Jimmy Joins the Caterpillar Club
For many weeks after Jimmy’s return from this trip he found life tame
and colorless, although he was busy enough. There were flying
assignments aplenty; but Jimmy found them very ordinary experiences. The
day had long since passed when Jimmy could get a thrill merely by making
a flight in the air. And that was about all his assignments now amounted
to. One of the first of these flying assignments was a commission to
hunt for a lost yacht. A small pleasure craft had disappeared somewhere
along the Atlantic coast between New York and Boston. It was not known
whether the craft was floating helplessly on the sea, or whether it had
put in at some isolated harbor, or whether it might have gone down, with
all on board. The owner was a man of importance. With a small group of
friends he had ventured out on the ocean, and the party had utterly
vanished. Great anxiety was felt for their safety, and because of the
social and business prominence of the missing man, the newspapers joined
in the hunt.
Jimmy had little expectation of finding the lost yacht. The story
promised to be an easy one to cover. Jimmy would fly until he found the
boat or failed to find it. In the one case there would be nothing to
write, or next to nothing, whereas in the other there would be little to
do, probably, except drop a note to the boat, promising aid, then fly
back to land and send out a relief ship, and finally to write a story to
the effect that the missing boat had been found.
Jimmy secured permission to take Johnnie with him on this trip. Or, to
be more exact, the city editor assigned Johnnie the job of flying with
Jimmy. And that was about all the assignment amounted to. They flew for
hours, and covered a tremendous stretch of shore-line and coastal
waters, but discovered no trace of the missing ship. They got back to
the hangar cold, hungry, and stiff, and Jimmy at least was thoroughly
disgusted. To Johnnie the trip was thrilling enough.
Soon afterward Jimmy made a flight that was far more interesting. The
managing editor telephoned him to get ready to fly to Auburn, New York,
where rioting had broken out in the state prison. Handley was sent along
to write a story, for this was a two-man job. The flight up state was
ordinary enough, but the riot within the prison walls was far different.
Buildings were afire, prisoners were armed, guards were located in
strategic positions, and a real battle was in progress within the walls,
while outside were ranged troops and policemen, hastily collected and
thrown about the institution to prevent a general escape of prisoners.
When Jimmy reached the place he found his was the first airplane on the
job. He flew over the prison so that he and Handley could get a good
view of what was going on within the walls. He saw in a moment that a
real battle was raging. From the building that had fallen into the hands
of the rioters bullets were evidently flying in volleys. Prison guards
were answering with an incessant rifle fire. Within the walls things
were smashed and broken. Flames were blazing high. Structures had been
set on fire by the rioters. It was impossible for firemen to get into
the buildings to fight the flames.
Again and again Jimmy circled over the prison, while Handley took
snapshots of the scene. Then Jimmy landed his ship and Handley left him,
to gather the remainder of his story on the ground and put it on the
wire, while Jimmy himself sped back to New York with his photographs.
Long afterward he learned that, altogether unknown to himself, he had
played a most important part in subduing the mob and restoring authority
and order in the prison. For some of the rioters later told the guards
that when Jimmy’s plane appeared and began to circle above the prison,
the rioters were certain it was an army bomber, hovering above them with
intent to blow them all to eternity should they get the upper hand of
the guards. That belief broke their fighting spirit. They knew they
hadn’t a chance to succeed. And scores of rioters gave up at once.
The prison riot assignment was followed by one to cover a big railroad
wreck, and that in turn by an order to assist in a search for four
coastwise fliers who had taken off in the South, with intent to race a
fast train to New York, and who had utterly disappeared. Jimmy flew for
hours along the Atlantic coast, but like other fliers who were engaged
in the same task, discovered absolutely no trace of the missing airmen.
By this time Jimmy’s engine was in need of overhauling. Indeed, it had
somewhat alarmed him on his homeward flight from the search for the lost
fliers. But he had made his airport safely, though he felt sure he could
not have flown much farther. His engine was not only beginning to miss
badly, but it quite evidently needed attention.
At once Jimmy got the managing editor on the telephone. “Mr. Johnson,”
he said, “the engine in my plane will have to be ‘pulled’ right away. I
can’t make another flight until it has had a thorough overhauling. I’ve
flown this ship more than 500 hours, with only one top overhaul of the
motor. In the Air Mail we used to 'pull’ the motors every time they had
done 500 hours. I just barely got back safely to-day.”
“Very well,” said the managing editor. “Arrange to have your plane
overhauled at once. How long will it take?”
