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Title: The sky jinx
Author: Raoul Whitfield
Release date: September 16, 2026 [eBook #79598]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Butterick Publishing Company, 1927
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79598
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SKY JINX ***
THE SKY JINX
By Raoul F. Whitfield
Eddie Bride had got himself a reputation as a hard luck
flyer in France, and seemed to be out for a new record
with the Philippine Air patrol
It’s strange how some men will remember a face and forget a voice, while
others will pick up a lost thread in just the opposite way. In my case
I’m pretty good at registering a face. But it isn’t that way with Prop
Owens. When it comes to picking out a voice—he’s a wizard. And his eyes
let him down on human face shapes. Actually, he doesn’t care about a
man’s looks. But he claims he can tell almost everything by the way a
fellow speaks up, or doesn’t speak. Maybe he’s right.
Hot? The old Walled City _can_ be hot in the dry season when there isn’t
much of a breeze edging in toward Manila from Cavite and the bay.
Everything is so dry that it crackles, and you get that tired feeling
inside and a dry taste along the roof of your mouth. The natives and
Chinks move along and grin about it. The whites move along, but they
don’t always grin. They curse the luck that keeps them away from Baguio
up in the mountains.
Prop Owens didn’t curse any such luck. As a couple of Army pilots we
didn’t rate Baguio trips, not at this time of the season, anyway. We
were due out at Burton Field in about two hours; Juan Rizaros had set us
up to a pretty decent meal over in the Walled City. We were a bit
stuffed and we figured that the walk up to the Army and Navy Club,
overlooking one end of the Luneta, wouldn’t do any harm. So we walked.
And it was while we were walking that we heard the voice. It pulled us
up short.
“—got her over in a loop—and let go both guns. The left one jammed—but
the other baby poured out a nice stream of lead. Did I get that Boche?
I’ll say so! Got him plenty, if I do say it myself. Got him plenty!”
I looked at Prop. He was staring with wide eyes toward the screened
windows beyond one of the several balconies of an old section house. The
place was similar to many in the Walled City; the voice was not. It had
a peculiar grating quality. And it used air words. There aren’t so many
flyers in Manila that it didn’t give me a little jolt—that combination
of voice and words. And it was clear that it gave Joe Owens a greater
jolt.
Prop was still staring up toward the screened windows. His eyes were
narrowed now.
“Hell!” he breathed. “It’s Eddie Bride! It’s the Jinx!”
I stared back at Prop. We’d all heard about Bride at Burton. He was
something of a joke in the Service and yet not such an awful joke, at
that. He could fly, but everything he climbed into got into trouble.
“Jinx” Bride they’d tagged him when I was down on the Border patrol in
Texas. He’d been at Nome then and had just cracked up with a ranking
major. The major went out in the crash, but Bride had got off with a few
goggle cuts. I never had met him. His whole Service history seemed to be
a sequence of tough breaks, tougher for the other guy in the ship than
for Bride.
“When did you see him last, Prop?” I asked in a low tone.
Prop smiled grimly. He’s tall and rather lean and he got his tag for
designing one of the sweetest big ship propellers they’re using today.
His gray eyes went up toward the window again. But the voice had died;
apparently those inside had gone into another room of the house.
“Come on!” Prop grabbed me by the arm. “Up to the Escolta for a drink.
We’ll pass up the club. I want to locate Bert. He’ll be around Clark’s,
most likely. Likes the Dutch music.”
I grunted. Something was up, that was clear. Prop was thinking hard and
he was thinking _back_. He was passing up the club for Clark’s soft
drink place where the music wasn’t Dutch at all, but native—stringed
instruments strummed by Filipinos—but Prop always termed it Dutch music.
Easier to say, was his theory, which isn’t such a bad one in a hot
country.
“Why chase Bert Allen?” I asked as we walked along, our pace set by Prop
considerably faster than it had been before. “And are you sure it was
the Jinx?”
Prop swore softly.
“I’ll never forget that voice,” he stated. “Long time since I’ve heard
it, Mac. Ten years, over in France. It’s Bride, all right. He’s
transferred to Burton, ten to one. The _Thomas_ got in today. He’s come
in on that transport. The Jinx at Burton Field! And Bert Allen—”
He’d been thinking out loud and he caught himself suddenly and shut up.
I swore softly. It was almost dark, but it was still too hot for such
walking. We were both getting soaked.
“To hell with the Jinx!” I muttered. “I’m not killing myself because a
bum pilot got transferred down to these Islands. Take it easy.”
I had slowed down, and I was talking to the air. Prop was moving faster
than ever; his long legs had carried him yards ahead of me. It looked as
if he’d forgotten I’d existed. I stared after him, slowed down some
more, lighting a pill. Let him go—that was the thing to do. And I did
it. It was too hot for speed.
But the thing that got me was why Prop was going in for it. What did he
care? And where did Bert Allen come in? Bert had been in France with
Prop, but what of that? A lot of us had been in that country ten years
ago. Bride had been across, too. I grinned.
