The Project Gutenberg eBook of Flood waters
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Title: Flood waters
Author: Leland S. Jamieson
Illustrator: Paul Lehman
Release date: January 1, 2025 [eBook #75015]
Language: English
Original publication: Chicago, IL: The Consolidated Magazines Corporation, 1929
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLOOD WATERS ***
[Illustration: It was clearing nicely, when the right wing tip struck
the bank.]
FLOOD WATERS
By Leland S. Jamieson
A stirring story of an adventure by the Kelly Field pilot who
gave us “The Affair of the Juxacanna” and other memorable stories.
Illustrated by Paul Lehman
Slow rain for days, falling interminably from leaden skies that hovered
just above the earth. A chill northeast wind, gusty at times, never
changing in direction; a wind that brought more rain. The dreary patter
of water on shingled roofs, falling now as a gusty shower, sounding like
a handful of pebbles striking overhead; then settling into a slow
descent maddening in its monotony. Gray dampness in the air; a sticky
dampness that soaked through one’s clothing and into everything. Day
after day, tedious in its incessancy, dribbling down in a steady,
growing stream that seemed mechanical. Rain falling from a solid blanket
of wet fog above, in which there were no broken patches, no blue sky, no
promise of relief.
For a week rain fell almost unbrokenly, until every slight depression in
the ground, every track of man or beast, held water that dully
glistened. Roads became impassable; here and there a car was stuck, its
rear wheels burrowed deep in mire that had no bottom. Teams of horses,
their backs steaming from the moisture in their coats, struggled through
the slimy, glutinous muck, tugging patiently at wagons piled high with
the household goods of refugees. Gaunt-eyed men, their faces blackened
from days of neglect, sloshed wearily along behind their teams, turning
now and then to speak some word of encouragement or caution to their
wives and children who clung to precarious positions among the
water-whitened furniture on the wagons.
The rain continued unabated. Creeks and bayous, dry ordinarily, filled
now to their banks, then overspread the flattened countryside with their
regurgitations. Inch by inch the water crept up, snarling viciously at
the underpiling of bridges, grinding sedulously at the approaches of
culverts and the embankments of fills. One by one the bridges over
streams and creeks gave way to the ugly swirlings of the water; one by
one the avenues of escape were beaten down; men and women and children
were trapped, some of them to be snatched, horror-stricken, by the muddy
flood when the earth of roadways was eroded relentlessly away beneath
their feet. Others, more fortunate, reached higher ground; but even they
were hardly better situated, for they were cut off without sufficient
food or clothing. Disease set in; death threatened hideously the
survivors who existed now in wretched deprivation on the tops of hills
or ridges. Helpless in themselves, they stolidly awaited help; and yet
they knew that for many of their number it would not come in time.
* * * * *
“The Mississippi had been in flood stage nearly a week before Nick
Wentworth, chief pilot of the U. S. Air Patrol, received orders from
Stiles, of the Treasury Department, to drop his work with prohibition
and narcotic officers on the Border and proceed with all his ships to
Little Rock for work under a representative of the Army seventh corps
area. The quartet of Patrol pilots departed at once, arriving in the
Arkansas town in the afternoon of the day Nick received his orders. They
reported to Major Morehouse, of the Army Air Corps, for instructions.
The Major, an austere man who had been harried almost to a nervous
collapse during the past three days, explained the situation quickly.
“The water covers the entire river district,” he told them. “Some of the
smaller towns near the Mississippi are completely submerged, and most of
the people who lived in them are camped for the time being in emergency
quarters on high ground--out of danger if the water doesn’t rise, or if
disease doesn’t become too prevalent. Conditions are frightful. We can’t
hope to do very much in getting these people out of the flooded area
entirely, but we can take food and medical supplies forward and drop
them wherever they are needed. I’ll want all four of your planes in the
air constantly; I’ll have mechanics at your disposal so you can save
your energy for flying. What we want is action--speed; you’ve no idea of
what the people down there are going through.”
“What about landing-fields?” Nick asked.