“It’s a pretty long job, Mr. Johnson. I should judge it would take two
weeks. As long as the ship has to be laid up, we might as well have it
checked over thoroughly. While they are working on the engine, we ought
to have the wings inspected internally, to see that all the fittings are
in shape and to see if any drag wires need tightening. We might need new
pins in the hinges of the control surfaces, and some of the control
cables may need replacing. The brakes should be taken up, too. In fact,
there’s no end of things that ought to be checked over. It’s a big job,
but it must be done. It isn’t safe to fly the ship any longer without a
complete overhaul.”
“That’s too bad,” said the managing editor, “but if it is necessary have
it done. The difficulty is not about the repairs, but about the loss of
the use of the plane. We simply can’t get along without a plane. Is
there a ship you can hire if the need arises?”
“Yes, sir. There’s an old open cockpit _Travelair-Whirlwind_ here, Mr.
Johnson. It’s an old-timer, but it has a good engine and flies well. We
can hire it for very little. But I suggest that you do not wait till the
need arises, for somebody else might have the plane out at the very
moment we want it.”
“Then go hire it at once, Jimmy, for as long a time as you think you
will be without your ship.”
“I think they will rush my work if I ask them to do it,” said Jimmy. “I
am sure they can have the job finished inside of two weeks. Suppose I
charter this old ship for that period.”
“Very well, if that is long enough. If it isn’t, make it longer. We
mustn’t be caught without a plane. You never can tell when a story will
break that will have to be covered by flight.”
Jimmy rented the old _Travelair-Whirlwind_ and had it moved to his
hangar. His own ship was rolled away to the shop, where the mechanics
could work at it conveniently. Then Jimmy transferred to his new plane
all the equipment that he ordinarily carried in his own ship—maps,
camera, flash-light, and similar necessary articles. Also, he got out
his flying suits, for now he would have to ride in the open.
It was well that Jimmy acted promptly about the old ship; for hardly had
he gotten her ready for flight before the managing editor was on the
wire again.
“Jimmy,” he said, “I’ll have to ask you to jump right out on another
flight. Is everything all right about your new plane?”
“Everything is O. K., Mr. Johnson. I’ve had her rolled into my hangar
and serviced. I’ve put all my outfit aboard of her. She’s ready to fly
at a minute’s notice, and so am I. Where do I go this time?”
“Jimmy,” said the managing editor, “this is a very serious and important
mission which I am about to entrust to you. One of the under secretaries
of war from Washington was here to talk to me about certain matters that
are to be decided at the peace conference in London, now in session. I
cannot tell you what these things are, but they are affairs of great
moment. The under secretary left my office to go to Chicago. I have just
found that he left some very important papers behind him. These he
absolutely must have in Chicago, where he is going for a conference
before he starts for Europe. I could stop him by a telegram sent to his
train, but it is highly important that he be in Chicago at the earliest
possible moment. He must not be delayed a second. At the same time, he
absolutely must have these papers. What I want you to do is to get them
into his hands. Deliver them to him in person and to no one else.”
“Yes, Mr. Johnson. Have you any suggestions?”
“I’ve been studying maps and time tables, Jimmy, and I think you can do
this nicely. If you fly to Bellefonte, which is right on the lighted
airway, you can there take a motor car to Tyrone, which is perhaps
thirty miles distant. The train on which the under secretary is
traveling is due to stop at Tyrone. There you can board his train and
put the papers into his hands. I will wire him on the train that the
papers he left in my office are going ahead by plane, and will be handed
him at Tyrone.”
“You couldn’t possibly have planned the thing out any better, Mr.
Johnson,” replied Jimmy. “I know that whole section well. From
Bellefonte I shall drive to Milesburg, where I hit the new cement road
from Lock Haven to Tyrone. It is as fine a strip of cement as there is
in the United States. It runs along the Bald Eagle Creek, and for miles
is as level as a floor. A motor car can almost fly along there. But you
should have a car at the flying field to meet me. The field is several
miles outside of the town of Bellefonte, and I’ll save a lot of time if
the car is on hand when I arrive.”
“Very well. I’ll telegraph for a car and it will be at the flying field
when you arrive. How soon can you take off, and how long will it take
you to reach Bellefonte?”
“It’s 215 miles from here to Bellefonte, by the lighted airway. I can’t
expect to get much more than 100 miles an hour out of this plane, and if
there is a strong west wind I can’t do nearly as well as that. It will
probably take me two hours and a half and perhaps even three hours. I
should be in Tyrone within another hour, easily.”
“That ought to give you plenty of time, Jimmy. The secretary’s train was
due to leave Philadelphia at 6:30 p m. So it has been under way about
fifteen minutes, for it is now quarter of seven. It takes the train five
hours and a quarter to reach Tyrone from Philadelphia. That should put
it there at 11:45. If it should be late, it may not reach there before
midnight. You should have an hour’s leeway.”
