A Forced Landing in a Fog
For a second the two old friends held each other’s hand. Then some one
was heard running toward them. A man appeared in the fog.
“It’s the man who looks after the field,” said Johnnie, as soon as he
could distinguish the approaching figure. “I suppose he heard you land
and has come to help.”
The man rushed up. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “Did you get
down without much damage?”
“Don’t believe I broke a thing,” said Jimmy.
“You know my plane is built with unusually strong underpinning. Let’s
take a look at her.”
Johnnie’s bonfire gave them enough light to see by. Quickly they
examined the plane. Nothing was wrong externally.
“Let’s take a look at the oil line,” said Jimmy. “Something went wrong
with it.”
He reached into his plane and drew out his flash-light. “Hold it,” he
said, shoving it into Johnnie’s hand. Then he turned and opened the
cowling of his engine.
With practiced eye he glanced along the length of the oil line. At first
nothing wrong was apparent. But on the bottom of the engine compartment
was a telltale pool of oil. Jimmy twisted his head and got a look at the
underside of the oil line. The pipe was cracked open along the seam. The
crack extended for several inches. Practically all the oil had dripped
from the engine.
“Vibration must have done that,” said Jimmy, as he turned to his
companions and explained what was wrong. “Likely it happened when I went
west this afternoon, for I flew the ship pretty hard. I suppose the seam
gave way then, and the hard trip to-night has opened it up. Have you got
any tire tape, Johnnie?”
“Plenty of it,” said Johnnie. “I’ll fetch you some.”
“Bring all you can get,” shouted Jimmy after the fast-disappearing
Johnnie. “And arrange for some oil. I’ll need a lot. Hurry as fast as
you can, Johnnie. I mustn’t lose a minute.”
Jimmie stepped into the cabin of his ship and threw open a locker, in
which he carried odds and ends that might be useful to him in just such
an emergency as this. There were rolls of tire tape here. Jimmy grabbed
them. In another moment he was rapidly taping the broken pipe-line. Over
the actual opening in the seam he wound several thicknesses of the tape.
Then he began to twist the stuff around the remainder of the little
pipe. There was no telling how soon the rest of the seam would open, and
Jimmy meant to play safe. He used all the tape he had, and when Johnnie
came back with additional rolls, he added these to his reinforcements.
When all the tape was wrapped, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“I don’t believe we’ll lose any more oil,” he said, “even if the whole
seam opens up. She’s wound tight and thick. Now, how about oil? Could
you get any?”
“Dad’s bringing all we have,” said Johnnie. “We buy it in thirty-gallon
barrels, as we can get it so much cheaper.”
“Thank heaven you’ve got plenty of it,” said Jimmy. “It’ll take a lot.
How is your father going to get it here?”
“On the truck,” said Johnnie. And even as he spoke they heard the
chugging of a motor and a farm truck came nosing through the fog.
Jimmy stepped to the truck and greeted Mr. Lee. “It’s mighty kind of you
to help me out,” he said. “I thought I was done, when I was forced down.
But now I can take off again and I can still get to New York on time.
I’ll lose half an hour here probably, but there’s still time enough if I
don’t have any more trouble.”
Johnnie filled the oil tank as fast as he could. Jimmy snatched the
opportunity to look his motor over. Everything seemed to be right. Then
he watched the oil gauge and told Johnnie when to stop pouring oil. He
made everything tight about the cowling, gave the ship a final
inspection under the rays of his flash-light, and stepped into his
cabin.
Now he would know whether he might possibly still succeed in his
enterprise. He was fearful that the engine might have overheated and
been injured when it was running with insufficient oil. Would it start
now? And if it started, would it run? Could he depend upon it? Would it
have power enough to lift him from the ground? Could he trust it to
raise him high enough aloft to clear the mountains so close in front of
him?
