonte, there could be neither doubt nor uncertainty. So he flew on,
almost jubilant. He was making the schedule he had set for himself. He
felt sure he was going to succeed.
On he went, carefully watching his instruments, and trying to figure his
position from moment to moment. Now he felt sure he was past the
mountains beyond Bellefonte and flying over the lovely Penn’s Valley. In
a few minutes he was approaching Woodward Pass. He pictured Winkelblech
Mountain rearing its great bulk directly in the line of his flight,
where he should turn to the right and shoot through the pass. But
to-night he was not shooting passes. He was thousands of feet above the
pass. Suddenly, for the merest fraction of a second, he thought he saw a
gleam of light. It must have been the beacon on Winkelblech, he thought,
shining through some rift in the fog. In a few moments he knew he must
be past the mountains and sailing over the beautiful Buffalo Valley. But
only his instruments told him so. Below him he could see nothing but
fog.
Ahead of him lay more mountains—wicked ones, too, through the great
reaches of the anthracite coal field, where the earth is as rough and
rugged as the outside of a black walnut shell. But the furrows in the
earth are great mountain ridges, and the wrinkles are hills and
precipices.
On he flew, following the radio beacon intently, watching his time,
calculating his position. He could see absolutely nothing. He wanted to
see nothing but the instruments before him, for it was almost terrifying
to look out into the fog. His instruments seemed friendly to him.
Now he felt sure he was over Sunbury. One hour more would bring him to
Hadley Field, for it was exactly 150 miles between the two points. In
half an hour, three quarters of an hour at most, the worst part of the
trip would be over. The Pennsylvania mountains would be passed, and
underfoot would lie the flat agricultural lands of New Jersey, where he
might hope to land in safety if he were forced down, though there seemed
to be little chance of that.
He rushed on through the night. Ahead of him, he knew, the country was
far less rugged for a distance. The mountains melted into hills of
perhaps eight hundred feet elevation, and there were many farms and
smooth fields. But soon after he should pass Elysburg, just ahead, the
land would rise up sharp again, in hills twelve hundred feet high.
Beyond them was lower land once more, and then the ridges climbed up,
just before Ringtown was reached, until their summits towered two
thousand feet aloft. Little did Jimmy care about that. He was far, far
above them. The mountains meant nothing to him. Already the marker
beacon at Numidia was sounding in his ears. Soon, now, he would be
entirely past the mountains.
Suddenly he noticed that his engine was beginning to heat. He glanced at
his oil gauge and found that it was no longer working. Instantly he
looked at his tachometer. His engine speed was falling rapidly. Jimmy
opened his throttle. There was no answering response from the engine.
Instead, it beat slower and slower. It was making twelve hundred
revolutions per minute. It fell to nine, then seven hundred. His ship
slowed dangerously. He began to lose altitude. There was nothing to do
but come down. Otherwise he would soon fall. He decided to try to make
the landing field at Numidia. Then he saw that he could not do it. The
wind at his back would prevent it. His engine was too weak to fight the
breeze. It would blow him far to one side of the little landing field.
An icy feeling grew about Jimmy’s heart. He knew what was coming—a
forced landing among the mountains, in the densest sort of fog. Already
he was far down in the mist clouds. Vision was absolutely cut off. For a
single instant he felt numb, almost paralyzed. Then he rallied all the
skill he had, to fight for his life.
The next landing field was at Ringtown. It was only eleven miles from
Numidia to Ringtown, and he had already passed over part of the
distance. He must make the landing field at Ringtown. He must keep his
ship in the air until he could reach that field. If only his trouble had
occurred a bit sooner, he could have made the field at Numidia. The
marker beacon would have helped him to get down to the right spot. How
he was going to tell where the Ringtown field was, in this awful fog,
Jimmy did not know. He could not even guess.
Between him and Ringtown were those stern and beetling hilltops—those
mountains that towered heavenward for two thousand feet. Could he get
over them? With his face drawn and serious Jimmy glanced at his
altimeter. He was still well above that height, but he was losing
elevation steadily. Could he get over those mountain crests? Could he
find the landing field if he did get over?
Suddenly he thought of his radio. He put the mouthpiece to his lips.
“This is Donnelly of the _New York Press_,” he said firmly and evenly.
“I am between Numidia and Ringtown. My oil line has gone bad. My engine
is failing. I am losing altitude fast. I am trying to get over the
mountains west of Ringtown and land at that field. May need help.”
Jimmy had no idea whether or not any one would hear his call. Ordinarily
the radio men would not be listening in for messages. Yet there was a
chance that they might be listening to-night, because of the very bad
weather. But Jimmy was reckoning without Beverly Graham. The moment he
found that Jimmy had a sending set, the latter had issued orders that a
constant watch be kept on the air. Hence Jimmy’s message came to waiting
ears. The Bellefonte radio man caught it.
He didn’t even wait to answer Jimmy. There is no caretaker at the little
Ringtown landing field. The Bellefonte operator knew that. But he
snatched up his telephone and tried to get a connection with a man at
Ringtown who had control over the field. The telephone operator was a
long time in getting the connection. When finally the Bellefonte
operator got his man, he said hastily: “A flier is making a forced
landing at your field right away. See if you can do something to help
him.”