* * * * *
“Maybe he owes Bert money,” I muttered to myself. “Bert owes Prop some,
and the lean guy figures he’ll put Bert wise so that he can collect from
the Jinx and pay up.”
But I didn’t really figure it that way. I turned toward the bay, toward
the Army and Navy Club. Across the Luneta, where the band played at
twilight, rose the shape of the Manila Hotel. Two weeks ago I’d nearly
pulled a court-martial for coming close to leaving a wing on its roof. I
swore when I thought of that. The tropic heat didn’t help ship engines
to keep you in the air. It would be a nice field for this fellow
Bride—the Islands. Hard enough without jinxing yourself.
I climbed the steps of the club. It was too hot to worry about tomorrow.
And Prop would be back in a little while. I went around to the bay side
and sprawled in a fan-backed wicker chair. I slept a bit on the screened
porch. The breeze that came in from the bay was tepid, ghastly, but it
was a breeze.
Something gripping my shoulder woke me in a hurry. It was Prop’s right
hand. His face held a grim expression.
“Lieutenant Bride’s been picked up by native policemen,” he told me.
“They’ve taken him to the hospital. Fractured skull and some bad cuts on
his face. Happened a half hour ago, around the corner from the Anderson
place where we heard him bragging. He met the Andersons in Frisco and
went over right away, right after he landed. Bride’s almost finished.”
I stared up at Prop.
“Who got him?” I snapped.
Prop dropped into a chair beside mine. We were alone on the club porch.
“Listen, Mac, and don’t shoot off what I tell you. Maybe you can help.”
His voice was low, steady.
“I ran into Bert up at Clarke’s and told him that Bride was in town.
There was something else I wanted to tell him, too, but he just got up
and shoved me out of the way. He caught a Filipino go-cart right outside
of Clarke’s, and I didn’t have that much luck. But I knew where he was
going. When I got near the Anderson place—didn’t know whose it was then,
of course—I heard two native cops shrilling and jabbering the way they
do. I had my man pull his pony up and I went over to them. Bride was
lying on the cobbles, bleeding like a stuck pig. He was unconscious,
looked bad. I did some first aid work and called an ambulance from the
General Hospital.”
Prop stopped talking. His gray eyes were narrowed on mine.
“Just one thing, Mac. They’ll raise the devil about this, of course.
Your job—” he hesitated and then went on grimly—“is to forget I was
looking for Bert Allen at Clark’s. I’ve come through with you. Am I
clear?”
I shook my head.
“Not all the way. You haven’t come through, Prop,” I stated. “As for
Allen, he’s forgotten. Pretty tough on the Jinx, though, isn’t it? Are
you sure Bert got him?”
Prop fished in his pocket, pulled out a button. It was a dress coat Army
button. I looked at it, then at Prop.
“It was laying in between a couple of cobbles,” he told me. “The cops
were so excited they weren’t even thinking about looking around. Bert
was in dress, Mac—and all the buttons were on Bride’s coat.”
I nodded.
“Looks like you made a mess of your news, Prop,” I told him.
He nodded. There was a peculiar expression in his eyes. He spoke in a
low tone.
“I was trying to break it to Bert and then talk to him,” he stated, “but
I didn’t get in the talk. I’m not saying Bert was right, Mac. If Bride
goes under, then we can do some thinking. But if he pulls out, you
forget about Allen. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Not that I hand Bert much for slugging the Jinx.”
“You weren’t there, were you?” Prop snapped. “And that’s something you
don’t know anything about.”
I nodded.
“Why’d he do it, Prop?” I asked, getting up from the chair.
Prop shook his head. He bummed a cigarette from me, lighted up.
“Do what?” he asked me grimly. “Come on, let’s get a bus for the field!”
* * * * *
Jinx Bride was a pretty tough gent, I’ll have to admit that. He didn’t
go out. Instead, he came out of the General Hospital at the end of a
week’s time. There was still a bandage on his head; his face bore a few
marks of his encounter. The boys at the field weren’t foolish enough to
joke about that slamming down, but it was evident to them that
Lieutenant Edward Bride still had his jinx along.
I ran into him near the north end of the deadline the morning he came
out for his first hop. He was medium-sized, with reddish-brown hair and
had a peculiar squint to his brown eyes. We shook hands, and he looked
me over as if he were sizing me up for some sort of a job that was
vacant and over which he had the big say.
“MacAndrews.” He rolled my name over his tongue, his voice rather loud,
and his eyes on mine. “Name seems familiar. Ever been in France?”
I yawned. His tone didn’t please me, and I guessed what was coming.
“Once,” I stated. “You ever been there?”
He stiffened, his eyes narrowing.
“Hell, yes!” he stated. “Got four officially—and plenty unofficially.”
I blinked.
“Four what?” I asked mildly. “Trips across?”
He wasn’t any fool and he was wise right away that I was stringing along
with him. And he didn’t like it.
“What were you doing?” he snapped. “Ferrying them up from Romo for us to
fight with?”