Fearfully Jimmy pressed the starter. There was an explosion, the
propeller turned over once or twice and stopped. Jimmy’s heart almost
stopped with it. The engine was ruined. It would not go. He had failed
in his effort. He had lost his big opportunity. All these thoughts
flashed through Jimmy’s mind. Then came another. “It’s got to go,” he
muttered.
He choked the engine and again touched the starter. For a moment the
starter whirred noisily, but the engine did not explode. Then there was
a bang, the propeller whirled madly about, and the engine began to hum
smoothly.
“There wasn’t any gas in it the first time,” thought Jimmy.
Then he sat and listened. His motor ran as well as ever it had run. It
was purring as smoothly as a sewing-machine. He ran his eye over his
instrument board. The oil gauge was registering now. Everything looked
right. He did not take time to make his usual tests. Throttling down his
engine, he leaned from the cabin.
“A million thanks, everybody,” he said. “I’ll get into touch with you
later. I’ve got to be off this instant or I’ll be late with my stuff.
Goodbye and good luck to you all. Thanks ever so much.”
He closed the cabin door and stepped into the pilot’s seat. The engine
began to pick up. It beat faster and faster. Presently the plane started
to roll forward, very slowly. Jimmy drove it straight on until he could
see the little, low boundary lights that marked the edge of the landing
field. He drove the ship close to them, turned it about to head it into
the wind, then went charging blindly back across the field through the
fog, almost straight at the reddish blur that he knew was Johnnie’s
bonfire. His engine functioned perfectly. He gathered speed. Suddenly
the plane lifted from the ground and soared almost directly above the
blazing pyre. For a single instant it was visible in the red mist above
the flames. Then it vanished from view in the fog as a stone disappears
beneath the water.
Inside the plane Jimmy sat tense. His first effort was to gain
elevation. Before him, at almost no distance, the hills once more
reached an elevation of 2,000 feet. He had to climb a thousand feet to
reach their tops, another thousand to be safe. But there was this factor
in his favor. He was flying with the wind. The air would rush upward
when it struck the slopes of the mountains and he would be borne upward
with it.
But Jimmy was not waiting for any ascending currents of air to carry him
aloft. He opened his throttle wide and climbed as rapidly as he could
push his ship upward. For a few moments he thought of nothing else. He
wanted to gain altitude. With every second he breathed more easily. His
altimeter showed him he was mounting fast. Now he was at 1,300 feet, now
1,500, now 1,800, now 2,000. Up he went. His altimeter registered 2,500
feet. Jimmy knew he was safe. No hilltop in the region towered so high.
At 3,000 feet he felt still better. But he did not stop climbing until
he was thousands of feet aloft.
All the time he had been climbing, Jimmy had also been trying to keep on
his course. The radio beacon made that easily possible. All the time it
had been singing in Jimmy’s ears, “dah, dah, dah, dah,” and Jimmy
thought he had never heard sweeter music.
Assured of sufficient elevation, certain that he was on the line, Jimmy
felt sure that nothing could now prevent him from reaching his goal. He
was elated. He might have broken his landing gear at Ringtown. The plane
might have nosed over and damaged his propeller. He might even have
crashed. Any one of these things might have happened and one of them
almost certainly would have happened, had it not been for Johnnie Lee’s
beacon. Added to the light of the revolving beam from the landing field
tower and his own flare, it had enabled Jimmy to get down safely. It
wouldn’t matter if he did smash his landing gear when he came down on
Long Island. He would then be at his destination.
So Jimmy sailed ahead jubilantly. And his jubilation increased as he
flew along. He knew just where he was. He glanced at his clock, to check
the time, and ran his eye over all his other instruments. Everything
seemed to be working right.
Meantime, the forces on the ground had not been idle. The moment that
Jimmy took off from Ringtown, the man who had helped Jimmy there hurried
to the telephone and informed the Bellefonte radio man that Jimmy had
landed safely at Ringtown, had repaired a leak in his oil line, and had
taken off again. At almost the same time word came to Bellefonte to the
effect that a plane had just passed over the Park Place beacon. That was
reassuring news, for it told the watchers that Jimmy had gotten safely
aloft once more.