But meantime, though the operator almost failed in his effort to get
help for Jimmy, help from another source was at hand. Johnnie Lee had
gotten Jimmy’s parachute message and read it. When night came on, and he
saw what the weather was like, he doubted very much if Jimmy would
attempt to return to New York. But if Jimmy did fly over, Johnnie wanted
to signal him. He wanted his old friend to know that he had received his
message. He knew that it was idle to attempt to send a message up
through the fog with so impotent a thing as his flash-light. And so for
a long time Johnnie had been at work preparing for a bonfire.
Fearful of setting fire to his father’s buildings, Johnnie had been
stacking up old boards and rails on top of a pile of old wood that stood
close to one edge of his father’s farm, and almost adjoining the landing
field. He had thrown coal oil on the pile, saturating it thoroughly, and
he had a bucket of gasoline all ready to throw on the heap before he
touched a match to it.
But that was not all. As Jimmy had suspected, Johnnie had a radio
sending set, like most of the other members of the Wireless Patrol. It
would not carry his voice so very many miles, but Johnnie knew it would
carry well enough for him to hold a conversation with Jimmy as the
latter neared Ringtown. Even now he was at his radio, listening. He had
been there for some time. He had caught the weather forecast from
Bellefonte. He felt sure that if Jimmy had left Cleveland, he ought to
be nearing Ringtown. So he listened hopefully yet fearfully. And
suddenly he caught the very message that galvanized the Bellefonte
operator into action. Jimmy was calling for help. He was near at hand.
He was trying to make the Ringtown field, but there was nothing to guide
him.
The instant Jimmy stopped speaking, Johnnie sent a call speeding through
the air. “Jimmy Donnelly,” he said. “This is Johnnie Lee speaking. I
heard your call for help. I have a big bonfire ready to light. I will
touch it off at once. Maybe you can see it through the fog. The landing
field is just beyond it. Is there anything else I can do to help you?”
Instantly there was an answer. “God bless you, Johnnie. Light your fire
quick. I’m coming down fast, but I believe I’m going to clear the
mountains. Get your fire lighted quick.”
Johnnie did not tarry a single instant. Out of the house he darted and
away he rushed across the fields to his pile of wood, heedless of the
dark and the fog. He knew the way perfectly and his flash-light helped
him to avoid loose stones. He reached his beacon without a fall or a
twisted ankle.
Grabbing up his bucket of gasoline he threw it over his pile of wood.
Then he struck a match and tossed it toward the heap. There was a
terrific burst of flames that shot fifty feet into the air. Then the
oil-soaked pile of wood caught fire. The flames soared upward. The fire
grew intense. The oily wood burned with terrific heat. The glare of the
flames lighted the entire region. Even through the fog the flare of the
fire could be seen for a long distance. It turned the mist into glowing
clouds. It shone through rifts in the fog, like the electric beams of
searchlights penetrating the openings between cloud masses.
Suddenly Johnnie thought he heard the drone of a motor. Then the sound
faded away. The noise of the fire drowned out more distant sounds. The
snap and crackle and hiss and roar of the burning heap shut out every
trace of the hum of a propeller. For a moment Johnnie stood near his
beacon, vainly straining his ears for some further trace of an airplane.
Then he ran hastily off to one side. Again he heard the faint drone of a
motor. Then the sound died away. But Johnnie felt sure he had not been
deceived. Jimmy was going to make it. He was going to reach the field in
safety.
Again Johnnie strained his ears, to catch another shred of sound. A puff
of wind brought him what he was listening for, loudly, unmistakably.
Once more the sound died away. But Johnnie knew he had not been
mistaken. He had heard an airplane. Suddenly the sound came to him with
startling distinctness. He strained both ears and eyes as he peered
upward through the fog.
Suddenly there was a bright glow aloft. Johnnie’s heart stood still. He
listened for an explosion. He was frozen with horror. The plane
overhead—Jimmy’s plane—was afire. He gazed fearfully into the
concealing fog to see where the plane was falling. He saw it coming down
with a rush, flaming fiercely. The cloud of fog was all aglow with the
brilliant light. It shone even brighter than Johnnie’s bonfire.
Regardless of what might happen to him if the plane exploded, Johnnie
rushed toward the spot where it was apparently going to crash. Johnnie
reached the place. He paused, looking upward. He held his breath,
waiting for the smash. Down came the glowing light to the earth. Johnnie
let out a yell of relief. It was not the plane that had fallen, but a
flare that Jimmy must have dropped.
Quickly Johnnie looked aloft again. He stared through the fog banks.
Dimly he saw something glowing. He watched, breathless. Almost instantly
the glow over his head became two luminous spots in the mist. They grew
brighter fast. Now Johnnie was certain he knew what he was looking at.
The luminous spots were the landing lights of a descending plane. They
seemed to be jumping right at him. Johnnie knew the plane was coming
straight toward him. It was almost upon him. He leaped to one side. He
was not a moment too soon. The descending plane swished past him, seemed
to rise lightly, then leveled off, hit the ground heavily, bounced, came
to earth again, and went rolling and jolting straight across the landing
field.
Johnnie raced after the ship. It came to rest. A figure stepped from the
cabin. Johnnie raced toward the man.
“Hello!” he cried.
“Hello yourself,” came the answer. “Who are you?”
“This is Johnnie. Thank God you got down safe.”
They clasped hands and stood silent.