“I’ll send you down to Monticello tomorrow. A small field is available
there, and in a few days a new field at Pine Bluff should be finished--”
A telephone at the Major’s elbow jangled restlessly, and he paused to
answer it. He listened tensely, nodding his head and speaking a word of
confirmation or denial occasionally, scratching down figures and jumbled
words upon a pad of paper as the information was forthcoming. Presently
he hung up the receiver and turned back to the Patrol pilots. His face
was grave.
“Have any of you men had experience flying big ships--transports?” he
asked. “Quick,” he added, when no one spoke for a moment. “Wentworth,
can you fly an Army transport?”
Nick had had some experience with the large planes used by the Army in
transporting passengers and supplies, but he was by no means an expert
in handling one of them, especially under the operating conditions he
knew he would encounter in bad weather and wet landing-fields. But the
Major’s manner forewarned him of some emergency to be met, and he
replied, “Yes, sir, Major. What’s up?”
“Train wreck. Piled up down near McLearson--trying to get through with
supplies before the roadbed washed out. Hit a soft place in a fill and
went into a ditch. Engine crew hurt badly, and a brakeman isn’t expected
to pull through--engine fell on him when it went over--both legs
crushed.”
“Where’s the plane I’m to take?” Nick asked.
“Wait,” said the Major. “There’s no place for you to land at McLearson.
The nearest landing-field is at Plateau--twelve miles north of there.
You’ll have to get a boat at Plateau and go after ’em. You land at
Plateau and I’ll try to get word through that you’re on the way. I’ll
have the ship fixed up with three stretchers and a place for a doctor.”
He telephoned his orders to the crew-chief of the plane, then turned
back to Nick. “If you can’t get down at Plateau, find a landing-field as
near McLearson as you can, then go back to the wreck and drop a note
telling them where you’re going to land. You’ve got only three hours of
daylight left, so you’ll have to hurry. I can’t send a mechanic with you
because they’ve got more work than they can do--rush stuff. I’ll put
your other pilots to work.”
* * * * *
Nick found his plane--a single-motored Douglas--in the hangar, with
mechanics just finishing the transformation of its cabin to an
ambulance. He waited impatiently while these men pushed the huge plane
out on the flying-field and warmed up its motor; then, after a final
scrutiny of his map, he climbed up into the cockpit.
The flying-field was muddy to such an extreme that any kind of flying
from it was hazardous. Ten days of ceaseless rain, falling in a slow
drizzle that allowed the water on the ground to soak in, had transformed
the sodded surface into a slushy expanse of blackish, soupy mud that was
flung from the revolving wheels of the ship like spray from the bow of a
racing speedboat. The Douglas was slow in starting to roll over the
ground; it was slower yet in lifting itself, light as was its load, but
finally it climbed awkwardly into the air. Nick turned quickly away from
the field, making no effort to climb for altitude, and settled the ship
upon a compass course that would take him directly to McLearson,
seventy-five miles to the southeast.
Fifteen miles out of Little Rock he crossed the engorged Arkansas River,
its waters flattened out over an area of ten miles on either side of the
main channel. The water looked like some huge tropical lake, with
weather-blackened vegetation jutting raggedly up through the surface and
extending a few feet into the air. Here and there was a high ridge or
hill, and not infrequently Nick could distinguish the tents of refugees
pitched in precarious uncertainty upon their topmost areas.
Occasionally, and with increasing recurrence as he neared the badly
flooded area, a rowboat flicked past under the wings of the racing
plane--rescuers seeking out the isolated people stranded upon the tops
of barns and houses. These men waved as the plane passed over them, and
Nick waved in response. Almost paralleling the course of the Arkansas,
Nick presently passed a town, the low buildings of which were all
engulfed in the sluggish flood. In the railroad yards, as he passed, he
saw the tops of freight cars; and a few hundred yards up the track from
the station a locomotive was stalled, canted on the rails, as if the
roadbed had partially been torn away from under it.