That got me a little sore, so I let him have it. Maybe the fact that the
heat was getting me a bit helped along.
“Listen, Jinx!” I snapped back. “Down here it’s too hot to talk and fly
both. So we fly, see?”
His face had gone a little white at the tag I used. And I hadn’t meant
to use it. But he’d started the thing and he finished it.
“You fly down here, eh?” he came back. “And you slug, too!”
With that he turned away. I stared after him. Since Prop had given me
the dope that night at the club I’d figured that Bride had known who had
battered him down. It was ten to one that Bert Allen hadn’t just hit him
from behind. The crack on his head had come from contact with the
cobbles, but he’d been hit several times in the face.
“Tough baby, even if he is a jinx!” I muttered to myself. “And he knows
who got him, all right. But then, he would. Bert isn’t the breed who
hits from behind. The thing is why did Bert go after him in such—”
I broke off. Prop was coming toward me, a grim smile on his face. His
eyes went past me to the retreating figure of Jinx Bride.
“Is he flying this morning?” he asked me slowly.
I grunted.
“He’s not telling me about it, that’s sure,” I stated. “He was talking
about the war.”
“What war?” Prop grinned. “Oh, I get you. Well, he would. He’s been
doing that for years. Didn’t say anything about getting knocked cold
that night, Mac?”
I nodded.
“He did.”
I told him how Bride had expressed it. Prop’s eyes narrowed to little
slits. One of the two Douglas ships that had come down from the States a
month ago got off the field, her left wing drooping a bit. We both
watched her climb toward the clouds that were drifting up north from
Mindoro way.
“That’s Bert up,” Prop muttered. “Mac, I don’t like it. Bride’s too
damned calm about things. He’s waiting for something to break. Never
cracked a word to the board. You read the report—native gone heat crazy,
attacking him. What a lot of bunk that was! Why, even the boys are wise
that something funny happened that night.”
“Bert’s been ducking me,” I told Prop. “What did he say to you about
it?”
“He’s been running out on me, too,” Prop returned. “I got hold of him
the day after the mess, and he pulled the surprise stuff. I told him to
come out of it, that I knew he’d started for the Walled City, and he got
sore. Acted sore, anyway. Said he’d done nothing of the sort.”
I rolled a pill.
“Come through, big boy!” I muttered. “What’s Bert got against Jinx
Bride? Why did he tackle him that night?”
Prop jerked his helmet down over the top of his head. He looked at me
blankly.
“I don’t get you, Mac,” he stated cheerfully. “Did I seem to give you
the idea that Bert has anything against—”
“Bunk!” I interrupted. “Say, they’re putting out a ground strip for Bert
now!”
Sure enough, they were putting out the come down signal with a couple of
strips of white cloth. Bert was banking the two-place Douglas around,
gliding for the field already. I looked at Prop Owens.
“Why not come through?” I asked. “You’ve told me plenty, why not the
rest of it?”
Prop shook his head.
“You don’t want to get mixed up in this deal, Mac,” he stated. “If I
think you can do any good I’ll let you all the way in. Otherwise, you
stay dumb, see? Then, if there’s an accident—”
He broke off, watching the Douglas hit tailskid and rubber in a sweet
landing. I grunted, as he gave no evidence of finishing. I was getting a
little sore, so I decided to try and scare him.
“All right, Prop, but get this. If anything funny happens to Jinx Bride,
and you don’t come all the way through, I’ll have something to say; not
that I’m crazy about the Jinx, but I’d kind of like to see him get a
square deal.”
Prop smiled grimly. Bert was taxing the ship toward the deadline to a
spot about a hundred feet from where we stood.
“Noble, Mac,” he stated slowly. “And suppose something happens to Bert?”
* * * * *
I stared at Prop. He swore softly and walked down the deadline toward
the Douglas. I followed. So that was what was bothering Prop. He knew
that Bride was a good hater; and the fact that the Jinx had let the
C. O. and the others think a native had run amuck was worrying Prop.
The red-headed Major Duncan was grinning at Bert Allen as he climbed
down from the front cockpit of the Douglas. Beside him stood Lieutenant
Bride, polishing a pair of goggles with a handkerchief. Bert walked up
to the group as Prop and I came up.
“You’ve met Lieutenant Bride, Bert?” The C. O.’s voice was questioning.
“Didn’t see you at mess last night, when Bride came over from Manila.”
Bert’s blue-gray eyes met Bride’s. He shook his head slowly.
“I’ve heard of Lieutenant Bride, Major,” he said slowly.
I looked at the Jinx. He was smiling, too, but it was a nasty,
tight-lipped smile. He nodded his head.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, “I cracked up a ship once—and it got around.”
Some one chuckled. The C. O. frowned. His eyes went up toward the sky.
He didn’t make any attempt to go through with a formal introduction.
When he spoke his voice was Army toned, crisp and to the point.
“Take Lieutenant Bride up with you, Allen,” he ordered. “Show him how
things lay around here and give him a line on the Pasig bumps. Feel up
to it, Lieutenant?”
