CHAPTER VI
Flying Blind Over the Graveyard of Airplanes
Jimmy looked very sober as he climbed into his plane. He was about totackle the meanest job a pilot is called upon to attempt. Had he been atthe other end of the line, starting westward, with the wind in his face,instead of starting eastward, with the breeze at his back, he wouldhardly have dared to attempt it. But inasmuch as he did not have to makea landing in Pennsylvania, he was willing to try it, although theweather man had suggested that by the time he reached Long Island itmight be foggy there also. Jimmy decided to take the chance.
But he wasn't going to take any more chances than he absolutely had totake. So he switched on his navigation lights, tested his landinglights, made sure his flares were hooked, ready for release, and glancedat his instruments. Then he speeded up his engine and listened to itsroar. The instant he was satisfied that everything was workingperfectly, he took off.
He hopped into the wind, then circled back to the east, and was awaylike an arrow. Although the atmosphere at Cleveland was only beginningto grow foggy, before Jimmy had risen a hundred feet in the air thebright lights of the airport began to be blurred. As Jimmy passeddirectly over the great hangar, after circling, he could barely tellwhere it was. In another minute low clouds had wiped out every trace ofthe 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 thisone promised to be. Always the fogs he had ridden through had dissipatedafter a time, but this fog-bank bade fair to cover every inch of thefour hundred and fifty miles or so to his home field. The possibilitiesof getting lost, of crashing, of meeting with dire disaster in a flightof such length, were too many for Jimmy to allow himself to considerthem.
He did not permit himself even to think of these possibilities. Instead,he called up every bit of flying ability he possessed to meet thesituation. 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 noteof the radio beacon, his eyes glued to the instrument board. From hiscompass his eyes darted to his turn-and-bank indicator, then to his airspeed indicator. Occasionally he glanced at his engine instruments, tosee that his propeller was making the necessary revolutions per minute,that the engine temperature was not too high, that his oil pressureremained constant.
But mostly he kept watch of his speed and of his position. The steelball in the centre of the turn-and-bank indicator had to be kept rightin 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 steelball showed that he was beginning to dip to one side or the other. Senseof balance told him little or nothing; and had it not been for hisindicator, he might soon have been flying upside down, as many a pilotbefore him had done. Nor could he allow his ship to drop below a speedof 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 withstartling intensity. That was because his ship was close to the beaconitself. As he traveled onward, Jimmy knew, the signal would grow fainterand fainter, for during the first half of the flight to Bellefonte hewould be guided by the signals from the airport he had just left. Beyondthat he would be guided by the Bellefonte signals, and he knew thesewould grow ever louder as he neared that field.
Up he climbed, and up and up, seeking to get above the fog. Again andagain he glanced at his altimeter, but though he had risen to fivethousand feet, and then six and seven and eight thousand, he was stillin dense mist. He continued to climb, to watch his instruments, tolisten to the radio beacon. All the time he was trying to check hisposition. He watched his air speed indicator. He watched his tachometer,which indicated his revolutions per minute. He watched his clock. Hechecked one against the other. With a twenty-mile wind at his back,Jimmy figured he must be making fully one hundred and fifty miles anhour. At that speed he should make his home field in close to threehours. Then he should have to make the trip to the New York office ofthe _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 hisship as fast on the return trip as he had driven it in coming west. Itwas too hard on the ship. So he watched his instruments and held hisplane to the speed indicated.
All the while he climbed. Up he went steadily. From eight thousand feethe climbed to nine, then ten. Still the fog was unbroken. But his engineworked marvelously in the heavy air and he kept his ship nosing higherand 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, thenstraightened out and rode on level keel. Below him spread endless massesof cloud, more wonderful than an ocean, dimly lighted by the starsabove. So long as he could ride above the fog his trip was now an easyone. He had only to follow his compass and the radio beacon. Thedifficulty would come when he had to drop down through the fog and makea landing.
