The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDirect methodsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Direct methodsAuthor: Thomson BurtisRelease date: October 3, 2023 [eBook #71780]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: The Ridgway Company, 1922Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIRECT METHODS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Direct methodsAuthor: Thomson BurtisRelease date: October 3, 2023 [eBook #71780]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: The Ridgway Company, 1922Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
Title: Direct methods
Author: Thomson Burtis
Author: Thomson Burtis
Release date: October 3, 2023 [eBook #71780]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Ridgway Company, 1922
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIRECT METHODS ***
frontispiece
by Thomson BurtisAuthor of “There and Back,” “Feud’s End,” etc.
by Thomson Burtis
Author of “There and Back,” “Feud’s End,” etc.
A De Haviland airplane was spiraling down over the level expanse of Langham Field. As the slim young pilot in the front seat slowly throttled the big Liberty motor which had carried the ship from Washington, the passenger peered down interestedly. Twenty-two massive twin-motored bombers were lined up on the Eastern edge of the field, nose to nose in two lines. They looked like waiting monsters, slothful but terrible in their suggestion of power. The sinking sun sent shafts of light flashing from the metal, and as the dropping De Haviland gave the two flyers constantly changing angles of vision it seemed as though the ships were alive, so blinding was the play of light from glistening turn-buckles and the glass covers of the instruments on each motor.
The D. H. landed lightly, the pilot taking unusual care to avoid running into the lines of ships which cut off a quarter of the field. He taxied to the line. Before he had finished running the gas out of his motor his passenger was out of the back cockpit and had removed the flying coveralls he wore. He was in civilian clothes. He took a soft hat from the rear, put it on, lit a cigar and waited for the pilot.
When that gentleman had leaped out and lit a cigaret the civilian stretched out his hand.
“Thank you, lieutenant, that was fine. I enjoyed it greatly. Would you mind seeing to it that my suitcase is unstrapped and sent up to General O’Malley’s office? Thank you. That is headquarters up there, is it not?”
“Yes, sir—General O’Malley’s headquarters.”
“See you later, I hope. Good-by.”
He walked briskly down the row of tremendous corrugated iron hangars. He did not stop to inspect in detail the overgrown Handley Pages and Capronis and Martin bombers, although his brilliant dark eyes rested continuously on the line of ships. De Havilands and S. E. 5 scouts were constantly landing and taking off. Once he did stop in his tracks to watch five S. E’s. take off in a V formation, scoot a mile north of the field, and then line up in single file. One by one they dived—dived until the sing of the wires could be heard on the field. As they came perilously near the ground they would suddenly straighten. At that instant an egg-shaped projectile left the ship and hurtled groundward. In a few seconds came the explosion.
“Small bombs,” the civilian told himself as he resumed his walk to brigade headquarters. “I wonder whether some of them could be used⸺”
A seven-passenger army car stopped beside him. He looked up quickly into the face of a portly man wearing the insignia of a lieutenant-colonel.
“Can I give you a ride, Mr. Graves?” inquired the colonel, getting out of the car.
“Thank you, but I’m just going up to headquarters. But you have the advantage of me sir.”
“I met you in Rome in 1918,” stated the colonel. “My name is Sax.”
“You have a better memory than I, colonel. But I was there. Glad to have seen you again. Good-by.”
He walked on, leaving the colonel to climb back into the car.
“Now that’s funny. I’d give a little piece of change to find out just what that fellow’s business is,” muttered the portly officer as he settled himself in the car.
Graves walked into the small, one-story frame building which had been dignified into Headquarters of the First Provisional Air Brigade, and walked over to the sergeant-major’s desk. Evidently he knew something about the army.
“Mr. Graves, to see the adjutant,” he stated.
He spoke with a certain preciseness in a modulated voice that instinctively gave one an impression of culture and refinement.
“Yes, sir.”
The sergeant-major disappeared into the adjutant’s office with unusual expedition, returning in a few seconds to say—
“All right, sir.”
The captain who arose as Mr. Graves walked into his office gave him a quick survey in which interest and appraisal were equally mingled. Graves had removed his hat, revealing thick, iron-gray hair which lent distinction and force to his appearance. He was a little above medium height, and the unobtrusive perfection of his clothing hid a pair of stalwart shoulders which a wrestler would have had no reason to be ashamed of.
“I have an appointment with General O’Malley, captain,” said Graves.