His eyes were on those of the Jinx. That officer nodded and jerked his
helmet over his head. Without a word he turned away, climbed into the
rear cockpit of the Douglas. The C. O. spoke to Bert.
“If he asks, let him handle the ship, Bert. She’s rigged dual control,
isn’t she?”
Bert nodded. In the rear cockpit the Jinx was patting his Irving seat
pack ’chute, before sitting on it. The C. O. nodded to all of us and
strolled along down the deadline. Bert looked at Prop.
“Meant to tell you a few weeks ago, Prop,” he said in a tone that was
meant to be casual but wasn’t, “I’ve got a couple of letters in that
steamer trunk of mine. Top tray. All addressed and stamped. If it
wouldn’t be too much trouble—”
“Get up above!” Prop cut in gruffly. “The heat’s bothering you.”
Bert turned away and climbed into the front cockpit. He handed back a
phone set to Bride. The exhausts roared and the plane rolled out from
the deadline. She’d been tested out, of course, before Bert had taken
off the first time.
I groaned as the plane climbed up into the sky. Bert had meant to tell
Prop about a couple of letters a few weeks ago. Yes he had! Two good
haters sky riding in the same plane—that’s what had made Bert remember
the letters.
Prop was wiping his forehead with the biggest handkerchief he had been
able to pick up on the Escolta. I took a deep breath of the air. At
least, at the field, it didn’t reek with Filipino and Chink odors. It
was bad enough, anyway. I watched the Douglas climb up into the sky. She
was a neat job, nicely engined and well balanced. A cinch to fly.
“Well, I’ve got a sky date with that Duval scout,” Prop announced. “See
you in—”
He broke off. We both tilted our heads. The exhaust roar of the Douglas
had suddenly broken in tone. It wasn’t smooth; the engine was skipping!
I swore grimly. One of the ground crewmen shouted hoarsely to another.
The engine roared again as Bert leveled her off; then the beat died.
Bert had her up about three thousand. He nosed her down now; she banked
slightly, tilted a wing to the clouds, a wing to the earth. We were all
watching.
Then we saw it—a streak of red from the engine streaming back toward the
front cockpit! A bright tongue of flame! The Douglas was burning in the
air, burning as she banked over and tried to get into a dive angle and
hit the field!
I heard Prop swearing slowly and fiercely beside me. Jake Collins’ voice
reached me in a hoarse whisper.
“The Jinx is getting clear!”
Even as he whispered the words, Bride got clear. For seconds his figure
traced a black line down toward the earth. Then the pilot ’chute opened,
jerking out the greater spread of silk. My eyes left his drifting
figure, went to the diving plane.
Red flame was streaking back over the engine cowling, twisting toward
the front cockpit. Black smoke trailed through the wing struts; the
diving ship made a trail toward earth and the field.
“Jump!” I muttered fiercely. “Why in hell doesn’t Bert—”
I stopped muttering. The Douglas was falling out of her dive, falling
off on a wing. And Bert Allen was clear of the plane, at less than a
thousand feet from the earth!
For a second I closed my eyes. When I opened them they picked up a
streak of brown, closer to earth than I ever want to see such a streak
again—with the ’chute unopened. As I stared the pilot ’chute snapped
out. Then the bigger spread crackled; we could hear it on the Field. And
then, as the downward speed of Bert’s body was checked, there sounded
the _boom-crash_ of the Douglas.
I sighed heavily. Prop reached for a pill. Somewhere near there sounded
a nervous laugh. The ambulance clattered out from the deadline, headed
toward the corner of the field into which the wind was drifting the
’chutes.
* * * * *
“What do you say, Lieutenant Owens?” The C. O.’s voice, from behind me
and addressing Prop, startled me. Prop faced the major. His face was
pretty white.
“Busted feed line, sir—that’s my guess. Gas or oil, and when it hit the
hot engine or struck an exhaust—”
Prop shrugged his shoulders. The C. O. nodded his head slowly. The
Douglas, far out on the field, was burning. The Jinx’s ’chute had let
him down at the usual seventeen feet a second rate, but Bert Allen
struck several hundred yards away, at almost the same second. There
wasn’t much wind; the chances were the drag wouldn’t hurt either of
them.
The ambulance had headed for the section of the field on which
Lieutenant Bride had landed. A motorcycle sidecar streaked out toward
Bert Allen. The C. O. walked out a short distance from the deadline and
waited. It was a cinch that the ambulance driver would see him; and the
sidecar motorcycle driver, too. The fire crew was going out toward the
burning ship. Three or four of us eased up close to the C. O.
The ambulance got back first, and Jinx Bride climbed down from the front
seat. There was a faint smile on his face, but I noticed that his hands
shook as he lighted a pill.
“Nice work, Lieutenant!”
The C. O. spoke quietly, and Bert Allen, sliding out of the sidecar
seat, caught his words. He moved to the major’s side as the C. O. half
faced him, but his eyes were on those of Eddie Bride.