On he went, boring through the fog. To this he gave small heed. His
entire attention was centred on his instrument board. He watched that
like a hawk. From his turn and balance indicator, which told him when he
was on a level keel and was flying straight, his eyes jumped to his
tachometer, to his oil gauge, his oil temperature gauge, his altimeter,
and so on from instrument to instrument. But most often his eye fell
upon the oil gauge. Despite his confident remarks about the security of
the pipe-line, he was none too sure that he would not have further
trouble with it. But none developed, though Jimmy soared along, mile
after mile.
A half hour passed. Jimmy had his eye on his clock. “We ought to be
close to Easton,” he thought. He glanced out through the fog, though he
had no hope of seeing anything but mist. Nor did he see anything else.
Yet the mist had a luminous quality he had not noticed at any other
time. He sped on and presently the mist lost its luminous effect. For a
moment Jimmy was puzzled. Then a look of inquiry came to his face.
“Could that have been from the lights of Easton?” he thought. “If it
was, the fog is not so dense.”
He flew on. The radio beacon kept him straight on the course. His clock
and his tachometer assured him that he was well past Easton. He felt
easier in his mind. There were no more mountains to face. The waves of
land that make Pennsylvania so rugged were flattening out. Nowhere
before him, Jimmy knew, were there hills higher than 800 feet and soon
he would be over country as flat as a sea on a calm day. The thought
cheered him. His radio signals were growing much stronger. He knew that
meant that he was approaching Hadley Field. He began to peer out into
the mist, hoping to find it lessening.
Presently a bright flash of light shone for a second against a bank of
fog. Jimmy almost cried out with joy. It was the beam of a revolving
beacon. Soon he saw another flash of light. He began to descend and came
down cautiously until he was within a thousand feet of the earth. And
now he could see, here and there as he flew, luminous patches in the
fog. He knew well that these bright spots were the lights of towns. He
calculated his position and slowly dropped down another hundred feet.
He knew now that he was nearing Hadley Field. All about him were Jersey
towns. He could begin to make them out more plainly. The mist was no
longer in unbroken clouds. It was growing thin and stringy. Occasionally
through a rift in it he could catch a clear glimpse of lights on the
ground. And now he began to see the beams of the revolving lights at
frequent intervals.
He decided to try to talk with the Hadley radio man. Picking up his
mouthpiece, he sent forth a call: “Jimmy Donnelly, in the _New York
Press_ plane, calling Hadley Field.”
The call was answered as soon as he had done speaking. “Hadley Field
answering Donnelly,” came the reply, sharp and crisp. “Is everything all
right with you?”
“Couldn’t be better,” replied Jimmy, “except for fog. That is growing
less. What can you tell me about the weather between here and Long
Island?”
“It improves all the way. Long Island just told us that there was almost
no fog there.”
“Won’t you ask them to have a taxi ready for me when I arrive,” said
Jimmy. “I’ve got to rush some films to the _Press_ office. I mustn’t
lose a minute.”
“We’ll call them right away and tell them you want a taxi. Have you any
idea where you are?”
“I ought to be near—why, there’s your neon light and the beacon over
the hangar. Now it’s gone again. I must be very close to Hadley. It
didn’t seem to be more than two miles away.”
“We can hear your motor,” came back the reply. “We’ll tell Long Island
you’ll be there very soon. Good luck to you. We’ll call them at once.”
Plainer and plainer Jimmy could see the glowing lights below him. He
dropped down another hundred feet. Suddenly he heard the marker beacon
at Hadley Field. Now he was sure he knew where he was. There were the
lights of New Brunswick. Beyond was Metuchen. Much farther away was a
glow that must be Perth Amboy. Jimmy thanked his lucky stars. No longer
would he have the radio beacon to direct him. He must find his own way.
Unless fog arose immediately, there would be no difficulty about that.