“Yes indeed. The general is ready to see you.”
The captain motioned toward the closed door which led from his office.
“Thank you.”
Graves walked over to the door, opened it, and closed it again behind him after entering the inner office. In both speech and action he appeared to be a very direct gentleman with a pronounced disinclination to waste either time or words.
“General O’Malley?”
“Yes. I’m glad to know you, Mr. Graves.”
As the two men shook hands there was a pause lasting several seconds. Eye to eye, they adjudged each other as strong men will when each knows that the other is worthy of his steel.
Graves knew that before him was perhaps the most brilliant and audacious of the younger officers of the army—the great chief of a hazardous service which even then was preparing to prove that its fledgeling wings would carry it far beyond where anyone save its officers believed it could go. As for the general, he had in his desk a letter from the Secretary of War—a brief note which stated succinctly that Mr. Graves would be treated with the utmost consideration, be cooperated with to the fullest extent, and that he carried with him authority the nature of which he personally would divulge.
O’Malley watched his visitor closely as he turned to find a chair. There was a change in his appearance when seen in profile which was almost startling. Full-face, his countenance was broad and strong, with the high forehead of a student and the slightly tightened lips of a firmly molded character. In profile Graves looked like a hawk—one saw that his nose jutted aggressively from his face, and that both forehead and chin subtly strengthened the impression. Even his body seemed thinner and taller.
Graves deliberately flipped the ash from his cigar and then reset the weed in his wide, slightly drooping mouth. His brilliant eyes rested on the general’s face.
“General, I have here some papers for your inspection, in order that you may become somewhat acquainted with my mission. Needless to say, not a soul aside from ourselves and persons whom I may find it necessary to tell must know even a detail of the matter.”
Very few men would have spoken as tersely and directly to O’Malley. The general, however, merely nodded.
“I surmised as much,” he said quietly.
Graves drew a thin, long envelope from his pocket and presented it to O’Malley. It did not take the general long to read the enclosure. It was signed by a very great and powerful government official, and left no doubt as to Mr. Graves’ position.
The general reread the last sentence.
“—and is hereby empowered to use any methods he sees fit to accomplish his mission, which is one of the gravest importance to the welfare of the United States.”
“So-o-o,” said the general at length, laying down the document slowly. “And what is it you wish, Mr. Graves?”
“First let me find out whether I am correct on all points or not. You have gathered here, as I understand it, the veteran pilots of the Air Service to take part in the coming bombing tests. You likewise have concentrated here for the use of the Air Brigade the most up-to-date material the Air Service has.”
“Correct. Right here, Mr. Graves, is probably the best organization of its size the Air Service of any country has ever known. With those Martin bombers out there, manned by the pilots of this brigade, we are ready this minute to back up all our claims, and you know we made some!”
O’Malley joined in Graves’ spontaneous laugh over that last forceful statement. The general’s adventures in trying to put across some of the things he wished to do in the Air Service had been diversified, to say the least. He was a firebrand whom every one simply had to like or dislike—there was no middle ground.
The flyers of his service idolized him. Flyers, being on the whole of a type a little different from the general run, it follows that many good men would dislike and distrust O’Malley for the same things which his young men loved.
“Well, general, here is my mission in a nutshell. You know by the papers, if through no other means, of the series of tremendous mail robberies, totaling millions, which culminated in the half-million dollar haul near Cleveland two months ago.”
O’Malley nodded.
“Operatives of our service, after months of patient and very skilful work, have run down what we believe to be the greatest criminal organization of its kind the country ever saw. It is almost a certainty that every mail robbery of any size since 1919 has been engineered and carried to a successful completion by this organization.
“The group is so powerful and so wise that its ramifications are almost unbelievable. We don’t know all about them yet, but we do know that its organization includes agents all over the country for the safe disposal of securities and other valuables; that it includes brokers, business men, cracksmen, gunmen, government employees. The brains of the gang, the man to whom all credit for the conception and execution of these tremendous crimes and the organization of the whole thing goes is Stanislaus Hayden.
“I won’t bore you with his history—suffice it to say that he is one of the most remarkable combinations of brilliancy, far-sightedness, and executive ability that I have ever known about. If he were anything but a mentally and morally warped specimen, he might have been another Morgan or Stinnes.