“Nice work, hell!” he snapped. “You could have saved that ship, Bride!”
The Jinx stiffened. His brown eyes narrowed. He jerked his helmet and
goggles off his head and ran a hand through his reddish-brown hair. His
voice was grim.
“Think so, Allen? Why didn’t you save her, then?”
Bert Allen laughed harshly. I noticed for the first time that his khaki
shirt was scorched; there were red streaks on his face.
“She was dual control, Bride!” he snapped. “The red stuff wouldn’t have
reached you—it got me. You could have saved her. It was just a case of—”
He stopped, raised a hand to his burned face. Doc Kennerly caught him by
the arm.
“Of what?” Bride’s tone was like ice and knife edged, too.
Kennerly stepped in front of Bert, but he shoved the doctor aside. He
took a step toward the Jinx; his eyes narrowed on the other man’s.
“Of guts!” he gritted. “Jinx? A hell of a jinx you are! That’s the
bunk—always has been! Just two things the matter with you!”
Then Prop and Doc got him turned around and headed in the other
direction. I watched Lieutenant Bride. He stared after Bert Allen, his
body tense. Then suddenly he relaxed. He shrugged his shoulders. The
C. O. was moving toward the sidecar of the motorcycle. A second later he
was driven across the field toward the burning plane.
Lieutenant Bride turned toward me. I felt at the moment that Bert was
right. The ship had been dual control; it looked to me as if Bride could
have brought her down. I guess my eyes showed the way I felt. The Jinx
stared at me for several seconds, then laughed harshly.
“I’m in soft at this field, eh? Slugged from behind the night I get off
the ship; expected to set down burning ships—”
He moved off toward the barracks. Doc Kennerly was leading Bert toward
the field hospital, and Prop Owens came toward me.
“First crackup in a month!” he muttered. “And the first trip Bride’s
made up above in the same time. Jinx—I’ll say he is!”
I grunted.
“You’re getting worse than some of these Islanders,” I stated. “Suppose
he made the feed line let go, eh?”
Prop dropped his cigarette stub and stepped on it. His eyes were grim.
“Four feet farther back from that flame than Bert,” he said grimly, “and
he went over the side pretty quick, didn’t he?”
I felt sorry for Bride. No reason why, but I did. Things like that
happen sometimes, and you can’t figure it perfectly.
“I’d have gone over as quick,” I stated. “Maybe a little faster.”
“Like hell you would!” Prop came back. “You’d have yelled at Bert to
duck his head under the fuselage and you’d have brought that ship down.
So would I. Bert tried it until he was getting scorched and then he cut
loose.”
I nodded my head.
“He waited too long,” I stated. “The Government can stand the loss of a
plane or two. Our record at Burton has been pretty good.”
Prop swore softly.
“It has been,” he agreed, “but from now on—”
“Look here, Prop,” I cut in, “you know damn’ well that Bert slugged the
Jinx that night in the Walled City. And you know that Bride knows that
Bert slugged him. You don’t expect him to give a rap about saving a ship
that Bert’s piloting, do you?”
Prop Owens shook his head slowly.
“From now on I don’t expect anything—at this field!” he stated simply
and grimly. He looked out toward the burning ship. “That’s Number One.
You know how things go, once they get started. If I had any leave coming
I’d like it.”
I chuckled.
“And go down to Panay after a voodoo native to take the spell off you,
I’ll bet!” I jibed.
But Prop only narrowed his eyes on the burning Douglas. I swore softly
as I thought of the luck that had caused the Jinx to hit Burton Field
while Bert Allen was stationed here. The Islands were bad enough when
everything was peaceful. The air was bad enough, without a sky jinx.
Yes, I figured it the way Prop figured it, only I tried to kid myself
that I was all wrong. And like Old Man Smith’s helicopter, it wasn’t a
hell of a success.
* * * * *
Just before sunset the Jinx took up a DeHaviland two-seater. His air
work was sweet. He did about everything that can be done with that type
of ship. When he landed he did two things that can’t be done—not along
with a perfect landing. He forgot to get down close enough to the field
and he pancaked the last ten feet. That was the first thing.
Then, when she hit flatter than some last week’s Chinese beer, he gave
her the gun. She blew both tires and went over on her nose. The prop
splintered. They pulled Bride out with a nasty goggle cut over his right
eye. I happened to be at the hospital getting a dose of quinine for some
dengue I’d picked up during the rainy season, when they brought him in.
Captain Lewis, the adjutant, had seen the noseover, and he talked sharp
about it while Doc Kennerly fixed the glass cuts up.
“Why in hell did you give her the gun, Lieutenant?” he finished up. “She
was coming down flat; she’d have cracked her under gear, that’s all.”
The Jinx swore.
“Thought she’d pick up and get forward speed before we hit,” he stated.
“Heat waves off the field make it deceptive, Captain.”
That was pretty true. Burton isn’t any cinch, and it had been Bride’s
first solo flight in a month. The adjutant muttered something about
Bride’s making a report and left the room. The Jinx looked out of his
good eye and saw me.
