CHAPTER IXANOTHER WORLD

AS the plane rolled to a stop, both Jack and the Skipper found their tongues. What was the meaning of this performance? Why were they forced down? Where had they landed? Certainly these other pilots were not treating them or their flight to India with the seriousness that they deserved.

The Skipper remarked in a disgusted tone of voice as they climbed out:

“It looks like a good-for-nothing training ground for pilots from all over the world, except that most of them can fly and fly well.”

The other planes were now landing all around them and their pilots, clambering out, hurried over and started examining every detail of their machine. They were a good-natured lot and seemed to have no idea of harming them in any way.

Kiwi was still in the cockpit of the plane, not knowing what to do. Several of the pilots spied him. Plainly delighted they shouted to him to come out and join them.

The Skipper, still bewildered, looked up as Kiwi started to climb through the window, and said:

“Watch out, Kiwi! Better let me help you down.”

With that a great shout went up from the crowd:

“Here’s a Kiwi!”

It was then that the crew of the “Dauntless,” looking about, realized that there was nothing but pilots anywhere in sight.

There was a commotion on the edge of the crowd, and elbowing his way in was a tall young man wearing a British officer’s uniform. Grasping the Skipper by the shoulders, he swung him around and then blurted out:

“Well, if it isn’t Skipper McBride, of all people!”

At the same time the Skipper recognized him and exclaimed:

“Why, Thorne, what are you doing here? And where are we, anyway?”

Thorne told him that he had been there for a long, long time—he could scarcely remember how long.

“We keep no track of time in this place, Skipper. You’re in another world now. The nights follow the days and we have nothing to worry about.”

Then he wanted to know who Jack was and also who the boy was.

The Skipper explained to him hurriedly of their flight and of their hopes of landing in India; how Kiwi, who was his son, had at the last minute stowed away aboard the plane, and how he had been able to help them in their journey over the water.

Thorne suggested that they get out of their flying clothes, and that he would take them to a place where they could rest up.

As Jack was removing his suit, Thorne and one or two of the others spoke up:

“Well—here’s the Navy! There’s a whole crowd of your fellows here, and no doubt you’ll find many friends among them.”

They had started off toward the edge of the field when the Skipper stopped and asked if something could not be done for their plane. Thorne waved him aside with, “Oh, it’s all right where it stands. Don’t worry about it.”

As they were walking along, Thorne became interested in Kiwi, and asked him how he liked flying. Kiwi, who had admired Thorne immensely from the first, chattered to him of their adventures in the clouds and of their narrow escape from the iceberg.

Arriving at the edge of the field they were made comfortable. Then a message came for Jack that a crowd of his Navy friends, hearing of his arrival, would be landing soon at a nearby field, and would he come over and join them.

Jack left, saying that he would return later.

The Skipper now took this opportunity to ask Thorne more about this flying world in which they had landed.

Then Thorne began:

“This little kingdom of which you and Jack and Kiwi are now a part is composed entirely of aviators who, in the other world, gave their lives for the advancement of aviation. Among us here are men who made experiments with the earliest gliders, who tried to fly crazy contraptions built by the rule of thumb and flown more by confidence than by knowledge. There are also among us pioneers who tried to find ways and means of doing impossible things in the air. Thelast war contributed hundreds who were the founders of traditions for the use of aircraft in battle. Some were sacrificed in order that the need for parachutes for every pilot should be recognized. Many whose names are even now unknown in aviation, here have found their place and here their merits have been recognized. Test pilots, those unsung heroes of experimentation, form a large part of our numbers. Beginning with the legendary Icarus and continuing up to the present time, a steady stream of recruits have flowed into our kingdom, and they mark the progress of man’s conquest of the air.”

Then Thorne rattled on, in a way that the Skipper remembered as characteristic of him in the old days, recounting stories of pilots they had both known.

Both Jack and the Skipper found many friends. Only a short time before several other planes attempting to cross the Atlantic had landed here. Two Frenchmen with glorious war records were part of the group. They told their stories of fighting the elements over the Atlantic and their experiences with the treacherous ice.

They talked on and on and all seemed anxious to know the details of any new developments that were being made in aircraft. Anything that had to do with flying interested them.