While Jimmy was thus fighting both to insure his safety and to gain hisgoal, agencies of which he was not aware were also at work to try tomake his progress safe. Hardly had Jimmy left the ground at theCleveland Airport before Beverly Graham hurried into the radio room.
"Sparks," he said to the radio man, "I wish you would send a message onyour printer saying that Jimmy Donnelly, flying for the New York_Morning Press_, just left here, heading for Long Island. The messagewill reach caretakers at beacons all along the route. Tell allcaretakers 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 verydoubtful if anybody else will go over the route to-night."
The wireless man turned to his printer and began to pound out themessage on the keyboard. But the machine on which he was writing, thoughit somewhat resembled a typewriter, was not a typewriter at all, but anelectric printing or teletype machine, which reproduced the message onsimilar machines at Bellefonte and Hadley Field and other stations asfast as it was written. In no time, therefore, these two Air Mailstations and the caretakers at various landing fields, knew that Jimmywas flying east in the fog. Thus as Jimmy passed over Mercer and Clarionand other points on the airway in western Pennsylvania his progress waspromptly reported to his friend, the chief forecaster.
But long before Jimmy reached the "graveyard of airplanes" he himselfwas 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 hourlyweather broadcast from the Cleveland radio man. Jimmy listened intently,though there was little they could tell him about the weather that hedid not already know. The usual, stereotyped broadcast contained noreference to the wind. That was the one thing Jimmy wanted to knowabout. A moment later he heard the Cleveland radio man saying: "Mr.Donnelly, in the New York _Morning Press_ plane, will please note thatthe wind has shifted slightly from west to southwest and has increasedto twenty-five miles an hour. He will also please listen carefully for amessage when he passes over Bellefonte."
"Good old Beverly," said Jimmy. "He never forgets a friend. He didn'twant me to fly tonight, but now that I am up in the air he's doing allhe can for me. I wonder what he has instructed Bellefonte to do. I'llthank him at once."
When Jimmy's plane was built it had been equipped with a radio receivingset. But about two weeks before he was ordered to Cleveland, Jimmy hadsucceeded in having a sending set installed in the plane, thus bringinghis ship right up to date. Not even all the mail planes had sending setsas yet, though some of them did.
Jimmy picked up his instrument, put the mouthpiece to his lips, and sentthis message into the air: "Jimmy Donnelly, of the _Morning Press_,speaking. Cleveland weather fo
recast received. Also special notice as toforce and direction of the wind. Will get into touch with Bellefonte asI 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 glanceat his instrument board assured him that all was working well. He lookedat his clock and tried to figure out his position. Suddenly he becameaware that the buzzing in his ears had altered. No longer did he hearthe regular "dah, dah, dah, dah, dah," which told him he was directly onthe 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 thesouthwest, it has blown me to the northeast of the line. I'll move overto the right a little."
He kicked his rudder bar, shoved his stick over ever so slightly, andsat listening. "Dot dah, dot dah, dot dah," sang the ear phones, butpresently the signal changed. "Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah," it went. He wasback on the course.
"Gee, but I'm glad I'm flying in the year 1929, and not half a dozenyears ago," thought Jimmy. "I'd soon be way off my course and never knowthe difference if I didn't have this radio set. I tell you, a compassdoesn'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 bydead reckoning, and I'd probably have landed in Connecticut, orMassachusetts, or any old place except Long Island."
He flew on, listening carefully to the buzz of the radio beacon, andintent upon his task. He was pleased to know that his friend, theforecaster, had taken so much trouble on his account. He would have beenstill more pleased could he have known to what extent the weather manwas laboring in his behalf. For after Jimmy left the Cleveland Airport,Beverly Graham sat down at his desk and devoted himself to doing allthat he could to get Jimmy through in safety.