* * * * *
After fifty minutes in the air Nick saw McLearson, and he turned to the
left and followed the invisible track toward where he expected to see
the wreckage of the train. He knew, from his map, that McLearson was at
the end of the railroad, and he observed, when he passed the town, that
it was almost completely out of water. It was situated on high ground,
and the flood had not as yet climbed to that level. Fields surrounding
the town were water-soaked and glistening; they were without exception
small, and partially or completely surrounded by tall timber. Nick
examined them appraisingly as he passed, but could not find one that
would be suitable. There was only one in which he could have landed, and
with three men and a doctor in the cabin of the plane, he would have no
chance of taking off again.
The railway yards in McLearson were out of water, but immediately north
of the town the right-of-way dropped into a cut and out of sight. Nick,
taking his direction from the portion of the track that he could see,
flew up the road for two miles, found the wrecked train, and circled
over it.
The locomotive had left the track and was lying now upon its side in the
water a few feet from the edge of the rails. The cab and tender were
more than half hidden by the muddy water. When he saw the engine Nick
wondered how the crew had escaped at all!
The first box-car also had left the rails, but had remained upright, and
was now standing in water that covered the trucks and lapped at the
bottom of the car. The other cars of the train--three--had not been
derailed, and from the platform of the caboose two men waved excitedly
as Nick passed them at a low altitude. He raised his hand in a return
salute, then flew on toward Plateau.
* * * * *
Since leaving McLearson, he had been wondering how the injured men could
be brought ten or twelve miles in a boat in time for the plane to return
to Little Rock before darkness set in. If the brakeman were in serious
condition, it would prove difficult to transfer him without increased
injury to his wounds. If the case were as urgent as seemed apparent, a
landing at Plateau would take too long! For ten minutes he flew,
holding, as near as he could estimate, the line of the right-of-way. The
water, as he proceeded, was deeper; the track was nowhere evident.
At Plateau, although the town was above the flood level, the
flying-field was almost completely submerged. At one corner of the area,
fluttering in damp dejection, the “wind sock” showed that the wind still
blew from the northeast. Nick looked the place over and shook his head.
He was doubtful about attempting a landing there; after several moments’
consideration he decided that the pasture at McLearson would prove
better, so he turned back and raced downwind.
[Illustration: From the platform of the caboose, men waved excitedly
as Nick passed them.]
The “field” at McLearson was in reality a farmer’s rye pasture. The
green shoots had pushed themselves through the water-soaked soil and
into open air; yet they did not form a sod, and Nick could see, even
from the air, that his plane’s wheels would sink down into the mud so
far that there was a possibility of “nosing over” when he landed. On
three sides of the pasture pine trees lifted themselves forty feet into
the air; on the fourth side--the one toward which Nick would approach in
landing-- there was only a low fence, which, at one point, dipped down
into a ravine and then up again to the level of the ground.
The field sloped rather steeply from the fence up toward the trees; and
the wind was blowing up the hill. Nick had his choice of landing over
the trees, into the wind and downhill, or over the fence and uphill--but
downwind. And the wind at his back increased the possibilities of the
plane nosing over when its wheels sank into the mud. But landing up the
hill was the only logical way, for the trees were so tall that if he
approached the field over them he could not settle the ship to the
ground before he reached the fence.
He cut his gun and glided in, rolling the stabilizer back until the
plane was decidedly tail-heavy. He came in on a long glide, downwind,
and crossed the fence at five feet above the ground, gunning his motor
spasmodically to keep the ship in the air until it was over the fence.
He cut his gun, jerking the lever back violently, and pulled his
control-wheel back into his stomach with both hands. The plane settled
into the mud with a soft splash; the mud from the spinning wheels
slapped up against the taut fabric of the wings with a crackle like the
splattering of hail on a tin roof.
The muck clutched at the tires and dragged them down; the plane, with
the flippers hard up, reared its tail off the ground and tried to bury
its nose into the mud in front of it, but Nick slammed the throttle open
before the propeller was far enough down to flick the ground. The
propeller blast slapped back at the tail, but at the same time it pulled
forward on the plane, and thus created forces that opposed each other.