Kiwi sat and drank in their stories. But since his talk with Thorne, he had had little to say, for he felt that he was something of an outsider inasmuch as he really did not know how to fly.

As time went on, more flyers gathered round. Some were old friends of the Skipper’s; others, pilots who knew him or knew people whom he knew.

Always overhead there were planes tumbling about. Kiwi looked up and watched them stunting, rolling and looping like so many swallows on a summer afternoon. All their motors seemed to run without a skip or a miss, and once or twice he saw pilots floating lazily down in parachutes apparently just for the joy of it.

An all-red plane came skimming close over their heads. The Skipper looked up quickly. He pointed it out to Kiwi and said:

“That’s a Camel plane. Remember—I told you about them?”

The plane came back and landed not far away, and a pink-cheeked young fellow slid to the ground and came on a run to join their group.

The Skipper recognized him at once, and pulling Kiwi to his feet he said:

“Here’s old Armbruster—the fellow who taught me to fly.”

Kiwi looked the new man over with the greatest admiration, for Dad had told him many stories of Armbruster’s flying skill. He remembered Dad’s telling how he would take off from the ground into a loop, just missing the field by inches as he came around; how he had, on a dare, flown through a long hangar with just a few inches to spare on either side; how he used to fly across the tops of some saw-tooth hangars, just touching his wheels lightly on the top of each peak as he passed. Dad had said that Armbruster was the most natural flyer he had ever seen. He never needed instruments to tell him what he was doing.

Armbruster, when he found out who Kiwi was, made agreat fuss over him. He asked Kiwi all about Dad and what he had been up to. He wanted to know all about their flight and about the plane they were using. He suggested that he and Kiwi should go and inspect the “Dauntless.” Of course Kiwi liked the idea.

Leaving Dad gossiping with old friends, they walked over to where the plane stood and climbed over it. As they were sitting in the cockpit together, Kiwi turned to Armbruster with the greatest seriousness and said:

“You know, sir, I have never really learned to fly, but Dad has been promising to teach me for an awfully long time. Do you think, Mr. Armbruster, maybe you could find time to do it?”

Armbruster was delighted.

“Sure,” he said. “I know just the plane, and later I will borrow it and we will send you off in no time.”

ARMBRUSTER

After they had inspected all the instruments, some of which were new to Armbruster, they climbed out of the cockpit, Armbruster remarking that never before had he seen such a big petrol tank in a plane. Then turning to Kiwi, he asked: “How would you like to make a tour around and see some ofourmachines?”

This was just what Kiwi had been hoping for, and for the next couple of hours they went from one plane to another while Armbruster pointed out their characteristics and the peculiarities of each.

He showed Kiwi a Sopwith-Dolphin, a compact biplane in which the pilot sat so that his head came above the top plane. That was a good plane during the war, Armbruster told him. It could go up high—about 20,000 to 22,000 feet—and had a back stagger so that the pilot had a good view both up and down.

Then they came to a Spad. Armbruster explained how the French had used them to splendid advantage, how fast they were, how beautifully they maneuvered, and finished up by saying, “All in all, a beautiful bus.”

SPAD

Alongside this plane was an enormous Handley-Page, its body towering above the little Spad, the wheels of its undercarriage being almost as high as a man. Two Rolls-Royce engines drove it through the air, and while they were talking about it another one came down to land, its slow descent reminding Kiwi of a freight elevator.

So they went from one plane to another. Soon they came to a GermanFokker D7, painted in glaring colors with lavender wings and a pink body.

Armbruster said, “That’s Schaeffer’s machine. He and I had a good many scraps during the war over around St. Quentin. However, neither one of us ever did much damage to the other, although one day he did get a couple of shots through my center section. If he is around anywhere I want you to meet him, for he and your Dad had a few skirmishes, too, in the old days.”

Armbruster next pointed out an S.E.5, but this was not new to Kiwi. He had seen several of them back on the field at New York where they were being used for sky-writing.

DOLPHIN

A little later they came to where, sitting all alone, was a rather clumsy-looking plane, which Armbruster said was a B. E. They were known to all the war flyers as Quirks. Turning to Kiwi, Armbruster remarked:

“Kiwi, there’s the plane that your Dad learned to fly in, and I am going to borrow it and seehow well you can handle it. It’s a clumsy old thing, but you will love it before you get through with it. Let’s go and look up the pilot it belongs to, and if he says the word I’ll take you for a flip right now.”

