There was at Mitchel Field on that night of January 18 a tensity that
had never been known in American aviation circles before. The
commandant, closeted with Wilbur Gaylord and John Keller, pointed out
certain locations on the map and hurried to answer the telephone; in
turn, he made many calls. Most of these consisted of “What is your
report? . . . . Good . . . . Three? At not less than ten
thousand . . . . Right. You understand what is expected of you . . . .
O. K.”
“It’s going to hang up a record,” the officer told Gaylord. “I did not
think it could be done on such short notice, if at all. Certainly our
lads are game to the core.”
“I’ll say they are,” rumbled Keller. “Ah, here is Creighton.”
The tall, lanky flyer strode into the office.
“Twenty minutes to go,” he remarked. “Will everything be set, sir?”
“All set—forty-one, so far,” the commandant told him.
“Whew!” exclaimed the pilot. “Forty-one!”
* * * * *
When, with his strangely burdened and strangely lighted plane, Creighton
took off at exactly three minutes before eleven o’clock, and nosed his
machine to cover the new route laid down by the arbitrary Mr. Starbuck,
he was far from being the lone eagle he was supposed to be.
He flew at five thousand feet, but as his machine swung over Manhattan,
from south, east and west other planes took up their positions, timing
their arrival over New York to a nicety, so that when Creighton headed
up the Hudson he was escorted, although at an altitude twice that of
himself, by forty-one other machines, mobilized by an official order
from Washington and carefully instructed as to their duties.
The eyes of every pilot were fixed intently on the ground, but from
below the navigating lights of only one machine, that of Creighton,
showed. Besides the pilot, each of the other machines carried a
passenger, a volunteer who was keen for the game.
* * * * *
Above Tarrytown, to be exact, on the golf links of a famous oil magnate,
three lengths of stovepipe stood upright in the turf. They were about
forty feet apart and formed a triangle. Each of these improvised screens
housed a light—one red, one white, one blue. Only from above could these
be discerned.
Huddled by a powerful motor car, drawn a bit off the highway, were the
three men, Markowski, Dimes and Rolphs. Eagerly they searched the skies
to the south. At last the count breathed: “Ah!”
Dimes said: “There she comes, by cripes!”
The third man said nothing, only watched intently the white light
pointing upward.
“She must be a walloper, by the noise she makes,” Dimes whispered
agitatedly.
“She would be,” the count replied. “So! So! Here she is. Now!”
From the lighted plane what looked like a tiny point of light dropped,
then another—the two parachutes with torches attached. Down they
floated, true and gently.
A perfect arrangement, so easy to follow and locate when they should
strike the ground. The three men immediately hastened off toward the
points where the descending lights would land.
They had just reached the first of the two, were about to pounce upon
it, when an astonishing thing happened. The sky above seemed to burst
into sudden flame.
A terrific roaring filled the air as the rays of more than forty
powerful searchlights turned the world white and left the three men
staring and shaken at the phenomenon they were witnessing.
But that was not all.
Drifting down through this brilliance came a perfect shower of
parachutes, from each of which dangled a form—the form of a fighting man
eager to ply his trade. And as the trio stood, terrified, from all about
sounded the _thud, thud_ of landing airmen.
In a trice, parachutes were cut away, and the bewildered, trapped
minions of Miles Starbuck could do nothing more than jabber and plead
for mercy as the horde swept upon them.
Above, the planes circled, and drenched the land with light. Below, the
delighted flyers danced about their quarry. It was done—the most
sensational air stunt in history.
And when the report of it all reached the office at Mitchel Field,
Wilbur Gaylord was himself ready to do a war dance. For his trembling
hand held a cable just received from the far-off Isle of Skye.
[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _Argosy All-Story Weekly
Magazine_, June 28, 1928. It is believed to be in the public domain in
the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]