While the tail tended to be blown down into its proper position, the
wheels were almost stuck, and tended to nose the ship downward. The tail
remained four feet in the air--higher than normal take-off position--and
gradually the plane decelerated to a pace that permitted safe taxying.
The mud was so deep that at fifteen hundred revolutions of the
propeller, the ship barely crept over the ground.
“I’ve gummed things now!” Nick muttered, when the ship had stopped.
“We’ll never get out of this field before next summer! That brakeman
will have to stay where he is.”
But, hopeless as he was of taking off from the field again, he left the
Douglas in a corner of the field and hurried to town. He went first to
the depot, and routed out the station agent.
“Where’re the men who got hurt in the train wreck?” he asked. “I’m down
here with an airplane--an ambulance--to take them to a hospital.”
“Up the track a piece,” the agent replied. “The conductor walked back
through the water and told us about ’em, but there haint nothin’ we can
do about it.”
“Do? Haven’t you got a boat?”
“No, haint a boat in McLearson. The conductor, he thought they’d send a
seaplane down here for ’em--they’re still up there in the caboose. I
reckon that brakeman’s sufferin’ suthin’ too, the way he got that engine
on his legs! Wouldn’t be surprised they’d have to amp’tate them legs.
Mirac’lous, too; he’d oughtta been drowned, but somehow or other he got
out from under that engine!”
* * * * *
Nick looked at his watch. He had consumed an hour and twenty-five
minutes of precious time in getting to McLearson; only slightly more
than that amount remained before darkness, and at all costs he must be
in the air before night: he knew that he would never get out of the
field after dusk--if he did then.
“Got a hand-car around here?” he asked the agent.
“Nothin’ but a push-car--you couldn’t do no good with that. The water’d
come up over the top of it. We thought o’ that, but we knew we’d drownd
them fellers if we tried to bring ’em through on a push-car.”
“Where is it? We’re going after those men. Is a doctor up there with
them?”
“Sure, they’s a doctor up there--walked up through the water. But I’m
a-tellin’ you, you can’t do no good with a push-car.”
“Get it!” Nick snapped, and the agent moved with alacrity to obey. While
he was gone Nick looked around the yards. A pile of ties stood back of
one switch, and he estimated their weight.
“Now, Mister,” he told the agent, when the man returned, “we’re going to
load this car with ties so the tops of them are out of water, and we’re
going after those men! Are you good at pushing?”
In spite of his objections and his insistence that it could not be
accomplished, the agent helped Nick pile two layers of ties upon the
hand-car, and together they pushed it up the main track toward the
wreck. It was, at best, a slow progress that they made; at times the
water rose so high that it floated the ties, and when that occurred one
of them climbed up upon the stack and weighted it down. They pushed
through cuts and over fills, all of them invisible under the murky
water, and after forty minutes arrived at the rear of the caboose.
Two of the men who had waved to Nick were standing on the platform of
the car waiting for him. One of them wore the cap of a railroad
conductor; the other was dressed in business clothes.
“You the doctor?” Nick asked the latter, and without awaiting a reply
added: “I landed my ship at McLearson. As soon as we get the men on
board it I’ll have them to a hospital in Little Rock within forty-five
minutes--or kill them trying to get off the ground.”
Doctor Matthies, a short, stumpy man, still very wet from his walk
through the water from town, introduced himself.
“We’d kill the brakeman if we tried to take him to town on a hand-car
through this water,” he said. “We thought of trying that, but he’s too
weak to be moved with safety. He ought to be in a hospital--quickly; but
we can’t take him there on any hand-car!”
“That’s what I been a-tellin’ him all the way out here!” the station
agent said resentfully. “But he don’t seem like one to--”
“Shut up!” Nick barked. “Doctor Matthies, I landed just as close to the
wreck as I could get. This hand-car is the only way to get the men to my
ship. If the brakeman can’t be moved, suppose you stay here with him and
I’ll take the others to town. I’ve got to hurry--it’ll be dark in a
little while and I’ll have--”
A woman’s wail inside the caboose startled him. He heard the groans of
one of the injured men.