Kiwi’s excitement began to rise, and even though they had not been able to finish their flight to India, he began to feel that learning to fly would be compensation enough.

As they strolled back in the direction of the group that surrounded the Skipper, pilots called to them from all sides. A boy among all these older pilots was considerable of a curiosity, and they all seemed envious when they learned that Armbruster was to teach him to fly.

FOKKER D.7.

They rejoined the Skipper and his friends, and Armbruster started off to find Hamer, who flew the Quirk, to get his permission to use the plane.

Just then Kiwi heard Thorne say:

“What happened to little Jimmie Dugan? We heard at one time that he would join us, but no one has ever seen him. He certainly started for here.”

Then the Skipper told the story of Jimmie Dugan and his adventures, and they found out at last why Jimmie Dugan never came.

Jimmie, though an American, had joined the Canadian army. From the first he had disliked carrying a rifle and had got a transfer into a unit of sappers. It was their job to dig tunnels far out under the lines, pack them full of explosives, and when they thought the enemy least expected it, touch them off from a safe distance with an electric fuse.

This form of amusement Jimmie had soon tired of and felt that he needed a little more action out in the open air; therefore in due time he became a dispatch rider, and sped over the highways and byways of France on a motor-cycle.

SE-5

Getting a taste of speed, Jimmie looked about him for something better, and, as he expressed it, “Having workedunderthe ground andonthe ground, I thought, why not try the air?”

His commanding officer, having in mind Jimmie’s smashing destructivenesswith motor-cycles, had some misgivings about transferring him to the Flying Corps. There the possibilities of damage were increased a hundred fold. However, Jimmie made his officer’s life miserable until it was accomplished.

Jimmie had learned to fly with only the usual few crashed undercarriages, and had been hurried out to the front during March of 1918, when pilots of any kind were in great demand.

Arriving at a squadron near Bailleul, Jimmie had been plunged into the war in the air without the customary few days in which to get acquainted with the lines. Almost miraculously he had done his work and escaped injury during the hectic days that followed upon the enemy’s break-through in March.

Because of the terrific losses in pilots and planes during those days, Jimmie found himself a veteran of the squadron within three weeks. Time passed quickly. Every one was living his life to the hilt, resting his jangled nerves as best he could during the days it rained or clouds were too low for work aloft.

At the end of six months Jimmie was due for leave. His orders read that he was to catch the leave-boat for England on a certain afternoon. A car was leaving the squadron at eleven o’clock in the morning which would take him to the coast.

It was an unwritten law that pilots need do no flying on the day that a Channel boat is to take them to England and comparative safety.

However, by this time Jimmie’s whole life was flying and fighting. As his kit bag was all packed, he decided to go off with the morning patrol for just one more look at the war.

It was a morning when their part of the front was comparatively clear of clouds. Off to their left, as they climbed, they could see banks of broken clouds that became thicker and heavier toward the horizon where England lay.

As they crossed the pock-marked and broken and torn country where men were living like so many rabbits, Jimmie sighted up in the sun a group of specks, looking as if a handful of pebbles had been tossed up there. They had not long to wait to discover whether they were friend or enemy.

Six Fokkers, their noses pointed down, their motors going full blast, swept down upon them. Jimmie could see the sun reflecting upon their brightly painted wings.

Jimmie’s flight was out-numbered, for one of the S.E.’s had found it necessary to turn back with engine trouble just before they arrived at the lines.

The fight that followed had no new aspects for Jimmie. It had happened many times before. The familiar dryness was in his mouth. He felt the old thrill and tingle of the uncertainty of it as he pulled over and did a half-roll, making the first Fokker miss him on its dive.

In the confused minutes that followed he had no time to follow his friends in their efforts. They were all veterans like himself, and he felt relieved that Campbell, the new man with the squadron, had left them because of his dud engine before the fight started.

Jimmie was having his own troubles with a fellow in a Fokker with blue wing-tips. They were evenly matched until another Fokker, heavily camouflaged, had streaked a line of tracer bullets through Jimmie’s struts, while his entire attention had been given to focusing his sights on the blue wing-tips.