Suddenly Jimmy heard a sharp signal, sounding above the dull buzz of thedirectional beacon. A smile of satisfaction flitted over Jimmy's face."I'm right over Brookville," he muttered. Quickly he glanced at hisclock, then made a rapid calculation. "I'm right on the line and rightwhere I ought to be at this minute," he thought. "I'm making almostexactly 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 horizontallyfrom the radio beacons at Cleveland, Bellefonte, and Hadley Field. Thesevertical radio beams are audible only for the brief spaces of time ittakes a plane to sweep over the stations sending them. The presentsignal was gone almost as soon as Jimmy heard it, but it gave him aworld of information and assurance. It told him, not merely that he wason the line, which he already knew, but it also told him the exact pointon that line which he had reached. He soared onward with increasedconfidence.
Intently he watched his instrument board. From time to time the radiobeacon warned him that he was being blown from the direct line, and henosed his plane back to the path. Everything seemed to be going well.His clock told him that he should be nearing Bellefonte, the half-waypoint between Cleveland and Hadley Field. Also, the radio signals werenow so much more powerful that he knew he must be close to the beaconemitting them.
For some time Jimmy rode with only the roar of his own engine and thebuzzing of the radio beacon reaching his ears. He was certain, however,that he must be near Bellefonte. The radio beacon signals came soloudly. Suddenly, above the steady buzz of the directional beacon camethe sharp signal of the Bellefonte marker beacon. Jimmy drew a breath ofrelief. "Halfway," he muttered, "and everything as fine as silk."
Hardly had he heard the marker beacon before a voice sounded in hisears: "This is Bellefonte Weather Bureau speaking to Jimmy Donnelly, ofthe New York _Morning Press_. As nearly as we can judge by the sound ofyour engine, you are directly over the field. Fog continues badthroughout Pennsylvania. Wind remains unchanged--southwest, twenty-fivemiles an hour. Conditions much better after you pass the mountains. Somefog in New Jersey and may be more before you get there."
Instantly Jimmy answered through his sending set. "This is JimmyDonnelly speaking to Bellefonte," he said. "Your message received.Thanks ever so much. Have you any information about weather betweenHadley Field and Long Island?"
"No," came the reply, "but will tell Hadley to get latest informationand talk to you as you go by. Good luck to you."
"Please tell Long Island I am coming," said Jimmy. "I ought to hit thereabout ten o'clock. Please ask the radio man there to listen in for meabout that time. I'll get in touch with him after I pass Hadley. Thanksever so much."
Jimmy went sailing straight on through the fog. Ahead of him lay theworst place on the entire mail route, the Woodward Pass. But he waslight of heart. He knew where he was, he knew how high he had to be topass 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 beenworried and uncertain, no matter how regularly his propeller turned, nomatter how accurate his clock. But with the radio keeping him on thecourse and telling him the precise moment when he passed overBellefonte, there could be neither doubt nor uncertainty. So he flew on,almost jubilant. He was making the schedule he had set for himself. Hefelt sure he was going to succeed.
On he went, carefully watching his instruments, and trying to figure hisposition from moment to moment. Now he felt sure he was past themountains beyond Bellefonte and flying over the lovely Penn's Valley. Ina few minutes he was approaching Woodward Pass. He pictured WinkelblechMountain rearing its great bulk directly in the line of his flight,where he should turn to the right and shoot through the pass. Butto-night he was not shooting passes. He was thousands of feet above thepass. Suddenly, for the merest fraction of a second, he thought he saw agleam 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 mustbe past the mountains and sailing over the beautiful Buffalo Valley. Butonly his instruments told him so. Below him he could see nothing butfog.
Ahead of him lay more mountains--wicked ones, too, through the greatreaches of the anthracite coal field, where the earth is as rough andrugged as the outside of a black walnut shell. But the furrows in theearth are great mountain ridges, and the wrinkles are hills andprecipices.
