Part 17 (2/2)

He said that he had landed in it himself.

George took him up in his Travelair cabin s.h.i.+p. He arrived over the Commander's house and the Commander pointed out the field. ”It's full of cows,” George objected. ”That's all right,” the Commander told him, ”just buzz the field a couple of times and somebody will come out and chase the cows away.”

George did, and sure enough somebody came out and chased the cows off the field.

”I still can't land there,” George remonstrated. ”The field is too small.”

”Sure you can,” the Commander a.s.sured him; ”I've done it.”

George circled the field again. He said it looked like a good-sized pocket handkerchief to him and was surrounded by tall trees.

”Are you sure you've landed there?” George insisted.

”Sure, I have,” the Commander rea.s.sured him. ”Go ahead, you can get in it.”

George thought to himself that if the Commander had got in there, by golly, he could too. He said he finally squashed down over the trees, falling more than gliding, and dropped into the field with a smack that should have cracked the s.h.i.+p up but didn't. He stopped fifty feet from the row of trees by standing on his brakes and cutting the switches. He said he didn't know how the h.e.l.l he was going to get out of the place without dismantling the s.h.i.+p.

That night, in the Commander's house, over a drink, George asked him, ”Come, now, Commander, tell me the truth. Did you really land in that field?”

”Certainly I did,” the Commander said. ”It was back in 1912, and I was flying a Wright pusher.” George sneezed into his drink. The Wright pushers land so slow they can be flown off a dining-room table.

”And do you remember those trees around the field?” the Commander asked.

George remembered. ”Well, they were only bushes in 1912.”

”LOOK WHO TAUGHT HER”

I was trying to teach my wife to fly. I thought every flyer's wife should know something about flying. It would be so convenient on cross-country trips if Dee could spell me off on the controls. I was having very little success. In the first place, Dee's eyes weren't good, which is a decided disadvantage, and in the second place she just couldn't seem to catch on. She had no coordination. I sweated and struggled and cursed. ”Don't skid on the turns,” I moaned. ”The rudder and the stick must be used together. If you put the stick to the right, push the right rudder. If you put the stick to the left, use the left rudder.” And the s.h.i.+p would grind around on another skid.

Dee didn't take her flying as seriously as I did. She didn't particularly want to learn to fly except to please me. I thought if I could instill in her a sense of shame at her lack of coordination maybe she would improve. I picked a day when she was more than usually bad.

The plane had been in every conceivable position but the right one. She had skidded and slipped and wobbled all over the sky. My temper was getting the best of me.

”Dee,” I said, ”haven't you any pride about learning how to fly? Other women learn how. Look at all the girls who fly, and fly d.a.m.n well. Look at Anne Lindbergh, for instance. She has been doing a wonderful job on that Bird plane. She solos all over the place, and she only took it up a little while ago.”

Dee looked at me a minute and said, ”Well, look who taught her.”

I gave up teaching my wife how to fly.

A FAULTY RESCUE

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