“Now here is the situation. Hayden is at present in West Virginia. He is living on the top of a mountain in Farran County, miles from the nearest town. With him are several underlings—I believe them to be some of the men who actually pull the robberies themselves. Just why they are living in seclusion up there I do not exactly know, but I presume that it is first of all a good hiding place, and secondly that it keeps Hayden away from the surveillance of the police. He has been mixed up in some monumental deals—or at least suspected so strongly that he is watched—but for two years he has fooled us completely on this new organization of his. What makes him unusually dangerous aside from his ability is the loyalty he inspires in those under him—rather a combination of loyalty and fear, I should say. Anyway, a few small potatoes whom we have nabbed quietly will tell nothing. Apparently they realize that he is a really great commander-in-chief, and trust him to help them.”
“But how did he⸺”
“How he got into West Virginia I do not know. A year ago he dropped from sight, and the operative who finally traced him down has no idea when he came into that part of the country. I believe that the gang planned to quit operations before long, and that for months Hayden has been a hermit simply making his pile with the idea of retiring on his money in the near future. He would not be safe in any city in the country to carry on his operations.”
Graves talked as precisely as ever. Every word was clear-cut and incisive. His slim, long-fingered hands were motionless except as he carried his cigar to his lips. He paused a moment to get up and drop the stub into the ash receiver.
“As I said, Hayden is staying on the top of a mountain in Farran County with some henchmen. There is no question that all of them would fight to the death—you know what the Postmaster General announced recently about mail-robbers, do you not?”
“It was plenty,” nodded O’Malley.
“There are several facets to the situation. In the first place, that little nucleus of men is well supplied with artillery and ammunition ranging from machine-guns down. In the second place, their dwelling place is so strategically advantageous that it might take a hundred men dead and wounded before they could be captured. The only road leading to the hunting cabin where Hayden has his headquarters is narrow and winding, like all those mountain roads, and by reason of a three or four hundred foot precipice and some other details of the country a dozen men could hold the place for a considerable time against ten times their number.
“But most important, we want Hayden alive, andthe fact that we have him must be unknown. As I said, we know vaguely, without many details, that he heads this vast organization. But we have come to a stone wall in our efforts to find who the biggest culprits under him are, or all the ramifications of the conspiracy. We believe that Hayden is the only living man—at least the only one we can get our hands on—who can tell all. And the moment he was killed or it was known that he was captured, every criminal under him would be gone. The organization would probably disappear in a night. My mission is to capture him, alive, and with nobody but the men with him in that cabin knowing it. We will see to it that they do not spread the news, because every escape they have will be guarded, and they will be in a state of siege up there without any method of sending news to the outside world. Their immediate capture is unimportant, but we can take no chances of an attack for fear of killing Hayden. If we get him, we can make him talk, I believe. We will use almost any measures.”
“You have quite a contract, I should say,” remarked the general, tapping on his desk with a penholder. “I thought I might have a glimmering of what you wanted from us, but what you say about getting him alive changes things.”
“No, I don’t want any bombs dropped on him,” returned Graves with a smile. It was a singularly warm and winning smile, lightening the subtle hardness of his face. The sardonic hint around his mouth disappeared, and his eyes seemed to reflect the smile in their depths.
“Now as to what I do want,” he went on after a moment. He seemed to be incapable of detouring for more than the smallest of intervals from the business at hand. “It would be impossible for any of our operatives to get close enough to the place to capture Hayden without publicity, or without fighting for their lives, except in the manner I have in mind. Before I describe to you my proposed method of getting Hayden, I want my men. Then I need only discuss the matter once.”
“Just as you choose.”
“I want two pilots and a Martin bomber, equipped with extra gas and oil and heavy machine-gun equipment—all she’ll handle, in case we need them. These two pilots—the ideal ones for my purpose—would be A. 1. flyers, first. That is probably the easiest of my requirements.”
“You can’t throw a stone out of this window without hitting a real pilot,” stated the general. “We have the finest personnel in the world.”
“I am inclined to believe you are right, general. Now secondly, it would be advisable that they be older men—none of your brilliant kids. Nobody must know that Hayden is captured—before a breath of it gets out we must make him talk, and then come down on his men all over the country in one swoop that will be the biggest coup in the history of the Department of Justice, so far as straight criminality goes. For this and other reasons, these fellows must be men of the utmost discretion.”
“I can readily see your point,” agreed O’Malley, lighting a cigaret.