“What the hell!” he ejaculated. “Is a woman out here too?”
“The brakeman’s daughter,” Doctor Matthies replied. “She came out with
me as soon as we got word. Couldn’t keep her at home--insisted on
coming. She waded out through that water right behind me!”
* * * * *
Just at that moment the girl came to the doorway of the car and stood, a
handkerchief clutched in her hands, looking at the four men. She was
sobbing brokenly; there was about her a note of tragedy, Nick thought,
but at the same time fortitude. Through tear-filled eyes she looked
quickly from one man to the other.
“Can’t you do _something_?” she choked. “Don’t just let him lie there
like that and suffer and--and--”
“We’ll do everything we can, Miss Richardson,” Doctor Matthies assured
her gravely. “Try not to worry about your father.” He went with her back
into the car.
“What about the others?” Nick asked the conductor. “Are they badly
hurt?”
“Burns, mostly. The hoghead has a broken arm, but Doc set it for him and
he’s resting pretty easy now, I guess. Tallowpot--that’s the
fireman--was on the high side when the engine went over. He got burned
some, but not bad. We were running slow--water up to the axles of the
drivers; I don’t see yet why all of ’em weren’t drowned.... Damn this
rain!”
Doctor Matthies emerged from the caboose. “Richardson is likely to die
at any time,” he told them in a whisper. “I’m sure he can’t last two
more hours unless we get him to a hospital. He’s losing blood, and I
can’t help him much--and she’s willing to risk it. He wont die any
quicker, I suppose, on that hand-car than he will lying in there. Let’s
try to take him along--we might save him.”
“All right,” said Nick. “I’d like to speak to Miss Richardson a moment.”
He called softly to her, and she came out to the platform. “My ship is
stuck in the mud at McLearson,” he told her, “and I’ll need all the men
you can get for me. I want you to hurry back to town and get all the men
in town out to my ship. It’s in a field on the north side. Now hurry.”
The girl nodded. “You hurry, too,” she said, and stepping down into the
water, she started out along the track.
* * * * *
One at a time the three injured men were carried out and placed on top
of the ties upon the hand-car. The enginemen were able to sit up,
although in terrible pain, and one of them was placed at each end of the
car. Richardson, the brakeman, was laid between them, and covered with
what blankets and coats were available. The ends of the ties were lashed
together with some small rope that was found in the caboose, making a
raft that could not break up when higher water was reached.
Slowly, for the water was rising and was higher than when the outbound
trip had been made, Nick and the conductor and the station agent started
pushing the hand-car along the track. Doctor Matthies rode upon the car,
watching the ebb and flow of Richardson’s pulse with tense
concentration.
The rain, which had fallen most of the morning in a slow drizzle, had
ceased about midafternoon; but now it commenced again, dribbling down
from lowered clouds. Nick watched the weather apprehensively, fearing
that fog might set in as dusk approached.
As they pushed the car the three men walked in water that came almost to
their hips. Their coat sleeves, being in water almost continually,
soaked up moisture and let it drain down against their bodies, bringing
even more discomfort. They stumbled for a footing on the submerged ties
below their feet, and more than once one of them would have fallen if he
had been unable to grasp the ropes that bound the ties, and thus support
himself more firmly. Progress through the water was won only by torture;
it was an ordeal in which stamina and time alone could win.
[Illustration: Progress through the water was an ordeal in which
stamina and time only could win.]
All three men were tired, Nick and the station man from pushing the
hand-car to the wreck; the conductor from his walk to McLearson to
report the accident. For nearly an hour they labored through the rising
water, saying little to each other, each bent upon conserving his
strength until the goal was reached.
At times the water lapped at the top layer of ties, almost floating them
in spite of the weight of the four men who rode there. When the water
was at its deepest, as when crossing fills in the railroad, progress was
even slower; yet somehow they slowly won advancement and kept the car
creeping through the rising flood.
