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[Illustration: Bill worked his way backward toward the tail group.]
BILL BRUCE ON FOREST PATROL
by
MAJOR HENRY H. ARNOLD
Air Corps
Author of
“Bill Bruce and the Pioneer Aviators,”
“Bill Bruce, the Flying Cadet,”
“Bill Bruce Becomes an Ace,”
“Bill Bruce on Border Patrol,”
“Bill Bruce in the Trans-continental Race,” etc.
A. L. Burt Company
Publishers—New York
Printed in U. S. A.
* * * * * *
THE AVIATOR SERIES
ADVENTURES OF A YOUNG AIRPLANE PILOT
FOR BOYS 12 TO 16 YEARS
By MAJOR HENRY H. ARNOLD
AIR CORPS
Bill Bruce and the Pioneer Aviators
Bill Bruce, the Flying Cadet
Bill Bruce Becomes an Ace
Bill Bruce on Border Patrol
Bill Bruce on Forest Patrol
Bill Bruce in the Trans-continental Race
Copyright, 1928
By A. L. BURT COMPANY
BILL BRUCE ON FOREST PATROL
Made in U. S. A.
* * * * * *
CONTENTS
I A VACATION IN THE WOODS
II THE FORESTRY SERVICE
III WOOD LORE
IV DRAFTED TO FIGHT A FOREST FIRE
V A FOREST FIRE
VI BACK TO ARMY DUTIES
VII WORKING WITH THE ARTILLERY
VIII NARROW ESCAPES
IX AN UNEXPECTED DUTY
X CLOUDS ON THE SISKIYOUS
XI INTO THE SMOKE PALL
XII A FOREST PATROL BASE
XIII THE AERIAL FIRE PATROL
XIV DOWN IN THE TIMBER
XV ON FOOT MILES FROM ANYWHERE
XVI A LOOKOUT STATION IN THE MOUNTAINS
XVII BACK AT EUGENE
XVIII THE WEATHER CHANGES
XIX FISHES LARGE AND SMALL
XX MORE ABOUT FISH
XXI THE EUGENE AIRDROME
XXII TRAPPED IN MIDAIR
XXIII A NEW OUTBREAK OF FIRES
XXIV HUNTING A FIREBUG
XXV THE END OF THE FIRE SEASON
CHAPTER I—A VACATION IN THE WOODS
“Wake up, Bill, there’s a big fish on your line.”
“I should worry,” replied Bill as he lay on his back on the bank of
the McKenzie River. “Let him do the worrying. I am having a marvelous
time just lying here thinking how wonderful it is to be here in the
Oregon woods. Perhaps in a day or two I will get sufficiently
accustomed to the big outdoors, the gigantic trees and the wildlife to
get enthusiastic over a fish. In the meantime, let him bite.”
Bill Bruce and Bob Finch were officers in the United States Army Air
Service. They had been boyhood friends in Flower City, Long Island. At
the outbreak of the World War they had enlisted as Flying Cadets and
had been sent to the Ground School at the University of California, at
Berkeley. They had both finished the ground work and then completed
their flying training at the aviation field near Lake Charles,
Louisiana.
A West Indian hurricane broke the monotony and routine of their
training at the flying school and Bill was sent as a test pilot at an
airplane factory. Bob had been sent to the aviation field at Mineola.
Bill’s new duties required that he test out the latest type airplanes
produced for the squadrons in France. It was here that he ran afoul of
the dastardly work of a German sympathizer.
While Bill had been at Berkeley, another cadet by the name of Andre
had become rabidly jealous of Bill. Andre had tried to discredit Bill
and make out that Bill had cheated in an examination. Andre was fired.
While at the airplane factory Bill had several narrow escapes, when
airplanes which he was testing were found to be maliciously damaged.
Andre was the culprit. He was caught, convicted, and was being taken
to the penitentiary, but escaped.