“Next, I want men who have knocked around quite a bit—resourceful, able to handle themselves in any kind of a shindig whatsoever, and not afraid of ⸺ or high water. Rather the soldier of fortune type, you know—I think you get my idea. They will be asked to volunteer to do this thing with me, as a sporting proposition and as a duty to the United States. Although this method of capturing Hayden is rather forced on me by circumstances, I believe that you can fix me up with men whom I can depend on.”
The irrepressible O’Malley’s mouth widened into a grin as Graves finished.
“You are paying the Air Service a great compliment, Graves,” he said.
Graves relaxed briefly.
“You’ve got an outfit, I know,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t trust the accomplishing one of the biggest things I’ve ever worked on to strangers if I didn’t believe it.”
Then he started hammering away again. The general got the impression of resistless tenacity about him—the feeling that until his job was done the aristocratic, meticulous Mr. Graves could never be swerved for an instant from his progress toward the goal he was endeavoring to reach.
“Can you produce two such men—and if so, how quickly, general?”
O’Malley did not answer for fully two minutes. He placed two immaculately booted and spurred feet on his desk, sunk into his chair, and thoughtfully smoked. Then he reached for the bell on his desk.
The adjutant entered and saluted.
“Get me Lieutenants Broughton and Hinkley, Evans. Tell them to report to me at once. Use every effort to get them, regardless of whether they are on the post or not.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Evans saluted stiffly and went out.
“I think these two men fit your description best, Graves. I’ll admit I’m curious to know just what you want with them. Broughton is an old first-sergeant out of the artillery. Got his commission in the artillery and transferred to the Air Service. A ⸺ good big-ship pilot, too. Hinkley is a long, lean, sardonic bird who has the coldest nerve I ever saw and gives not three hoots in hallelujah for anything or anybody. Both of them flew on Border patrol for two years—Broughton out of Nogales and Hinkley—an observer until recently—at Marfa. Broughton is a nut about guns, and one of the best pistol shots I ever saw. Can draw and throw a gun and fan it and all that. I’m a fair shot myself, but he is wonderful. How good Hinkley is on that stuff I don’t know, but I do know he’s been a captain in the army of Brazil, and a sailor from the Horn to Bering Sea. Both of them around thirty, I think.”
“They sound available,” granted Graves.
He relapsed into silence. After a moment or two he took out another cigar, offered it to the general, who refused, and finally lit it himself. His gaze rested for a moment on the line of great bombers which he could partially see through the open window.
“Bombing today?” he inquired.
“Just practise. Those ships out there are all loaded with thousand-pounders—we practise tomorrow on the hulk of an old battleship out in Chesapeake Bay. The first test is only two weeks away.”
“Going to make the grade?” inquired Graves easily.
He seemed to have suddenly shed his former terse directness. And that he was talking to the famous General O’Malley, chief of Air Service, did not seem to cut any figure with him at all.
“Are we going to make the grade?” repeated the general, his eyes flashing. He hit the desk a resounding blow with his fist. “We’ll sink anything they put up in ten minutes. Fellows like these two you’re going to meet now and the rest of the men who fly those ships out there are going up and show the world⸺”
A knock on the door interrupted him.
“Come in!” he shouted.
Captain Evans obeyed.
“Broughton and Hinkley are on their way, sir,” he reported.
“Good. Send ’em in as soon as they get here. Now, Graves, let me tell you⸺” and the general was off on the passion of his life, which was flying in general and his flyers in particular.
Graves deftly inserted the proper question at the proper time, and before long the dynamic general had blueprints and specifications and maps out to strengthen his arguments further.
He was in the midst of describing what a two-thousand-pound bomb would do to a battleship, Times Square, a dock, or anything else it hit when Captain Evans entered again.
“Evans, you bother me to death. What the⸺”
“Lieutenants Broughton and Hinkley are here, sir,” returned the adjutant, standing at attention. Captain Evans was very correct.
“Oh yes. Send ’em in. From now on, Graves, it’s your funeral. Come in, boys. Mr. Graves, may I present Mr. Broughton and Mr. Hinkley. Sit down. All right, fire away, Graves.”
“You gentlemen are here, upon General O’Malley’s recommendation, in order to let me give you an opportunity to volunteer for a special mission upon the success of which depends to a considerable extent the lives of many hundred people. Even more important, it has considerable bearing on the future welfare of this country. Least important—in itself, without considering the ramifications resulting from it—it means the capture of a very important and dangerous criminal.”