* * * * *
After an hour of almost insurmountable difficulty they passed through
the last cut and rolled the car out of the water toward the station.
From that point on, their progress was much faster; they broke into a
ragged trot, using up the last of their energy in an effort to get
speed.
The streets of McLearson, though a veritable mire, were passable for
motor traffic, and Nick and Doctor Matthies loaded the three injured men
into an automobile and proceeded as quickly as possible to the edge of
town where the Douglas was waiting. Dusk was lowering down upon them;
the light of day was already failing and the rain had increased and fell
in fitful, gusty showers. The men were transferred from the car to the
stretchers of the plane, and Nick hurriedly examined the line of his
take-off. He walked the full length of the field--some seven hundred
feet--noting holes and ridges he must avoid when he started the mad rush
to get off the ground. He noticed that at one point along the
fence--where the ravine intersected it--there was danger of striking his
wing against the bank, yet because of the added slope at this point he
decided to take off toward it. He walked back to the plane quickly,
knowing that he had less than fifteen minutes of daylight still
remaining.
When he returned to the ship he found about thirty men and boys who had
come to the field at the girl’s request. He cautioned them about the
propeller, then climbed into the cockpit and started his motor,
returning to the ground, while it warmed up, to instruct the men in
aiding him to make the take-off.
“This field’s too muddy to get started rolling unless you help me,” he
said to them. “First, I want six men to go to the end of the field”--he
pointed out the ravine to them--“and wait there. I may crash this ship,
and if I do there’ll probably be a bonfire. You wont have a chance to
get me out--I’ll be right in the middle of it--but you can get the
Doctor and the men out of the cabin if you’re right there when it
happens, and work fast.”
* * * * *
“The six men whom he had selected tramped off through the mud and rain,
and Nick turned to the others. Under his instructions they picked up the
tail of the Douglas and rolled the ship back until the tail-surfaces
were almost against the fence; then, with the Patrol pilot telling each
of them where to stand, they stationed themselves in two groups at the
trailing edge of the lower wings, each man having a handhold on the
wing.
“When I open the throttle,” said Nick, “I want every man of you to push
like hell! I mean push! Run with the ship just as long as you can keep
up with it pushing--but don’t trail along behind after it is going
faster than you can run. When you let go of the wing, look out you don’t
get hit by the tail--step to one side and get out of the way.”
* * * * *
“He climbed into the cockpit again and settled himself in the seat. He
was surprised, just as he was ready to gun his motor, by the girl’s
appearance through the passageway between the pilot’s compartment and
the passenger’s room to the rear. She stepped up through the aisleway
and seated herself at Nick’s side.
“The Doctor wont let me ride back there,” she said without emotion. “I
wanted to be near my daddy all the time, but he wont let me. I’ll have
to ride up here.”
“You’d better climb down,” Nick replied hurriedly. “There’s no telling
what may happen to this plane--we may all be killed. I don’t want you on
board if we crash.”
The girl looked up at him gravely, but made no move to get out of the
cockpit.
“Hurry!” Nick ordered. “It’s almost dark and I’ve got to get away from
here! I can’t take you.”
“I wont get out,” she said, without raising her voice. “My daddy is in
this airplane and I’m going to stay near him. If we--if we have an
accident and all get killed--well, I’m not going to get out, anyhow!”
“Listen, girl,” Nick snapped, “I haven’t got time to listen to the whims
of anybody! I’m trying to save your father’s life. Now you get back
there on the ground--and get there in a hurry! It’s getting dark!”
“I wont! You’ll have to throw me out! My father will need me when we get
to the hospital, and this is the only way I can get there.” She began to
sob. “Anyway,”--she looked at him pitifully,--“anyway, he’s my papa
and--and--”
“All right,” said Nick, as gently as his temper would permit; “but get
that safety belt around you.” He helped her fasten the safety belt
around her waist. “I don’t want any of my passengers thrown out on their
necks when we turn over.”
He made a last inspection of the plane, then unbuckled his own belt and
climbed to the ground. He let the air out of both tires, so that they
were almost entirely deflated, and presented a flat cushion to the mud.