“I will if I can get off soon,” said Jimmy, “but what about the papers?
How am I to get hold of them promptly?”
“They should be in your hands within a few minutes. Handley is rushing
them to you in a fast taxi. He also has some money for you. You may need
more cash than perhaps you have in your pocket.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll start my engine to warming, and be ready to take
off the instant Handley gets here. Good-bye. I’ll do my best, Mr.
Johnson.”
“Good-bye, Jimmy. The best of luck to you. Let me have a wire from you
as soon as you put the papers in the secretary’s hands.”
Jimmy rang off and ran out into the hangar to warm his engine. Then he
inspected his ship to make sure he had every necessary piece of
equipment. Before he had finished his inspection, a taxi rushed up and
Handley stepped out.
“Here are your papers and your money, Jimmy. I suppose the Old Man
phoned you about them. I hope you have a quick trip. The best of luck to
you.”
Jimmy thanked his colleague and stowed the papers and the money in an
inner coat pocket, where he could not possibly lose them. Then he pulled
on his flying suit, buckled on his parachute, climbed into his cockpit,
nodded good-bye to his mechanic, and soared up into the night.
As he left the earth, Jimmy glanced at his clock. It was exactly seven.
He looked aloft, into the night. The sky was a deep, dark blue. Stars
shone dimly through a slight haze. He could see quite well. “If it stays
like this,” he thought, “I won’t have a bit of trouble to get there. But
I sure do wish I had my own ship. These open cockpit planes certainly
are back numbers.”
Jimmy centred his attention on his instruments, and was soon satisfied
that everything was working perfectly. His plane seemed to function
better than he had expected it would. He covered the thirty-five miles
to Hadley Field in a fraction more than twenty minutes. “That’s almost
105 miles an hour,” thought Jimmy. “I didn’t believe the old boat would
do it. But it will be a different story when I turn west and face the
wind. There’s only a twelve-mile breeze blowing, they said, but even
that will cut me down to ninety miles an hour.”
He flew along the old familiar airway. The visibility was good. Beneath
him he could see the clustered lights of town after town, as he roared
across New Jersey. He knew every town as he passed over it. He checked
time and distance as he flew along. It seemed almost no time before he
was approaching Easton. He thought of Rand, and the latter’s effort to
trick him; and he was glad it had happened. It had resulted in Johnnie
Lee’s getting the job he was so eager to have.
Westward Jimmy roared along, straight as the crow flies. Beneath him, on
hill and meadow, shone the beacon lights, stretching out before him in
an endless row of revolving lights. For miles ahead of him he could see
these friendly beacons.
Before he knew it he was over Sunbury. He noticed that the haze was
increasing rapidly. He thought it might be fog rolling up from the
Susquehanna. Soon he was at the Woodward Pass. There was the lofty
beacon on the brow of Winkelblech Mountain. Jimmy was high above it. Now
he was past the mountain and soaring over Penn’s Valley. A very few
minutes would put him into Bellefonte. He glanced at his clock. He had
made amazingly good time. He was going to reach Bellefonte in close to
two and a half hours after all.
Now he was passing Millheim, with its blazing beacon on the crest of
Nittany Mountain. The mist was increasing. It bade fair to be bad. But
it could not gather quick enough to interfere with him. In no time he
would be in Bellefonte. But suddenly his struts and wires began to hum
and vibrate. The vibration rapidly grew worse. The humming grew into a
screech. Jimmy’s blood began to run cold. His plane was icing up. The
thing most feared by airmen was happening to him. Along the edges of his
wings, he knew, ice was forming, as the mist froze fast to the fabric.
If it continued to form, it would destroy the shape of his wings. They
would lose their lifting power. Then nothing under heaven could keep him
aloft.
And his wings _were_ icing up rapidly. He could tell that from the
feeling of the plane beneath him. It no longer slid through the air with
its smooth, hawk-like passage. Its flight was becoming uncertain. It
trembled and shook. The ship responded but slowly to his control.
Desperately he strove to climb. If he could reach either a colder or a
warmer stratum of air, the ice would melt. He dared not descend, for
beneath him were these terrible mountains. He found it impossible to
climb. The ship had utterly lost its power to do so. Yet Jimmy fought
with all his ability to force the craft upward. He tried every trick he
had ever heard of, to lift the plane higher. He could not gain an inch.