Later Bill was sent to France, presumably with plans of the latest
type airplane being produced, the Le Pere. While on board the ship, as
Adjutant, he made frequent inspections to insure that the regulations
concerning lights on deck were being carried out. On several instances
he escaped being assaulted on the dark decks by a very narrow margin.
His cabin was searched and it was quite evident that someone was
endeavoring to secure the plans.
Finally, as the ship was nearing the coast of Ireland, Bill saw
someone flashing lights from the deck. He tried to catch the
miscreant, but was not successful on account of the darkness. The next
day the ship was torpedoed. As the small boats were floating around,
the sub came to the surface and took someone from one of the boats
aboard. It was Andre. The Germans then tried to find Bill Bruce, but
were prevented by the timely arrival of the U. S. destroyers.
Bill served at the front in the 94th Pursuit Squadron with Freddie
Rickenbacker. He shot down his first plane, however, before joining up
with the squadron. He was shot down between the lines in No-Man’s-Land
and had several thrilling escapes during combats in the air, but came
out of the war with a wound, several decorations and the title of
“Ace.”
Following the war, Bill served on the United States-Mexican border
with the Ninth Squadron. The work of the squadron required that they
make frequent aerial patrols to prevent the smuggling of liquor, dope
and aliens into the United States. Here again they ran afoul of Andre,
who was masquerading under the name of Andrajo. Andre had organized a
large gang of cut-throats for the one and only purpose of smuggling.
The squadron helped the border officials materially in uncovering this
work. They were assigned the part of the border extending from San
Diego, California, to Yuma, Arizona. Captain Lowell Smith was
commanding the squadron and Bill Bruce was his senior flight
commander. The pilots had been able to catch an airplane in the act of
transporting dope, had broken up Andre’s attempt to make a forcible
entry into the United States with four hundred Chinese, and thus had
broken up the gang of renegades.
In the Fall, Bill had entered the trans-continental airplane race from
San Francisco to New York and return. Bill met Andre again before and
during the race. Andre sneaked across the line at El Centro and
removed all the safety wires and cotter keys from the controls of
Bill’s plane. For a while it looked as if Bill would not be able to
get to San Francisco in time to participate, but he arrived the
evening before the start.
Once in the race, Bill thought that he was entirely out of Andre’s
reach, but on the return trip Bill’s plane was completely burned at
Buffalo. Andre had again shown his hand. Bill secured authority to fly
another plane, and after many difficulties and much hard flying won
the race in spite of the fact that he landed at the finish with a dead
engine. It had been a most spectacular and uncertain race from start
to finish. Bill had won it by inches.
After the race the Ninth Squadron was relieved from border duty and
sent to San Francisco for duty. Here they established a new airdrome
along the shores of the bay almost within hailing distance of the
Golden Gate. During the Winter and Spring, the pilots had been kept
very busy with routine flying. It was now June and Bill Bruce and Bob
Finch had taken a few days’ leave to get away from military routine.
They had driven to Oregon by automobile and were spending their time
fishing along the McKenzie River.
“A fine young fisherman you are,” said Bob as he ran over and grabbed
Bill’s rod. “Did you come up here to fish or to day-dream?”
“Both,” answered Bill as he watched Bob struggle with the fish.
It was very evident that it was an unusually large fish, for it was
putting up a hard fight. The rod bent almost double when the fish made
a run for freedom. Bob was forced to let out more line to keep the
fish from breaking the leader or snapping the rod. Bill was entirely
satisfied to watch Bob’s endeavor to land the fish.
The stream was in general clear of snags and rocks, but there was one
large tree trunk with several branches in the water toward which the
fish always headed. To make matters more complicated, the banks of the
river were lined with small bushes.
“I should say that it was a large fish,” said Bill after Bob had
vainly tried for several minutes to bring it in. “It will get away
from you yet.”
“Why don’t you come here and take your own rod then?” asked Bob.
“You are getting along very well. I wouldn’t think of depriving you of
the pleasure of landing the first trout,” said Bill as he stood up and
walked over to the place where Bob was working with the rod.