“Almost forgot that!” He grinned at the waiting men. “All ready? Now for
God’s sakes _push_!”
* * * * *
“In the cockpit again he opened the radiator shutters so that the motor
wouldn’t boil under the labor of the take-off, raised his goggles to his
forehead so that his eyes would be free from shattering glass in case
the plane crashed at the end of the field, and pressed the throttle
slowly forward until it struck the end of the slot. The motor picked up
its revolutions slowly--it was swinging a big propeller--and gradually
the ship began to roll, mushing down into the soft mud as each foot of
advance was gained. Nick felt its tendency to nose-over as it picked up
a little speed, and he was forced to pull his flippers up to prevent the
nose from burying itself in the ground, although in doing that he knew
that he prolonged the take-off. Half the length of the field had been
used before the men who were pushing against ship began to drop away
from their places at the wings; when that much speed had been obtained
the acceleration was fairly rapid, and within a hundred feet more the
last man let go his hold upon the wing and flung himself upon his face
to dodge the tail of the ship as it flicked over him.
The take-off had been made directly toward the ravine, just as Nick had
planned it, but he expected the Douglas to pick up speed quicker than it
did. When the edge of the ravine was reached, the fence still fifty feet
away, it was not yet in the air. It rolled over the edge of the ravine
and settled down, picking up speed more quickly because of the greater
slope. Slowly it began to rise; it was clearing the ground nicely when
the wing-tip on the right side struck the bank of the declivity with a
soft, sickening sound. The ship swung sharply, shuddering and almost out
of control, to the right; for a moment it seemed to hesitate as if
wavering just before a fatal plunge into the ground. But Nick was quick
on the controls; he wound the wheel hard over and leveled the plane in
time to prevent the crash; he looked out along the right wing and saw
that three feet of the wing-tip had been torn away, and was hanging now,
an inert but dangerous mass of débris, to the spars and wires of the
wing structure.
* * * * *
“With full aileron control depressing the left wing of the plane, it
would fly level, but try as he might, Nick could not roll the ship into
a left bank. He skidded the Douglas around in a left turn, hoping to
increase the lift on the right wing enough to bring it up into a
higher-than-normal position, which would have offset to some degree the
decreased lifting surface of the right wing caused by the accident. He
eased the plane around, finally reaching the direction which he must fly
toward Little Rock, but the plane was still flying level--with the
aileron control hard over to the left side.
Above him now, Nick saw the darker gloom of wet clouds, three hundred
feet above the earth. At times he flew in the base of them, the black
water of the earth invisible below. Rain still filtered out of the
clouds, and the ship flew into it and brought it back into the faces of
Nick and the girl with a velocity that made it feel like grape-shot. It
was almost impossible to face it, yet it must be faced; refuge behind
the windshield of the ship was impossible--the utter black of the night
required constant vigilance.
* * * * *
“For perhaps five minutes the Douglas handled normally enough that Nick
was able to hold it on its course, flying by “feel” and his compass and
his altimeter. A gnawing fear of a hidden hill or ridge in front of him
clutched at the Patrol pilot; he had had friends who met their death by
colliding with such barriers, made invisible by fog or darkness. From
the disablement of the plane itself there seemed no immediate danger of
a crash; it was extremely right-wing-heavy, but still manageable.
He was seven minutes away from McLearson, battling doggedly with the
Douglas, when he felt a severe shock against his controls. He could not
see what had happened, because of the darkness, but a moment later he
felt the plane rolling into a right bank. He realized, then, that some
part of the injured wing had given way. He did not know whether a crash
would result immediately or not, but he knew that the crash would come,
in spite of everything he could do. He experienced a pang of regret for
the injured men--they would never see a hospital; if not killed in the
crash, they would drown in the angry water into which they would be
thrown when the ship lunged in!
The girl beside Nick had seen the wing strike the bank and had seen him
struggling with the controls since that time. Perhaps she understood
something of what was taking place, but that realization produced no
display of emotion. She looked at the damaged wing, then at Nick, then
down into the blackness beyond which the ugly waters of the flood were
concealed. She looked back at Nick--and _smiled_!