As he yanked his S.E. around to drive this newcomer off, the fellow for a fraction of a second did the wrong thing, and a burst from Jimmie’s machine-gun found its mark. The plane staggered like a wounded thing and went down out of control.

Jimmie turned quickly in time to see his blue wing-tip fellow engaged by another S.E. They were some distance off, too far for Jimmie to be of any help for the moment.

He looked about for new worlds to conquer. The fight had broken up his patrol. They were scattered widely, and now an anti-aircraft battery was devoting its whole attention to preventing Jimmie from regaining his own side of the lines.

The first burst startled him as it came up alongside and spread out level with him. The w-u-u-m-p of its explosion made his machine shudder, and he saw a ragged hole in the wing about four feet from the fuselage.

“I must fool this fellow,” Jimmie said to himself, and as two more black, greasy palls of smoke followed the first, he changed his direction and steered toward them, knowing that the gunners would change their range slightly before trying again. Then for a few seconds he twisted and turned, lost height and gained it again, till the enemy gunners apparently decided to try for some of the others.

Away to his left Jimmie saw another S.E. picking away at an enemy two-seater. Inasmuch as he had the advantage of height, he decided to help in this little matter. Getting terrific speed from a long dive, he zoomed up under the fat belly of the enemy machine just as the other S.E. was swinging in from the other side. They both opened up with their guns at thesame time. The two-seater reared up into the air like a bucking horse, quivered for a moment, slid off on one wing, and a slow curl of black smoke streamed from it as it went spinning downward.

Jimmie’s heart jumped within him as he saw their enemy go down. He yelled at the top of his lungs, trying to drown out the sound of his motor, “Not so bad for a leave day!”

Then Jimmie remembered he must catch the tender before eleven. He looked at his watch and decided that he could just make it if he started for home now. He throttled back his motor a little and made his way north. The wind had drifted him south and east, but always keeping a sharp lookout behind he made his way toward home.

He felt hot and tired now, and began to think of his leave and of the two weeks he would spend in England. He knew old friends would be there, and he began counting up the money he had saved for this vacation from the war.

The erratic shooting of an anti-aircraft group of batteries brought Jimmie’s mind back to the war with a snap. If these gunners were shooting at him they were mighty poor marksmen.

Then he discovered a Camel machine starting on a long dive. He looked below to see what was attracting this fellow, and there only about fifteen hundred feet off the ground was one of those fat sausage balloons which carry officers in its basket who correct the fire of the artillery.

Jimmie gasped as he thought of this fellow taking a chance with a balloon, for he knew full well that a Camel had no business trying that sort of work. They dived too slowly to be effective, and observation balloons were always heavilyprotected by machine-guns. Having the range of the balloon, they could surround it with a perfect hail of bullets through which it was necessary to pass in order to set the balloon on fire.

The thought flashed through Jimmie’s mind, “Well, if that fellow’s trying it, why shouldn’t I? I still have time to take a shot at it and catch the leave-boat.”

They were both diving now from opposite sides, the Camel’s guns just starting to spit, when Jimmie was horrified to see the Camel quiver and burst into flames.

This fact was just impressed upon him when he heard the sing of bullets and the crackle of wood, and felt a stream of hot metal scrape both his legs. One terrific jolt hit him in the chest—and he went down.

His last conscious thought was of a burning sensation in his legs, yet there was no fire. All went black before his eyes and he must have fainted.

When Jimmie came to he found himself still strapped in his seat, the engine pointed straight down in front of him into comparative darkness, while pale daylight streamed in upon him over the tail.

Slowly he looked about him. The wings were gone! Turning his head with an effort, he saw them lying twisted and torn among the red tiles on the roof of the Belgian house into which he had crashed. Below him was a turmoil of sound. Deep, gutteral voices spoke in a tongue he did not understand. He tried to unhook his belt but was too weak to do it.

After minutes and minutes of talking and shouting, a ladder was put up beside him, his belt was unhooked, and he waslifted out of the machine and carried to the floor below. Here they tried to make him walk, but he found it was impossible. So they carried him down to the basement of this house, and there, of all places, he found there had been fixed up an enemy first-aid station.