Graves’ remarkable eyes flitted from one flyer to the other as he studied the effect of his words. Broughton was a thickset, tanned young man possessed of a certain reserve which involuntarily commanded the respect of Graves. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed, and his gaze was as steady as it was noncommittal. Tall, lath-like, Hinkley had an air of careless recklessness about him, helped along by the pronouncedly sardonic cast of his face. Like Broughton, he preserved silence.
“With General O’Malley’s permission, I will go over some of the ground I have already covered with him for the benefit of you gentlemen,” Graves went on after a moment.
He proceeded to tell the airmen of Hayden, his importance and the difficulty of capturing him without great publicity and loss of life.
“The only dope we have on the exact layout of his headquarters was obtained through field-glasses by operatives who climbed adjoining mountains and studied the place from all sides. He lives on the very peak of a mountain, without another cabin within miles. But one rough road, winding around the mountain side on a very steep grade, leads to it. For several miles before it reaches the summit of the mountain the cliff drops away sheer from one side of the road, and on the other rises with almost equal steepness. There are so many sheer ravines, and so forth, that it would be almost impossible to get even two hundred men up by any other way than the road; that is, providing they carried machine-guns and other supplies which would be necessary if they stood any chance of capturing Hayden. He has several guards, sufficiently armed, who have every strategic point guarded. Hayden is absolutely without hope, if his presence in this country is known. Capture means ⸺ for him, and he is almost as sure of it as I am. Being a man of force and brilliancy, although he is crazy, and possessed of a weird magnetism which induces real fanaticism among his followers, the few men up there will undoubtedly fight for him to the death. My job—in which I would like to have you gentlemen help me—is to capture him without publicity or loss of life.”
“If there’s a chance we may be working for you on this picnic, it might not be discourteous for us to ask who you are?”
It was Hinkley speaking. He was lounging lazily in his chair, one long leg drooping over the other. Graves smiled.
“Here, perhaps, is enough to satisfy you,” he returned, handing Hinkley the document which had been laying on the desk since O’Malley had laid it down.
“I don’t know just who he is myself,” confided O’Malley as Hinkley glanced over the signed note. “But I have a feeling that I’d give a month’s pay to be in on what he is going to do.”
Broughton smiled at his irrepressible chief.
“That remains to be seen, general,” he said gently—the first word he had spoken since entering the office.
“Mysterious, but impressive, Jim,” laughed the irreverent Hinkley as he passed the sheet of paper over to Broughton.
The flyer read it slowly, and handed it back to Graves without comment.
“My scheme is this,” said Graves, leaning back once more and setting the cigar in one corner of his mouth. “That’s wild country—no place to land. The only cleared spot for twenty miles—or in other words near enough to Hayden to suit my needs—is right around his cabin. It is small and rough and on a grade so steep that according to my information it would make a man puff to climb it. I want you gentlemen to fly me over there in a Martin bomber, which I understand is about the safest of ships in a crackup. This ship will be equipped with extra gas and oil tanks to insure large cruising radius. No ship with ordinary gas capacity could safely make the hop, I understand; in any event would not have fuel enough for any reconnaisance.
“In the ship there will also be provisions, machine guns, Colts and plenty of ammunition. I want you gentlemen to fool around with the motor when we are over Hayden’s headquarters, make a supposed forced landing, and endeavor to crack up the ship without hurting any of us. I will be in the uniform of a colonel. You will also be in full uniform.
“Naturally we will crack up in Hayden’s front yard. It is the only cleared spot, as I said. He will not like our presence, nor will any of his henchman be very enthusiastic. But we’ll be ‘in,’ and it’s a ⸺ sight easier to get out than it would be to get in.
“What we do from then on is on the knees of the gods, so to speak. Some way or other we must invent a way to get Hayden and get him out of there. It’s a man’s-size job, all right, but we’ve got to figure on a little luck and then taking advantage of it.
“You men are recommended as flyers, and also as men who’ve had some diversified experience. This is not flattery, it is a statement of facts. I expect that you can handle yourselves in any company, and that you’ll be able to come to bat in a pinch when we get up there.