On he flew, following the radio beacon intently, watching his time,calculating his position. He could see absolutely nothing. He wanted tosee nothing but the instruments before him, for it was almost terrifyingto 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 toHadley Field, for it was exactly 150 miles between the two points. Inhalf an hour, three quarters of an hour at most, the worst part of thetrip would be over. The Pennsylvania mountains would be passed, andunderfoot would lie the flat agricultural lands of New Jersey, where hemight hope to land in safety if he were forced down, though there seemedto be little chance of that.
He rushed on through the night. Ahead of him, he knew, the country wasfar less rugged for a distance. The mountains melted into hills ofperhaps eight hundred feet elevation, and there were many farms andsmooth fields. But soon after he should pass Elysburg, just ahead, theland 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 twothousand feet aloft. Little did Jimmy care about that. He was far, farabove them. The mountains meant nothing to him. Already the markerbeacon at Numidia was sounding in his ears. Soon, now, he would beentirely past the mountains.
Suddenly he noticed that his engine was beginning to heat. He glanced athis oil gauge and found that it was no longer working. Instantly helooked at his tachometer. His engine speed was falling rapidly. Jimmyopened his throttle. There was no answering response from the engine.Instead, it beat slower and slower. It was making twelve hundredrevolutions per minute. It fell to nine, then seven hundred. His shipslowed dangerously. He began to lose altitude. There was nothing
to dobut come down. Otherwise he would soon fall. He decided to try to makethe landing field at Numidia. Then he saw that he could not do it. Thewind at his back would prevent it. His engine was too weak to fight thebreeze. 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--aforced landing among the mountains, in the densest sort of fog. Alreadyhe was far down in the mist clouds. Vision was absolutely cut off. For asingle instant he felt numb, almost paralyzed. Then he rallied all theskill he had, to fight for his life.
The next landing field was at Ringtown. It was only eleven miles fromNumidia to Ringtown, and he had already passed over part of thedistance. He must make the landing field at Ringtown. He must keep hisship in the air until he could reach that field. If only his trouble hadoccurred a bit sooner, he could have made the field at Numidia. Themarker beacon would have helped him to get down to the right spot. Howhe 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--thosemountains that towered heavenward for two thousand feet. Could he getover them? With his face drawn and serious Jimmy glanced at hisaltimeter. He was still well above that height, but he was losingelevation steadily. Could he get over those mountain crests? Could hefind 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 engineis failing. I am losing altitude fast. I am trying to get over themountains west of Ringtown and land at that field. May need help."
Jimmy had no idea whether or not any one would hear his call. Ordinarilythe radio men would not be listening in for messages. Yet there was achance that they might be listening to-night, because of the very badweather. But Jimmy was reckoning without Beverly Graham. The moment hefound that Jimmy had a sending set, the latter had issued orders that aconstant watch be kept on the air. Hence Jimmy's message came to waitingears. The Bellefonte radio man caught it.
He didn't even wait to answer Jimmy. There is no caretaker at the littleRingtown landing field. The Bellefonte operator knew that. But hesnatched up his telephone and tried to get a connection with a man atRingtown who had control over the field. The telephone operator was along time in getting the connection. When finally the Bellefonteoperator got his man, he said hastily: "A flier is making a forcedlanding at your field right away. See if you can do something to helphim."
But meantime, though the operator almost failed in his effort to gethelp for Jimmy, help from another source was at hand. Johnnie Lee hadgotten Jimmy's parachute message and read it. When night came on, and hesaw what the weather was like, he doubted very much if Jimmy wouldattempt to return to New York. But if Jimmy did fly over, Johnnie wantedto signal him. He wanted his old friend to know that he had received hismessage. He knew that it was idle to attempt to send a message upthrough the fog with so impotent a thing as his flash-light. And so fora long time Johnnie had been at work preparing for a bonfire.
Fearful of setting fire to his father's buildings, Johnnie had beenstacking up old boards and rails on top of a pile of old wood that stoodclose to one edge of his father's farm, and almost adjoining the landingfield. He had thrown coal oil on the pile, saturating it thoroughly, andhe had a bucket of gasoline all ready to throw on the heap before hetouched a match to it.
