Part 11 (1/2)

The owner of the s.h.i.+p, sitting on my right, was helping me with my map, holding it for me. His wife, sitting behind me, was squirming anxiously in her seat and peering tensely out of the windows through the low mists.

Soon she tapped me on the shoulder and said, ”Aren't we flying awfully low?”

I half turned my head and shouted, ”Yes, the ceiling is awfully low.” I wanted to add, ”You fool,” but didn't dare.

”Isn't it dangerous?” she whined.

”We're all right,” I shouted. ”I've flown stuff like this before. I can handle it.”

Pretty soon she tapped me on the shoulder again. ”Where are we?” she inquired.

”I can't tell you the exact spot,” I shouted, ”but we are still on the right railroad and will be coming into the airport in a few minutes.”

We pa.s.sed over a town section just then, and the railroad branched three ways under us. I made a quick jump at my map to check which of the three I should follow. The wife saw me jump and must have seen that I looked worried. She tapped me on the shoulder again.

”Oh, are you sure we are going the right way?” she whimpered.

I started to turn around to explain to her what I was doing and why, realized my flying required all my attention right then, cast an appealing glance at her husband, clamped my jaws tight, and started studying landmarks. We were in close to the airport, and I didn't want to miss it.

I heard the husband shout one of the funniest mixtures of supplication and command I have ever heard.

”Now listen, honey,” he shouted at her. ”You keep your d.a.m.n mouth shut, sweetheart.”

GESTURE AT REUNIONS

It is the year before Lindbergh becomes famous. I have graduated in the same cla.s.s with him from the army flying school the year before and have seen him only twice since. I am on an army cross-country trip, bound for St. Louis, when I land at Chicago and run into him. He is just taking off with the mail, bound for St. Louis too, and we decide to fly down together in formation.

It is getting dark when we sight the river at St. Louis in the distance.

Lindbergh shakes his wings. He is calling my attention. I pull my s.h.i.+p in close to his. I see him pointing from his c.o.c.kpit. I look ahead and see a speck. It grows rapidly larger. I make it out as another DH approaching us head on from the deepening dusk. It comes up, swings around into formation with us, and sticks its wing right up into mine.

Its pilot peers at me, and I peer at him. We recognize each other. It is Red Love. Red, Lindbergh, and myself were three of the four cadets in our pursuit cla.s.s at flying school. Looks like a cla.s.s reunion in the air.

But no. Lindbergh is shaking his wings. He is banking. He is pointing down. He spirals down, circles a field, flies low over it several times, dragging it, looking it over carefully, and lands. Red and I follow.

Lindbergh and I crawl out of our s.h.i.+ps with parachutes strapped to us.

Red crawls out of his without one. Lindbergh takes his off as the three of us converge for greetings.

”You will need this getting the mail on into Chicago the rest of the way in the dark tonight,” he says to Red, holding the chute out to him.

”It's the only one in the company,” he says, turning, explaining to me, ”and I won't need it for the few miles on into St. Louis from here.”

We say hasty greetings and good-byes, crawl back into our still idling s.h.i.+ps, and take off. Lindbergh, chuteless now, heads off south for St.

Louis, and I follow. Red swings off in the opposite direction for Chicago.

I look back. I see Red disappearing into the darkening north. I know he feels better now, sitting on that chute.