“Get the net,” called Bob. “I am getting it in close enough for you to
catch him.”
The bank had a drop of about five feet. Bill took the net and stood
looking for a place to get down to the water’s edge without getting
his feet wet. He walked a short distance upstream and then slowly
worked his way down to the water.
“You poor boob,” said Bob. “How can you get the fish way over there?
There are a dozen bushes between us.”
“Swing your rod around this way,” called Bill.
“Come closer, I am not fishing with a telegraph pole.”
“Give me time,” said Bill. “This bank is slippery and I am liable to
get wet.”
“Hurry up,” answered Bob. “I can’t keep working this fish forever.”
Once more the fish gave a violent pull on the line and Bob had to give
it more line. Then he had the job of gradually reeling in the line as
fast as he could while the fish darted around in large circles in the
water. Once it made straight for the old tree trunk and both young
aviators were sure that the line would get afoul of one of the
branches, but by careful manipulation Bob managed to get the fish back
into open water.
Bill meanwhile worked his way along the bank toward Bob. The point
where the line entered the water came closer and closer to the shore.
Bill reached out with his net, but could not quite stretch far enough.
“Bring it in a bit,” called Bill.
“Your rod is almost bent double now,” replied Bob. “Do you want me to
break it?”
“Well, you’re the fisherman of this crowd,” said Bill. “It was you who
suggested a vacation in the Oregon woods. I admit that I don’t know
how to use this net. What do you do with it, immerse it gently in the
water under the fish or make a wild swoop with it and scoop up the
fish?”
“How do I know?” replied Bob. “I never saw one before.”
“I would rather have a shotgun and then I would be sure of getting the
fish,” said Bill. “Don’t slow up on bringing him in while you are
talking, for now that you have him this far, we ought to have fried
trout for lunch.”
Bill stood on a stone near the bottom of the bank. There was just room
enough for one of his feet. The other was dangling over the water. He
was holding on to a small bush with one hand and leaning out over the
water with the net in his other. Bob gradually worked the fish in
closer to the shore.
“Bring him in closer. Reel in on your line,” called Bill. “I can’t
stand down here forever.”
“I am trying to,” replied Bob. “There he is; catch him.”
The fish was now in close enough to be seen. It was a large fellow and
must have weighed about two or three pounds. For a while Bill could do
nothing but watch it as it worked its way back and forth against the
taut line.
“Well, do something,” called Bob.
Bill then gave a violent swing with his net. As it hit the water with
a splash, Bill lost his balance and fell prone into the water. For a
while, line, net, fish and Bill were all tangled up in one small
space. Bob did not know what to do. If he slackened up on the line,
the fish would escape. If he didn’t, Bill would probably break the
line.
“Get out of there, you will make me lose the fish,” yelled Bob.
The water was not deep and Bill came up after the splash in a kneeling
position. He blew the water out of his mouth and nose and looked
around. It was at that moment that Bob had called to him.
“You don’t think that I am here because I am enjoying it, do you?” he
replied.
Then it was that Bob realized that the tension on his line had ceased.
The fish was gone. Evidently the splashing around in the water had
been enough to slacken the line and the fish had taken advantage of
the opportunity to make its getaway.
“Well, the fish is gone,” said Bob. “You are a fine help. Come on out
of the water.”
“What’s going on here?” called a deep voice from the bank.
Bob looked around to see who had asked the question. He saw a tall,
lithe, dark-complexioned man in a grayish-green uniform. He wore a
broad-brimmed felt hat, with the crown coming to a peak, and had a
badge on his shirt.
“We’re fishing, and Bill fell into the water,” said Bob.
In the meantime Bill scrambled up the bank.
“I am the District Forester. My name’s Cecil. Have you a fishing
license? Have you a campfire permit?”
“What I should have had was a bathing permit,” remarked Bill as he
started to wring the water out of his clothes.