Jimmie saw the heavy face of the doctor as he bent over and impersonally examined him. The doctor spoke to an assistant, they both looked him all over again, and then the doctor gave a quick, sharp order to the stretcher-bearers who were waiting. They picked him up and carried him into another room, setting the stretcher down upon the floor.

As he looked around the bare little room, he made out two other figures—one stretched out in a bunk built into the side wall and filled with straw, the other on a stretcher near by. A soldier with a gun leaned against the doorway and inspected Jimmie curiously.

Gradually it came back to Jimmie that it must be eleven o’clock. There was a pain in his chest which hurt him to breathe, but still the thought persisted in his mind, “The car goes at eleven for the leave-boat.” Then he slowly and painfully realized that the leave-boat was not for him. He was down ... he had crashed ... he was on the wrong side of the lines....

If he could only breathe easier things wouldn’t be so bad. Through the doorway came a man dressed all in black with a long cinnamon-colored beard. Suspended from his neck on a silver chain was a cross, which he fingered as be made his way to the figure in the bunk. It came over Jimmie that this was a priest who had come to give the Last Sacrament to a man who was not expected to live. The priest finished hisrites with the man in the bunk, then turned to the figure on the other stretcher, and again came the low mumble of his voice.

He next approached Jimmie.

Then Jimmie began to understand that the doctor had sent him to this room because he was not expected to live. This worried him not at all. He felt sure that if the obstruction in his chest could be removed, if he could take one long, deep breath, everything would be all right.

As the priest came toward him, Jimmie set up a great outcry. Not realizing that the priest might not understand English, he explained to him over and over again that hemustbe sent back to the doctor, and that if the doctor would remove this lump in his chest all would be well.

The priest appeared to be unconvinced. Jimmie half raised himself on his stretcher, and repeated again and again that the priestmustsend for the doctor. At last the priest seemed willing to humor him in his wish, patted him on the head and went out of the room.

Left alone, Jimmie was more miserable than ever, wondering if the priest had understood.

After what seemed to him an eternity, the priest came back, gesticulating with his hands to the doctor who accompanied him. Jimmie repeated his demands and the doctor, apparently convinced, leaned over, opened Jimmie’s tunic, and after another examination had him carried back to the operating room. After a few torturous minutes with a peculiar wire instrument, the doctor gave a triumphant “Ach!” and held up for Jimmie’s inspection a piece of metal the size of his little finger, and saying “Souvenir” handed it to him.

Jimmie tried, weakly, to take it, drew a long breath, andalmost at once began to feel better. For the next few minutes the doctor worked rapidly. He bandaged up Jimmie’s chest and legs, and finishing his task this man in an enemy uniform seemed as pleased as did Jimmie.

“And then,” the Skipper continued, “when I saw him after the war was over, he was being helped off a hospital boat at Folkestone, limping on two canes, it is true, but otherwise apparently none the worse for wear except that he had no buttons on his coat, his wings were gone, as were all his badges of rank.

“After I had talked to him for a few minutes I said:

“‘It looks as if the souvenir hunters had been busy with you. Where are all your buttons and your wings?’

“Jimmie replied, with a slow smile:

“‘I didn’t lose them until after the Armistice. So many people in Belgium had been good to me, had shown me so many kindnesses, that I had to do something to reward them. And it was a very pretty girl who got my wings.’”

During the telling of the story of Jimmie Dugan’s adventures, Kiwi had listened with divided interest. He was ever on the watch for Armbruster’s return. That he might now get his chance to learn to fly was of more importance to him than stories of other days.

He did not have long to wait. Very soon the cheery face of Armbruster appeared, and he called out from a distance:

“All right, Kiwi! I’m ready now if you are!”

The Skipper looked up quickly. Kiwi put his hand appealingly on his father’s arm.

“Captain Armbruster,” he said, “has just promised that he will teach me to fly. May I go with him?”

By this time Armbruster had come up to the group, and he explained to the Skipper his plan to teach Kiwi.

“I believe I have the same old Quirk that you learned on,” he said to the Skipper, “and I’m curious to see what sort of a hand this son of yours has for flying.”

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