But that was not all. As Jimmy had suspected, Johnnie had a radiosending set, like most of the other members of the Wireless Patrol. Itwould not carry his voice so very many miles, but Johnnie knew it wouldcarry well enough for him to hold a conversation with Jimmy as thelatter neared Ringtown. Even now he was at his radio, listening. He hadbeen there for some time. He had caught the weather forecast fromBellefonte. He felt sure that if Jimmy had left Cleveland, he ought tobe nearing Ringtown. So he listened hopefully yet fearfully. Andsuddenly he caught the very message that galvanized the Bellefonteoperator 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 guidehim.
The instant Jimmy stopped speaking, Johnnie sent a call speeding throughthe air. "Jimmy Donnelly," he said. "This is Johnnie Lee speaking. Iheard your call for help. I have a big bonfire ready to light. I willtouch it off at once. Maybe you can see it through the fog. The landingfield 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 firequick. I'm coming down fast, but I believe I'm going to clear themountains. Get your fire lighted quick."
Johnnie did not tarry a single instant. Out of the house he darted andaway he rushed across the fields to his pile of wood, heedless of thedark and the fog. He knew the way perfectly and his flash-light helpedhim to avoid loose stones. He reached his beacon without a fall or atwisted 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 aterrific burst of flames that shot fifty feet into the air. Then theoil-soaked pile of wood caught fire. The flames soared upward. The firegrew intense. The oily wood burned with terrific heat. The glare of theflames lighted the entire region. Even through the fog the flare of thefire could be seen for a long distance. It turned the mist into glowingclouds. It shone through rifts in the fog, like the electric beams ofsearchlights penetrating the openings between cloud masses.
Suddenly Johnnie thought he heard the drone of a motor. Then the soundfaded away. The noise of the fire drowned out more distant sounds. Thesnap and crackle and hiss and roar of the burning heap shut out everytrace of the hum of a propeller. For a moment Johnnie stood near hisbeacon, 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 amotor. Then the sound died away. But Johnnie felt sure he had not beendeceived. Jimmy was going to make it. He was going to reach the field insafety.
Again Johnnie strained his ears, to catch another shred of sound. A puffof wind brought him what he was listening for, loudly, unmistakably.Once more the sound died away. But Johnnie knew he had not beenmistaken. He had heard an airplane. Suddenly the sound came to him withstartling distinctness. He strained both ears and eyes as he peeredupward through the fog.
Suddenly there was a bright glow aloft. Johnnie's heart stood still. Helistened for an explosion. He was frozen with horror. The planeoverhead--Jimmy's plane--was afire. He gazed fearfully into theconcealing fog to see where the plane was falling. He saw it coming downwith a rush, flaming fiercely. The cloud of fog was all aglow with thebrilliant light. It shone even brighter than Johnnie's bonfire.Regardless of what might happen to him if the plane exploded, Johnnierushed toward the spot where it was apparently going to crash. Johnniereached the place. He paused, looking upward. He held his breath,waiting for the smash. Down came the glowing light to the earth. Johnnielet out a yell of relief. It was not the plane that had fallen, but aflare 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 instantlythe glow over his head became two luminous spots in the mist. They grewbrighter fast. Now Johnnie was certain he knew what he was looking at.The luminous spots were the landing lights of a descending plane. Theyseemed to be jumping right at him. Johnnie knew the plane was comingstraight toward him. It was almost upon him. He leaped to one side. Hewas not a moment too soon. The descending plane swished past him, seemedto rise lightly, then leveled off, hit the ground heavily, bounced, cameto earth again, and went rolling and jolting straight across the landingfield.
Johnnie raced after the ship. It came to rest. A figure stepped from thecabin. 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.
The Flying Reporter Page 8