The Douglas had been rolling into a steeper bank momentarily. Nick knew
that it was a matter of a few seconds until it would tilt up and slide
off into the ground--unless, by some means, a weight could be placed on
the left wing to counteract the decreased lifting surface of the right
one. He placed his lips to the girl’s ear and shouted out his lungs
above the roar of the motor.
“Going to crash!” he yelled. “Climb out on the left wing to balance the
ship! Hurry!”
The girl nodded. Nick unbuckled her safety belt with a single fling of
his hand, and she stepped up on the cowling just behind the cockpit.
Slowly, fighting for every inch of progress against the biting wind and
the sting of rain, she made her way to the edge of the fuselage and down
upon the left lower wing. The force of the propeller blast struck her
and slammed her up against the cutting edges of the streamlined
flying-wires; by the pale glow of the exhaust Nick could see her
clutching desperately to hold her place. She moved farther out upon the
wing, and Nick lost her in the darkness; but he knew that she made
progress because the ship slowly began to right itself. As she neared
the wing-tip the plane resumed normal flying position.
* * * * *
“Clinging against the strut, clutching the icy metal to save her life
and the lives of all the men in the plane, the girl fought the cold and
fatigue and growing numbness for forty minutes. Nick opened his throttle
wide and the ship plunged through the darkness at a hundred and twenty
miles an hour, despite the resistance of the débris that clung to the
jagged spars of the broken wing-tip. He flew entirely by his compass
now; the lights of towns below had been blotted out when the flood
waters destroyed power-lines. He wondered how long the girl could stay
there, for he realized the fight she was putting up to cling to the
strut.
The lights of Little Rock blinked up ahead of them at last, and Nick
circled the field and landed by the beacon light. The plane rolled out
of the beam, and Nick turned back to the hangar. He taxied to the “line”
and without stopping his motor scrambled out along the wing to help Miss
Richardson to the ground.
But she was not there!
* * * * *
“Nick was stunned. He pictured her being torn from the strut by the fury
of the wind; he visualized her falling into the black waters of the
flood. Then he realized that she had fallen to the ground after he had
landed; otherwise the plane would have been unbalanced, and he would
have been unable to maintain it on an even keel. She was somewhere on
the flying-field, probably having fallen in exhaustion, when the Douglas
landed.
Borrowing a flashlight, and leaving the injured men to the care of
Doctor Matthies, Nick hurried out across the flying-field, throwing the
beam of light ahead of him, swinging it back and forth across the wheel
tracks and out into the misty gloom of the flying-field. He broke into a
run, splashing through the mud wearily. He reached the point where he
had turned the ship out of the beacon light, then hunted downwind in the
darkness toward the point where the plane’s wheels first had touched the
ground.
Failing to find her there, he retraced his steps to the plane--and found
her almost under the wing, lying prostrate in the muddy water of the
field, unconscious and exhausted from her struggle with the elements of
Nature. He picked her up gently and carried her to where an ambulance
was waiting.
In the ambulance, with Nick and Doctor Matthies riding by her side, she
opened her eyes and looked vaguely around her. She recognized them both
presently; then her gaze wandered out the window of the car. At last she
looked back at them.
“We made it, didn’t we?” she asked weakly. “Will--will Daddy get all
right?”
Doctor Matthies patted her hand. “He’ll be all right,” he said softly.
“He’s better now--he’s at the hospital.”
She was silent again for several minutes, and then smiled wanly.
“I’m sorry I fell off--I didn’t know what happened--I was so cold. If
Papa just gets well--”
“Try to sleep now,” said the Doctor. “You can see him in the morning.”
“I knew he would get well--if I could just stay out there on that
wing.... I’m sure he will--now....” And a moment later, to Nick:
“Sometime, when you’re not too busy, could I take a ride with
you--_inside_ your airplane?”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 1929 issue of
The Blue Book Magazine.]
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