“Well,” he stated sarcastically, “it’s too bad you missed that one,
Lieutenant.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t make any difference to me, Bride!” I came back. “The field is
tricky.”
He looked surprised. I got my pills and went away. An orderly came up
along the deadline and told me that the C. O. wanted me over at the
headquarters shack. When I got there Billy Grace and Bert Allen were
ahead of me. Prop came in right behind. We went into the C. O.’s office
and he grinned up at us.
“Know you men will be glad to hear the news,” he said slowly and in a
peculiar tone. “Colonel Greene is flying over from Panay to see what
we’ve got here. The natives are starting some little fracas down there,
and he thinks we may have to send down some more ships. So we’ll
maneuver a bit for him—at four. All ships up, and all pilots.
“Lieutenant Allen, you take the first flight. Lieutenant Owens will take
the second. Mac, you handle the scouts. Work out something pretty nice.
By the way, Lieutenant Bride will go up, too. Let’s see—” the C. O.
hesitated, then went on—“he’d better ride with you, Bert.”
Prop coughed. I sucked in my breath sharply. The major’s eyes were
narrowed; they seemed to be looking at nothing in particular. The C. O.,
I decided, was wise to something.
“Lieutenant Bride just nosed over, Major,” I said slowly. “He got a
goggle cut.”
The C. O. nodded.
“Saw him crack up,” he stated grimly. “He won’t have much to do, riding
in the rear cockpit of the Marlin.”
Prop uttered a low explanation. Bert Allen stiffened. The C. O. smiled
cheerfully.
“That’s all, men!” he said. “The adjutant will give you any other
details I may decide upon. Four o’clock sharp.”
We piled out of the office. Bert Allen’s face was set grimly. Prop
whistled a few bars off key. I groaned. Billy Grace passed the pills
around and we lighted up. Just two on a match, we were careful about
that.
“Well,” Billy spoke slowly, “he’s been up twice and there’s been two
crashes. You know how these things go.”
“Bunk!” I muttered, but I wasn’t at all sure that it was bunk.
It’s funny, but crashes around an air field do go in threes. Not all the
time, of course, but enough of the time to make you sit back and think.
Prop had started whistling again, and Bert turned on him suddenly.
“For heaven’s sake, cut that out!” he snapped. “It’s hot enough and bad
enough without—”
He turned away abruptly. Prop stopped whistling, looked at me. Nerves.
Bert was in just the wrong sort of humor to get up above and fly the
Marlin. She was a tough ship, anyway, a two-place biplane with too much
engine. She landed fast and handled sluggishly. But she was the best
bomber we had in the Islands. And Colonel Greene liked plenty of action
in the air. When you put on a show for the Island chief of the Air
Service, you put on a good one—nothing half way.
Bert Allen had stridden off without saying another word.
* * * * *
We walked back to the barracks together, Prop and I. We didn’t talk
much. Bert Allen came over to my coop just as I was getting set for a
short nap. Island heat makes the midday siesta almost necessary.
“Mac,” he said abruptly, “you think I tackled the Jinx and sent him to
the hospital, don’t you?”
That gave me a jolt, but I managed to nod my head. I thought of the
button that Prop had picked up. That made me pretty sure of it.
“I didn’t,” Bert said slowly. “Intended to go after him, but I got there
too late. There was a scrap on and I butted in. Bride went down and out
as I mixed it, and the funny part of it is—I was trying to help him!”
I stared at Bert.
“Who tackled him, Bert?” I asked grimly.
The other pilot shook his head.
“It was pretty dark, Mac,” he stated, “but they were uniforms—American
uniforms.”
“They?” I muttered. “More than one of ’em, eh?”
Bert nodded.
“Three or four; think one beat it as I waded in. Bride went down. One of
them knocked me off balance and to my knees with a shoulder wallop. When
I straightened up they were making a break for it. Then I heard the
patter of a native cop’s feet. Knew what that meant, with what Prop
knew, or thought he knew. And there’s something else—”
He checked himself, lighted a pill. His eyes were narrowed.
“But Bride knows it wasn’t you that tackled him,” I said in a puzzled
tone. “Why didn’t he come through with the truth? Why the mystery?”
Bert snapped out the words.
“He’s waiting to get me, Mac! See the game? That’s why he didn’t take
the Douglas down—”
He checked himself for the second time. I stared at him anxiously. It
might be the heat or it might be something else.
“Get you for what?” I snapped back.
Bert smiled with his lips. His eyes had a hard expression.
“I tagged him,” he said simply. “I started calling him the Jinx.”
There was a little silence. Then I shook my head slowly.
“Maybe you did, Bert,” I stated, “but you’re holding back on me. You
didn’t go down to the Walled City last week just because you knew he was
sore at you. Come clean; cut the funny stuff!”
He spoke in a low voice.