“It’s a hard contract, and you will get nothing out of it except a document in the secret archives of the War Department which may sometimes help you. Now first, what do you think of the plan insofar as it concerns the flying end of things, and secondly, do you want to declare yourselves in on it?”
Graves had been talking as clearly and without excitement as always, and now he waited with equal calmness for a reply. General O’Malley was sunk deep in his swivel-chair, watching the younger men with a half-smile on his face. In his heart was a growing respect for the equable Mr. Graves.
“How much flying have you done, Graves?” he inquired impulsively.
“I made my second flight today, coming down from Washington. What do you say, gentlemen?”
“Can’t get you off the track a minute,” said O’Malley genially. “I’ll subside.”
There was silence for a moment. Hinkley smoked a cigaret, blowing rings at the ceiling with an air of complete indifference. Broughton was gazing steadily at Graves, his scrutiny untroubled by the fact that Graves noticed it. The stocky, slightly stolid-looking pilot was the first to speak.
“A deal of that kind is ticklish business without those in it knowing their helpers a ⸺ sight better than we know each other, sir, but one thing and another about it sort of sells the proposition to me. Count me in, I guess.”
“Suits me,” declared Hinkley. “When do we go?”
“The first minute that the ship is ready. From Washington I got this dope—tell me if I’m wrong. A Martin lasts around five hours in the air if you take a chance and win on the oil staying with you. Fifty extra gallons of gas in each motor, and approximately fifty per cent. more oil than usual, will assure us of seven hours in the air if we need it. It may take time to find our man.”
Broughton nodded.
“When can the extra tanks be installed, general? Major Jenks of the Engineering Division said that it was a comparatively simple job. As I understand it there is plenty of room in a Martin, and of course to any ship that can lift your two thousand pounders the extra weight will be a bagatelle.”
“For a landsman you’re pretty wise,” the general complimented him. “I’ll have the exact estimate in about ten minutes.”
He pressed the bell and instructed Evans to have the engineer officer of the field report at his office immediately. Then the four men plunged into a discussion of guns, food, and other details. Graves had exact figures at his finger tips. Not a detail was brought up which he did not settle as smoothly and quickly as he talked. There was something ruthlessly direct about him—an air of resistless efficiency that was queerly at variance with his appearance, which inclined rather more toward being that of a student than a man of physical achievement.
Mutual respect grew in the minds of the flyers and of Graves. He was no amateur at reading character and estimating men, and he found the airmen to his liking.
The engineer officer, ordered to use every facility at his command to expedite the changing of the Martin, said that on the morning of the second day the ship would be ready for test. At noon it should be ready to go.
“Good,” said Graves. “I guess we’ve covered everything, gentlemen. Hinkley and Broughton will attend to gathering the equipment, general, providing you furnish them proper authority. I will be back about nine a.m., day after tomorrow. I guess there is no need for me to emphasize the need for absolute secrecy—you all realize that. If any of you want to reach me, you can call the Monticello Hotel in Norfolk and ask for Room 220. Don’t ask for Graves.
“Thank you for your help—I’ll see you day after tomorrow. Good-by until then.”
With a smile and slight bow, he left.
“Now I wonder just who in ⸺ he is?” inquired Hinkley as the two flyers started to walk toward the bachelor quarters.
“Search me, but he’s turning up two thousand a minute, looks like. I figure I might not mind having him behind me in a scrap of any nature whatsoever.”
“He’s probably some big agent of the secret service. There’s a lot of those eggs that pull off big stuff and nobody ever knows it. Take that Zimmerman note, for instance, during the war. At least, that’s what my ex-pilot Dumpy Scarth says.”
“Dumpy ought to know,” grinned Broughton. “What do you think of our comingsoirée?”
“If I thought, I’d probably never go!”
“I wish I was back in Texas. This muggy heat makes me sweat like ⸺.”
“Any amount of heat that can wring moisture out of your skin and bones deserves respect, Larry,” returned Broughton, shifting his body a trifle so that he could lie more comfortably.
The two men were lying in the shade of an S. E. 5 wing on the line in front of the Engineering Department hangars.
“Where’s Covington now? By the time he gets through testing that Martin it’ll have flown twice as far as we’re going to fly it and be all ready to get out of whack again,” remarked Hinkley, rolling a stem of grass around in between his lips.
“It’ll be right when we get it though. Did he say it was fully equipped?”
Hinkley nodded.