On the other hand, Jimmy knew full well that he was coming down. His
altimeter showed that he was losing altitude steadily. He had been
flying at 5,000 feet elevation. Already he was down to 4,500 feet. The
mountain beneath him towered up to 2,000 feet. If only he could make the
next few miles, and get over the high crests near Bellefonte, he would
be all right. The landing field was at an elevation of only 1,200 feet.
He believed he could glide down into it in safety.
But suddenly his plane began to spin. It was absolutely out of control.
Frantically Jimmy kicked at his rudder, shifted his ailerons, tried
every trick he knew of to get the ship out of the spin. He could do
absolutely nothing with it. The plane was beyond all control.
With dismay Jimmy realized that he was in a flat spin. He thought of
Jack Webster, the mail pilot, who had been caught in exactly the same
way just a few miles farther west only a few months previously. The
thought made Jimmy’s heart stop beating. For the centripetal force of
that spin had held the mail pilot fast in his cockpit, and he had fallen
with his plane and been cruelly injured.
Jimmy knew that there was not a second to lose. He must get out of the
ship, and get out quick. He thought of Warren Long. He tried to keep his
head. He reached for his switches and shut off his ignition, to prevent
an explosion when the ship struck. Then he dropped both of his flares.
They burst on the night like magnificent rockets, lighting up the
mountain below them, like noonday. Jimmy took a single look over the
side of his ship and began to struggle frantically to get out of his
cockpit. Below him was nothing but jagged rocks and menacing tree
growths.
Vainly he struggled. He could not lift himself out of the ship. Had the
craft been under control, he could have flipped it over and catapulted
himself out of the cockpit. But the plane was going down on level keel,
whirling about like a top. Again Jimmy struggled. Desperately he fought
to get out of his seat. With all his strength he pulled at the sides of
the ship and shoved upward with his legs. Still he was held fast, as by
a giant hand. Again he heaved his body upward, convulsively,
frantically, with terrible effort. This time he was successful. He
gained his feet. As he did so, he could see over the side of his ship.
The mountain was rising up to meet him at a terrifying pace. He was
frightfully close to the ground. Snatching up his flash-light, he
stepped out on the wing, then dived headlong into space.
He held his breath, fearful lest the whirling plane should strike him.
It missed him by inches. He fought for self-control, lest he should pull
the rip-cord too soon and cause his own death. Plainly he could see the
spinning ship above him. He was going down head first, just as Warren
Long had gone. Now he judged he was safe. Instantly he tore at the
rip-cord. The steel ring came away in his hand. The parachute snapped
out with a crack. It came ballooning open. With a jerk that almost
knocked him senseless, Jimmy was snapped into an upright position. Then
he went floating straight down.
Instantly he looked below him to see what was there. Then he glanced
above, fearful that the falling ship might drop on him. The wind bore
him slightly to one side of the descending plane. Jimmy drew a breath of
relief and centred his attention on the ground at his feet. The flares
were dying out. He snapped on his flash-light. At first it seemed
terribly feeble. Then his eyes grew accustomed to the altered light. He
saw he was going to land in some saplings. His feet went crashing down
through the tree tops. Branches broke beneath him. They also broke his
fall. Jimmy reached out and grabbed a little limb. It tore away from the
tree trunk under his weight. But it almost stopped his descent.
Desperately he clutched at another branch. This one was tougher and
bigger. It held. Jimmy found himself motionless, not ten feet from the
ground. He had suffered only a few bruises and scratches. He slid the
rest of the way down the tree. He was on his feet, safe and sound.
But he was in a terrible plight. Five minutes more in the air would have
put him into Bellefonte in safety. Now he was miles from the flying
field, deep in the mountains, in the black of night.
Yet he had one advantage. He was not lost. He knew almost exactly where
he was. Even as he was falling he had noticed the beacon at Mingoville.
Now as he turned his powerful flash-light this way and that, he saw that
he had landed in a notch. He knew it must be the Mingoville notch. And
if it was, there was a trail running through it. He tore off the
parachute and made his way down the slope of the notch to the bottom.
Sure enough, here was the trail. Jimmy knew it led directly into
Mingoville.
Recklessly he raced down it. The powerful ray from his flash-light
illuminated the path ahead of him. Its beam, almost horizontal, showed
him the irregularities of the way better even than the noonday sun would
have done. Under other circumstances he would not have dared to run down
this rough mountain path as he was now tearing along it. But he used the
utmost care in striding, and succeeded in missing loose stones that
would have turned his ankle.
Down the trail he ran, panting, sweating, his heart pounding in his
breast. But never for a moment did he slacken his speed. In ten minutes
the trail opened into a road. Not far away was a house, and through a
window a light was shining.