“I tagged him a jinx over in France. It stuck. He had some tough luck
and it stuck. When Prop told me he had been transferred down here I
thought he was crazy. We usually hear, before a guy comes down. I didn’t
go down to scrap with him, Mac. I went down to see for myself. I knew
what it would mean, the two of us here together. I’ve got a thirty-day
leave of absence coming to me. I figured on taking it right away. After
what happened, I couldn’t do that.”
I nodded. The thing was clearing up now. Bert Allen had tagged Bride
over on the other side. And such a tag, in the air game, sticks. On top
of that, Bride had been having tough luck.
“Bert,” I said slowly, “I’m not much on the in between stuff. Don’t
exactly like it. But suppose I have a talk with Bride? Suppose I tell
him how I think you feel? It would—”
“No good!” Bert interrupted. “He’s a good hater. They’ve been riding him
at the different fields. He’s something of a joke. And he figures I’ve
started it. You can see his side of it. Why didn’t he come through? Ten
to one he knows something about that attack in the Walled City. Why
didn’t he bring the Douglas down? He just took one look and went over
the side. Put it up to me. And the C. O. has him riding along with me
this afternoon. Just wanted you to know how things stand, Mac, but don’t
go to him.”
Bert cleared out. I passed up the nap and did some thinking. Then I went
out on the field and looked up the Jinx. He was too new in the Islands
to nap in the middle of the day, I guessed that. And I found him looking
over the Marlin bomber.
I took him over in a corner of the hangar and gave him the whole story.
All wrong? Maybe I was, but it was the best bet, the way I’d thought it
out. He took it all without changing expression. And when I finished he
just smiled.
“Fine!” he stated. “Well, get this, Lieutenant. I was tackled by three
or four soldiers. One of ’em wore Air Service insignia. Got a piece of
it I pulled off before I went down. Maybe Allen didn’t tackle me
himself, but he was there to see how his boys did the job!”
I swore.
“They may have been drinking,” I stated. “Looking for a scrap.”
The Jinx laughed harshly. “The field’s too small for the two of us—Allen
and me!” he muttered. “Just tell him I said that.”
With that he climbed into the rear cockpit of the Marlin and started
moving the dual controls around. I swore a few times at myself. What a
great little fixer I was! Then I shrugged my shoulders. I’d tried,
anyway, and I didn’t believe that Bert Allen had picked up some soldiers
and had them beat up the Jinx. But Bride believed it.
There was one chance. I could go to the C. O. and let him have the whole
thing. That might keep them out of the same ship, and it might not.
Major Burton was a fighter. He was a red-headed, flying fool. The
chances were he’d laugh at me, and I’d rate as an old woman. So I
decided to keep clear. I went back for my nap. It was no go; all I could
see was the bomber up above in the maneuvers, with Bert Allen riding the
front cockpit, and in the rear, the Jinx.
* * * * *
We had twenty-seven ships in the air. I was leading a formation,
V-shaped, of scout single-seaters. There were five of us in the
formation. For a half hour we’d been in the air, stunting, doing combat
work, ground strafing. Now, as a sort of _finale_ to the maneuvers, we
were to attack two DeHavilands and the Marlin bomber. They were flying
in formation, at five thousand and headed over the black watered Pasig
from the Malate District of Manila, toward the field. Four Ryan scouts
were protecting them, and it would be a good show when we dove down on
them from the seven thousand feet we had.
We roared in at an angle. The idea was to intercept them over the field,
so that the colonel could see everything that went on. I rocked the
scout I was flying, and the formation spread out a little. We were
within half a mile of the field now, and flying wide open.
Manila lay back of us—the bay glittered a deep blue, not far beyond the
field. The air was rough and hot, as usual. I stared down at the little
ships escorting the three bombers. The Marlin was at the apex of the
three. I stiffened as I thought of her crew. It would be a sharp mixup
when we dropped down on them. The sort of dog fight that needs a cool
head and steady fingers on the stick. A slip on rudder bar action, a
false zoom or dive, and there would be an air crash.
We gained on the formation below. There was a crowd down on the field.
All the personnel were out, and the colonel had brought his staff along.
Cars were driving out from Manila, too, attracted by the air maneuvers
we’d been putting on.
I leaned over the left side of the fuselage. The little single-seaters
escorting the three bombers were spreading out some. I drew a deep
breath, then waved my left hand. Pulling back the stick, I zoomed, then
dove her.
The others in the formation were diving, too. With our engines throttled
down, the wind shrill through the wires and rigging came clearly. One of
the little ships below zoomed up to meet us. The three bombers banked
steeply to execute a left turn.
And then the mimic sky scrap was on. We had blanks in the machine guns,
and they made a fine clatter. Jimmy Wyant, a sweet single-seater pilot,
singled me out, and we had a hot time. But I kept diving and zooming,
trying to get near the three bombers, still in formation. Again and
again Jimmy cut me off, dropped down ahead of me, forced me to zoom, to
roll over, to fall off on a wing. Once we flashed within thirty feet of
each other—and I caught a broad grin on his face.