“Even our suitcases are in, and artillery enough to equip all the armies of the allies. That’s the ship now, isn’t it?”
Both men watched the Martin which was gliding majestically over the hangars on the Western edge of the field. It was wide and squat-looking, the one motor on each wing with the nose of the observers cockpit between giving it the impression of a monster with a face. Over seventy feet of wing-spread, two Liberty motors, weighing nearly five tons with a full load—it seemed so massive that the idea of flying it would have been ridiculous to a landsman who had never seen one in the air. There was none of the lightness and trimness usually associated with airplanes.
It squatted easily on the ground, the high landing gear thrusting the nose ten feet in the air as it landed. It came taxying slowly toward the waiting pilots.
“Ready to go, I see.”
Broughton sat up and Hinkley turned at the sound of Graves’ voice. He was already in coveralls. The open neck showed the stiff-standing collar of an army uniform with officers’ insignia on it.
“Yes, sir. And you?”
“Right now. Is there anything more to be done to the ship?”
“Not unless Covington has discovered something in this flight,” replied Broughton. “A little more gas and oil to make up for what Covey has just used and we’ll be set.”
Conversation became impossible as the ship rumbled up to the line. Using first one motor and then the other, depending on which way he wanted to turn, Covington brought the bomber squarely up to the waiting-blocks. The attentive ears of the flyers listened closely to the sweet idling of both motors while Covington waited in the cockpit for the gas in the carburetors to be used up before cutting his switches.
“Listens well,” stated Hinkley.
Broughton nodded.
“While they’re filling it with gas let’s make sure we understand everything,” said Graves. “This will probably be our last opportunity to talk.”
“Let’s see what Covey says first,” suggested Broughton.
The test pilot, a chunky young man with nearly three thousand hours in the air on over sixty types of ships, assured them briefly that everything was in apple-pie condition. And when Covington said a ship was right, few men in the Air Service made even a casual inspection to verify it.
“We’ll have her filled in five minutes or so. Where in ⸺ are you bound, anyway?” he inquired curiously. “You’ve had us flying around here as busy as “Lamb” Jackson getting ready for a flight.”
This irreverent reference to an officer who flew semi-occasionally to the accompaniment of enough rushing around on the part of mechanics to get the whole brigade in the air caused Broughton to grin widely.
“We’re carrying Colonel Graves here to Dayton, and want to be prepared for a forced landing. There’s a little unrest among the miners, over in West Virginia, you know.”
“There’ll be more if all that artillery gets into action,” returned Covington. “Well, good luck. I’ve got to take up this ⸺ Caproni and find out⸺”
A sickening crash made the heads of all four men jerk around it as though pulled by one string. On the extreme western edge of the field a mass of smoke with licking flames showing through hid a De Haviland, upside down.
“Hit those trees with a wing and came down upside down,” came the quiet voice of Graves. His face was white to the lips.
Covington rushed into the hangar, bound for a telephone. Before he reached it there came two explosions in rapid succession. Then a blackened figure, crawling over the ground away from the burning ship.
Neither flyer had spoken. They watched fire engines and ambulances rush across the field, and saw that horrible figure disappear behind a wall of men. Came a third explosion.
“Bombs,” said Hinkley.
“Two cadets from the 18th Squadron,” yelled Covington from the hangar door.
“Tough luck,” said Broughton, his tanned face somber.
Graves, still white, looked at the flyers curiously. In his eyes there was suddenly sympathy, and understanding, but no trace of fear.
“I suppose there is no chance for either of them?” he asked.
“Not a bit.”
“Words are rather futile, aren’t they? But if you don’t mind, let’s make sure we understand each other now so that there will be no question of our procedure, insofar as we can lay it out ahead of time.”
Mechanics had resumed their work after the brief flurry caused by the accident, and several of them swarmed over the Martin, supplying it with gas and oil in each motor. There was very little to be said by Graves, except to emphasize previous instructions.
“I am banking on their respect for the United States Army—something which no class of people ever loses. I hope it will be fear and respect mingled, and that not even Hayden, suspicious as he will be, will dare fool with army officers. You both have shoulder holsters as well as your belts?”
Both men nodded.
“That’s all then, I guess.”
“And the ship is ready,” said Hinkley.
“I left my helmet over in the hangar. I’ll be right out,” said Graves.
He started for the hangar with long, unhurried strides.