Jimmy ran toward the house, shouting as he ran. A man stepped out of the
door as he came panting up.
“I just jumped out of an airplane,” said Jimmy, “and I’ve got to get to
Bellefonte at once. Have you got a car?”
“Sure,” said the mountaineer deliberately.
“I’ll pay you $25 to take me to Bellefonte. And if you get me there
quick, I’ll make it $30,” said Jimmy. “I’m trying to catch a man for
whom I have important despatches. I have to get there in the least time
possible.”
“I’ll take you,” said the mountaineer.
“Hurry,” panted Jimmy.
The man ran for his barn. The car was inside. It was an old Ford. Jimmy
groaned when he saw it. The man started to crank it. To Jimmy it seemed
as though the thing would never start. But finally it coughed, then
began to explode regularly. The motor sounded good to Jimmy. The man
drew on an old overcoat that was in the car. “Get in,” he said. Jimmy
obeyed with alacrity. The man let in his clutch and the car rolled out
into the road.
“Drive as fast as you can make her go,” urged Jimmy. “I have very
important despatches for an official of the government. I simply must
catch him. He’s on his way west. If you hurry, there’s a chance.”
The man threw caution to the winds. Twenty-five dollars was more money
than he had seen at one time in years. He opened the throttle wide. The
little Ford tore along the road. It roared and rattled. It bounced and
swayed. When it struck a bump it leaped like a rabbit. But the man never
slackened his speed and Jimmy clung to the seat desperately.
“I want to go to the flying field,” said Jimmy. “There’s a car waiting
for me there to take me to Tyrone.”
“I’ll put you there in no time,” said the mountaineer.
Jimmy looked at his watch. There was just a possibility that he could
make it if everything went well. Jimmy sat in silence. But his heart was
beating fast with anxiety and apprehension.
On they raced through the night. The man seemed to know the road
perfectly. He tore around sharp bends, dashed into dark hollows, went
roaring along the straight stretches, almost without altering his pace.
Suddenly he applied the brakes. Then he shot around a sharp corner.
Ahead of them lights were gleaming. Jimmy recognized the flying field.
He thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out his roll of bills, and
counted out $30. As the Ford came to a stop before the hangar, Jimmy
thrust the money into the driver’s hand, leaped from the car, and raced
for a powerful, big motor that stood a few rods distant.
He ran up to the driver, who was sitting on the front seat.
“Is this the car engaged by the New York _Morning Press_ to take a man
to Tyrone?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the driver, in surprise. “He’s coming in by plane and ought
to have been here some time ago. I’m beginning to be alarmed about him.
Know anything about him?”
“I’m the man,” said Jimmy, climbing into the car. “My plane iced up and
fell near Mingoville, but I wasn’t hurt. Get started, please.”
The driver was off like a shot. Jimmy looked at his watch.
“You’ve got thirty-five minutes to make it,” he said.
The driver’s only response was to put on more speed. Over rough roads he
went spinning, as recklessly as the mountaineer had done in his Ford.
But the great car he drove took up shocks and the speed did not seem so
great. Jimmy wanted to protest, but when he glanced at the speedometer
he thought better of it. He sat in silence, watching the road, as they
went roaring along.
Once on the cement highway, the driver opened his throttle, and Jimmy
watched the indicator on the dashboard creep up. From forty-five miles
an hour it climbed to fifty, to fifty-five, to sixty, to seventy, to
eighty miles an hour. And there the speedometer finger stood as though
glued to the spot.
They neared Tyrone. Jimmy watched the lights draw near. The driver began
to slacken his speed. They reached the fringes of the town. Close at
hand Jimmy heard a long, shrill blast of a locomotive whistle. He knew
it was a train blowing for Tyrone. It was going to stop. He glanced at
his watch. It lacked two minutes of being 11:45.
“Step on it,” begged Jimmy. “That’s the train I must catch.”
The driver turned a corner and straightened out for a dash. He shoved
his speed up and up while Jimmy sat with his heart in his mouth. They
could never stop if anything came out of a side street.
But nothing did. They roared on to the station. The train was standing
at the platform. The locomotive was panting restlessly, as though eager
to be off.
“All aboard,” came a deep voice through the night.
Jimmy leaped from the still moving car, and raced down the platform
toward the train. The train began to move. Jimmy put everything he had
into a last desperate sprint. He reached the car vestibule just as the
conductor was closing the door. Jimmy grabbed the hand rail and swung up
on the step. The conductor slammed the door open and grabbed him.
“Is the—assistant secretary—of war—on this train?” panted Jimmy.
“He is,” said the conductor.