And then the bombers broke formation. One of the boys had got down on
them, and it was each ship for herself. I picked out the Marlin, drew
Jimmy up in a loop and dove straight for the bomber. I was coming right
down on her tail—when it happened. It was all over in a flash.
Bert zoomed the two-seater as a little ship came at him from an angle.
There was another ship on his right, one of the escort. She was roaring
in to combat the scout that was angling in from the left, and Bert
didn’t see her. At the top of his zoom, he banked to the right, kicked
right rudder.
I shouted hoarsely; my body stiffened. Diving down on the Marlin I could
see everything. She fell off on her right wing just as the escort ship
nosed down in an attempt to get clear. It didn’t work. The right wing of
the bomber crashed, ripped into the right wing of the little ship! Then
they started to fall, tangled together.
I zoomed, leveled off, my heart pounding. Then I banked around. When I
looked down again the little escort ship was spinning toward the field
below. A figure streaked up from her single cockpit. Her pilot had got
clear. The pilot ’chute sprang open as I watched—and then my eyes went
to the bomber.
She had four thousand feet and she was going down in a slow spin, her
right wing twisted and warping more with each turn’s air battering. I
dove for her like a bullet.
The other had winged clear, giving both plunging ships air room. I
caught a glimpse of the white steam rising from the field’s danger
siren. And then the scout was down close to the big ship and off to one
side. I pulled the stick back, eased up on the dive angle. My eyes went
to the slowly spinning Marlin.
Bert Allen was out, unconscious. One glance showed me that. His head
hung limply to the right of the front cockpit, against the curved
streamlining of the fuselage. A strut dangled loosely above his head, a
wing strut battered free in the crash. Bert was out.
I groaned and looked for the Jinx, and I didn’t have to look far. He was
up in the rear cockpit; one leg was flung over the side of the fuselage.
There was a splintering of the wing fabric as the wind ripped at the
broken wing. The bomber rolled her undercarriage into sight as she spun.
I nosed the scout down more steeply. Then I got a glimpse of the
cockpits again. This time I yelled wildly, hoarsely.
The Jinx had his arms forward, under Bert’s shoulders. He was trying to
drag him from the front cockpit, his body braced inward toward the
fuselage, his legs hooked around the lower section of a strut on the
undamaged wing. This time Bride was sticking; he was trying to get the
unconscious pilot clear of the ship!
She rolled again and, when the cockpits whirled into sight, I saw
something white streak upward, off the trailing edge of the left, lower
wing fabric. A ’chute—the pilot ’chute! Bert’s seat pack. Bride had
jerked the rip cord and let her jump.
She didn’t tangle. The next thing I saw was Bert Allen’s body floating
out from the whirling ship, then plunging downward in a series of
somersaults. The bomber whirled at a greater speed. I muttered thickly
at the blotch of color on the left wingtip.
“Jump! Get clear, Jinx!”
And then the bomber was down below a thousand feet and nosing straight
for the field below. I leveled off, banked around widely. Then I
muttered a short prayer, nosed down and cut the engine. I had a view of
the field below and most of the air above it. The bomber’s ground crash
sounded.
Bert Allen’s ’chute had opened. He was almost to the ground. Figures
were running out from the deadline, toward him. And the ’chute of Jinx
Bride opened, less than a hundred feet above the earth, as my eyes went
toward the hurtling streak. It drifted him down toward the edge of the
field.
I got the stick between my knees and wiped the perspiration off my
hands. I felt all in, let down all the way, but I grinned. And as I
reached for my signal gun to get the other ships back in formation there
was just one thought in my head. Lieutenant Bride might be a sky jinx,
but he was something else, too, something pretty big, at that!
* * * * *
Prop and I sat near the foot of Bert Allen’s cot, in the field hospital.
The Jinx sat up near the head. He was speaking in a low tone.
“— and the C. O. says they’ve got a couple of soldiers over at the
General Hospital who’ve come through with the truth. They’d been
drinking _saké_ and were looking for some one to lick, preferably an
officer. My jinx worked and I strolled along. So they tackled me. I’d
figured you might have been in on it, Allen—apologies for that.”
Bert Allen grinned. A busted ankle and two ribs couldn’t stop Bert’s
grin.
“Jinx,” he stated weakly, and kept on grinning, “when that strut banged
me in the head I figured I was gone—and that’s all I had time to figure.
But now that I’m still kicking, grab hold, man!”
He stuck out his right hand. Jinx Bride took it. Prop looked at me and
winked.
“This doesn’t mean there’ll be any miracles around here,” Bride stated,
grinning. “I’ll still crack ’em up, ten to one.”
Prop chuckled. I thought of Bride, sticking in that whirling ship,
jerking the rip cord of the seat pack and shoving Bert Allen clear.
Crackups would seem sort of small, after that.
It was Bert who summed it up. He closed his eyes, but he still grinned.
“Jinx,” he said, “you’re still alive.”
Which means, in the idiom of the Air Service, that Lieutenant Bert Allen
was conceding that the Jinx was _good_.
[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _Adventure Magazine_,
December 15, 1927. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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