“Larry, I’m growing to believe that this man Graves has got something on the ball,” Broughton remarked slowly as they walked toward the ship. “In addition, he’s got nerve.”
That was a lot for Broughton to say on short acquaintance, and Hinkley knew it.
“I wouldn’t trust any man in the world in a knockdown fight as far as I could throw this Martin, Jim, without seeing him there first,” the tail pilot said. “But I feel a lot easier in my mind!”
Graves climbed in the observer’s cockpit, which is the extreme nose of the ship. Directly behind him, seated side by side and separated from him only by the instrument board, were Broughton and Hinkley. Broughton was behind the wheel. On the scarf-mount around the observer’s cockpit a double Lewis machine-gun was mounted. Several feet back of the front cockpits, where a mechanic ordinarily rode, another twin Lewis was mounted on a similar scarf-mount.
Broughton turned on the gas levers, retarded the two spark throttles, and with his hand on the switches of the right-hand motor waited for the mechanics to finish swinging the propeller.
“Clear!” shouted one of them.
Jim clicked on the switches and pressed the starter. The propeller turned lazily, the motor droning slightly as an automobile motor does when the starter is working. In a few seconds she caught. Similar procedure with the left-hand motor, and shortly both Libertys were idling gently.
Broughton’s eyes roved over the complicated instrument board before him. Two tachometers, two air-pressure gages, two for temperature, air-speed meter, two sets of switches, starting buttons, double spark, double throttle, and on the sides of the cockpit shutter levers, gas levers, landing lights and parachute flare releases—it was a staggering maze to the uninitiated, but the two airmen read them automatically. From time to time they turned to watch more instruments set on the sides of the motors; oil-pressure gages, and additional air-pressure and temperature instruments, to say nothing of gages to tell how much gas and oil they had.
Finally the pilot’s hand dropped to the two throttles set side by side on his right hand. Little by little he inched them ahead until both motors were turning nine hundred. He left them there a moment, watching the temperatures until one read sixty and the other sixty-five. He cut the throttle of the left-hand motor back to idling speed, and then slowly opened the right one until the tachometer showed twelve hundred and fifty. He let it run briefly on each switch alone, listening to the unbroken drum of the cylinders. He went through the same routine with the left motor before he allowed both motors to idle while mechanics pulled the heavy blocks.
The ship was headed toward the hangars. When the block was pulled the right-hand motor roared wide open. Without moving forward three feet the great ship turned in its tracks, to the left. After it was turned it bumped slowly out for the take-off.
You can almost tell a Martin pilot by his taxying. The least discrepancy in the speed of either motor will make the ship veer. There is a constant and delicate use of the throttles to hold it to a straight course, without getting excessive speed. The two big rudders, both attached to one rudder bar, have little effect on the ground.
With a tremendous roar the Martin sprang into life. Jim set himself against the wheel with all his strength to get the tail up. As soon as that effort was over the Martin became suddenly easy to handle. It took the air in but a trifle longer run than a De Haviland. Neither flyer had his goggles over his eyes. Being seated ahead of the propellers, that terrific airblast which swirls back from an airplane stick was not in evidence. The propellers whirred around with their tips less than a foot from the heads of the airmen.
As soon as he had cleared the last obstacle and had started to circle the field Jim synchronized the motors until both were turning exactly fourteen-fifty. He studied gages and adjusted shutters to hold the temperature steady.
One circle of the field proved that the Martin was all that Covington said it was. It handled with paradoxical ease—a baby could have spun the wheel or worked the rudders. Only a slight logginess when compared with smaller ships would make a pilot notice what a big ship he was flying.
Jim was still new enough on Martins to get a kick out of seeing what he was tooling through the air. The wings stretched solidly to either side, totalling over seventy feet. Struts, upright and cross, were like the limbs of some great tree. Four feet to either side of the cockpit, resting on the lower wing amid a maze of struts and braces, the Libertys sang their drumming tune.
Broughton swung up the James River and passed between Petersburg and Richmond. The smiling Virginia country was level and cleared, and there was nothing to weigh on the flyers’ minds except what might happen at the end of the flight. Both of them let their thoughts dwell on what lay ahead. Perhaps Graves’ mind was running in the same channel, but he was apparently devoting all his faculties to enjoying the flight. In a Martin the country is spread out before you—you can watch it as comfortably as from some mountain peak.