Part 15 (1/2)

”Go around and try it again,” I shouted.

”Yes, sir,” the cadet in the rear c.o.c.kpit behind me shouted back.

I felt the throttle under my left hand go all the way forward with a jerk. I pulled it back.

”Open that throttle slower and smoother,” I shouted back. I didn't look round. I just turned my head to the left and put my open right hand up to the right side of my mouth. That threw my voice back.

”Yes, sir,” came the cadet's voice from the rear c.o.c.kpit.

I felt the throttle under my left hand move forward slowly, smoothly.

The engine noise rose louder. The s.h.i.+p rocked and b.u.mped slowly forward over the rough ground. The tail of the s.h.i.+p came up, and the nose went down. The nose of the s.h.i.+p veered to the left. I wanted to kick right rudder to bring the nose back. I just sat there. The nose swung back straight and then veered badly to the right. I wanted to kick left rudder and bring the nose back. I didn't move. The nose stopped veering.

We were going pretty fast. We b.u.mped the ground once more and bounced into the air. We stayed there. I took my nose between my left thumb and forefinger and turned my head to the left so the cadet behind me could see my profile.

The s.h.i.+p banked to the left. I felt a blast of air strong on the right side of my face and felt myself being pushed to the right side of my c.o.c.kpit. We were skidding. I wanted to ease a little right rudder on and stop the skid. Instead, I patted the right side of my face several times with my right hand so the cadet could see it. I felt the rudder pedal under my right foot jerk forward. We stopped skidding. The s.h.i.+p straightened out of the bank and flew straight and level for a little way. It made another left-hand bank, leveled out again, and flew straight again for a little way. It did it again. I felt the throttle under my left hand come all the way back. The engine noise quieted down, and the engine exhaust popped a few times. The s.h.i.+p nosed down into a glide. It made another left turn in the glide and then straightened out.

We were gliding toward the little field we had just taken off from. It was a little field near Brooks that the Army Primary Flying School used as a practice field.

”That was lousy,” I shouted back. ”You jerked your throttle open. You veered across the field on your take-off like a drunken man. Are you too weak to kick rudder? You skidded on your turns. You landed cross-wind.

Go around and try it again. See if you can do something right this time.” It was about the twentieth speech like that I had shouted back to the cadet that morning.

I felt the throttle under my left hand jerk forward. I pulled it back.

”d.a.m.n it, open that throttle slower and--”

A voice from the rear c.o.c.kpit broke in on me:

”I hope you never get anyone else as dumb as I am, Lieutenant.”

The voice was choked. The kid was crying.

”Hey, listen here,” I said, ”I give you a lot of h.e.l.l because I'm as anxious for you to get this stuff as you are to get it. I wouldn't even give you h.e.l.l if I thought you were hopeless. Sit back and relax and forget it a while now. You'll do better tomorrow.”

The cadet started to open his mouth. I turned hastily around and sat down in my c.o.c.kpit and opened the throttle wide open. The engine roared.

I didn't hear what the cadet said.

I took off in a sharp climbing turn. I dove low at the ground, flew under some high-tension wires. I pulled up and dove low at a cow in a pasture. The cow jumped very amusingly. I pulled up and did a loop. I came out of the loop very close to the ground. It was all against army orders. It was all fun. I pulled back up to a respectable alt.i.tude and flew sedately over Brooks Field. I cut the gun to land. I looked back at the cadet. He was laughing. There were little channels in the dust on his face where the tears had run down.

ACROSS THE CONTINENT

It was 1:45 a. m. The lights of United Airport at Burbank, Calif., where I had left the ground fifteen minutes before, had disappeared. I knew the low mountains were beneath me, but I couldn't see them. I knew the high mountains several miles east of me were higher than I was, but I couldn't see them. I could see the glow of the luminous-painted dials in my instrument board in front of me. I could see the sea of lights of Los Angeles and vicinity south of me, stretching southeastward. I could see the stars in the cloudless, moonless sky above. I was circling for alt.i.tude to go over the high mountains.

At 13,000 feet I leveled out and a.s.sumed a compa.s.s course for Wichita, Kan. I pa.s.sed over the high mountains without ever seeing them. I saw only an occasional light in the blackness beneath me where I knew the mountains were. I knew from my map that there were low mountains and desert valleys beyond.

Greener country. Fertile valleys. Mountains looming. The Sangre de Cristo range loomed high in front of me. Twelve thousand feet. I pa.s.sed over it into the undulating low country beyond it. Soon I was flying over the flat fertile plains of western Kansas.

Gas trucks were waiting for me at Wichita Airport. Reporters asked me questions. They took pictures. They told me I was behind Lindbergh's time. A woman out of the crowd jumped up on the side of my s.h.i.+p and kissed me. I was off the ground, headed for New York, fifteen minutes after I had landed.