In a few minutes he would be at his airport.
The radio beacon had already ceased to beat in his ears. He was past
Hadley Field. He set his course direct for his destination, noted the
compass direction, and flew on. Soon he was over Staten Island. He flew
above the Narrows and was over Long Island. Below him for miles glowed
the lights of Brooklyn. His plane rushed on like an eagle. Soon Brooklyn
was behind him. His own field lay just before him. There were fog clouds
and shreds of fog, but it was easy enough to see down between them.
Another half hour, Jimmy knew, would probably put the whole island under
a deep blanket of fog. He had often seen the fog making up as it was
now. But he cared nothing at all about what conditions would be like in
half an hour. For he was home. His landing field was just under him.
He nosed his ship downward, shut off his power, and came down in a long
glide. The field was well lighted. He could see the earth perfectly. He
put his ship down in a three point landing, and rolled across the turf.
Then he taxied rapidly to his hangar, gave a shouted order to fill the
gas and oil tanks, threw off his parachute, grabbed his camera, and
rushed out to the waiting taxi. In another second he was speeding toward
Manhattan.
It still lacked several minutes of his deadline when he rushed into the
_Press_ office and laid his story on the city editor’s desk. A copy boy
ran to the photograph department with his camera. Jimmy sank into a
seat. He suddenly felt weak. He was all atremble. It was the let down
after the tremendous strain he had undergone.
The managing editor came walking out of his office. He held out his hand
and shook Jimmy’s warmly. “It was a fine piece of work, Jimmy,” he said.
“Handley telegraphed us about you and the bad night. We have followed
you all the way across. You had us pretty badly frightened when you told
Bellefonte your engine was failing and you were making a forced landing
in the mountains. And our relief was great when we found you were
patched up and on your way again. It is equalled only by our pleasure in
seeing you.”
Jimmy looked abashed. Then he lost all sense of self-consciousness as
the thought of Johnnie Lee popped into his head.
“I might not be here now, Mr. Johnson,” he said, “if it had not been for
my old friend Johnnie Lee. It was his bonfire that saved me. Without it
I should almost certainly have crashed. I owe my life to him and the
_Press_ owes its pictures and its story to him. He wants to be a
reporter, Mr. Johnson. Can’t you help him? Haven’t you a job for him?”
“Has he done any reporting, Jimmy? Has he had any experience?”
“No, sir. But he is clever enough. He could learn quickly, if you would
give him a chance. And I have no doubt he would be glad to work for very
little pay or maybe none at all until he learned how to do the work.
Can’t you take him on, Mr. Johnson?”
“I’m sorry, Jimmy, I’ll gladly send him a check for his help to-night.
We are always willing to pay anybody who helps us get news. But we have
no use for green reporters here. We need trained men. We seldom hire
cubs any more. We want men with experience.”
“But you took me on,” protested Jimmy, “and I was perfectly green.”
“You came on as a flier, Jimmy. And you would be the last man in the
world to say you were green at that job.”
“But I learned how to get news. So could Johnnie.”
“Yes, you did, Jimmy. You picked up the knack readily. And if you
continue to improve, you’ll make a great reporter some day. But you
evidently had it in you.”
“Maybe Johnnie does, too.”
“I’m sorry, Jimmy. We can’t possibly take him on. But if he got some
experience—if he showed us that he knew how to handle a story—I might
give him a chance. I feel very much indebted to him. It was a great
thing for you to get through with that story, even if you were delayed.”
Jimmy looked alarmed. “The story will make the edition, won’t it?” he
asked.
“Absolutely. And we’ll scoop every other paper in town on pictures. The
only other pictures in the city were sent by wire, and they aren’t half
as good as actual photographs. What’s more, we’ll have one feature that
no other paper in the country will have. That is the story of how the
_Morning Press’_ flying reporter dared a fog that stopped even the Air
Mail, and got through. The story is already in type, Jimmy.”