Part 2

As Finley took up the pen, the labored conversation of the others reached his brain without making sense, as the knowledge smote him that they were trying to avoid hurting his feelings, and were sore at Kink for that reason. He, Jim Finley, who’d been flying bamboo kites-before they’d ever seen a plane, and was leading flights of bomb-laden Capronis across the mountains when they thought a ninety horsepower Jenny was the only airplane in the world! They didn’t kid him-- didn’t kid him when the favorite trophy of McCook Field was an elaborate bronze shield whereon were engraved, with great pomp and ceremony, the names of the men who pulled really classic bones!

----, they were sorry for him!

He got very drunk that night with Frankie DeShields, a jovial airman whose firm belief it was that any landing from which one emerged alive was a good landing, and that there were no good flyers dead nor poor ones alive.

Finley’s head was throbbing dully next morning as he went through reports listlessly. It was ten o’clock when the telephone rang. He stiffened as he recognized the voice which reached his ears.

“Jim? Major Carrol, Jim. How about dropping over right away for your six hundred and nine?”

“Why, doc, I just had my semi-annual three months ago. It’s not due until--”

“I know it, but we’re getting at ’em early this time to ease the rush. Come right over, eh? Good.”

There was a curious constriction around his heart as he walked to the hospital. He wondered whether the doctor thought he’d fallen for that stuff about starting the regular physical examinations earlier? Why in ---- couldn’t anybody around the field come out in the open, and say what they had to say, with no bones about it?

The spry, scrawny little medico kept up the bluff, though, and filled out long questionnaires and put the big flyer through the revolving chair and went over his scarred body from feet to ears. Finley, outwardly placid, felt the growing tautness of every nerve within him. Why bother with all this junk? Why not get to the most important item at once, instead of stalking around?

“All O.K.!” the chipper little doctor said cheerily. His eyes were glinting behind his sparkling glasses. “Now we’ll take a peek at the eyes, and we’ll be through.”

In a moment Finley had the end of two twenty-foot strings in his hands, attached to two small, movable uprights which ran on runners in a lighted box on the wall. Straining his eyes to the utmost, he strove to adjust those small sticks until they were side by side. The major, silent and intent, made him do it three times, and then set him to peering through special lenses and trying to adjust them until a line of light cut the center of an electric bulb squarely. He peered through a stereoscope, and picked out different shades of pink and red from a collection of colored yarns. Finally, he was in front of the vision chart.

His eyes watered with the effort he made to read the twenty-twenty line, and there was perspiration on his forehead as he tried to pick out letter after letter from that blurred mass. He was weak as a kitten when he followed the major into the office.

The kindly medical man settled himself behind his desk.

“Jim, I’ve got to take you off flying.”

Finley’s tongue licked his parched lips as he stared at the major, like a man paralyzed.

“Your vision is way below normal--possibly due to overstrain--and more important still, your muscle balance is out of plumb. Your stereoscopic vision is imperfect. It may be curable with rest, or it may be simply the natural result of growing a little older. Anyhow, I must take you off.”

“But, doc, can’t you get a waiver from Washington? Once before--”

“In that case, Jim, I couldn’t recommend it. You can fly as an observer, of course.” Finley took the blow standing up.

“Sure. I won’t lose--any pay.”

He could scarcely comprehend the full meaning of what had happened as he walked slowly to the mess-hall. He was numb, somehow, mind and body. As the babble of voices from within reached him he gathered himself, and forced himself to lounge in and nod smilingly to a couple of visiting flyers. When he settled himself at the long table which the test pilots gathered around, he saw the unspoken question in the eyes of Redding, Sparks and the others.

“Well,” he drawled. “You boys seem to be eating with a corpse.”

“Huh?” barked Redding.

“Just saw the doc,” Finley went on, his eyes busy with his plate as he shook three times as much salt on it as he wanted. “It seems that my dandruff is gradually making me just a shell of my former self, and the left tonsil, I believe, is about to explode. And my halitosis--why, it’s a wonder I’m alive!”

“What happened?” demanded Brad Sparks, looking squarely into Finley’s eyes.

“I’m taken off flying,” Finley said calmly.

“I told you so!”

It was Kink Forell, just taking his seat.

“So you took my tip, eh? I knew it was the thing to do. You’d of killed yourself in another week. You get old young in this game!”

Finley’s brows knit. ---- the weakness which made him bridle at every cocky word of Forell’s. The red-head had his goat. Just then his words had been a crow of triumph, Finley thought, because he, Forell, had called the turn.

“I wish to ---- you’d get old enough soon to keep your mouth shut once in a while,” Fairbanks told him levelly, but the Kink did not resent it. He was in high good humor.

“Conversation,” he said airily, “is the spice of a meal.”

Finley went through his office work mechanically that afternoon, and at four o’clock he was through. He got up from his desk wearily, lighted a cigaret and stared out of the window at the flying field. The Kink was testing a new monoplane pursuit job. The trim, shining little plane was cavorting madly through the sky, like a dragon-fly at play. It frolicked among the silvery, cumulous clouds, and as it darted in and out, hung on its back and dived furiously in joyous exuberance, Finley suddenly sat down at his desk again. His eyes were still staring unseeingly out of the window.

For a moment his mouth worked, then was still. He leaned on the desk. At thirty-five he was a discard in the flying deck--an outcast from the kingdom he had helped to build, part of which he had ruled.

“And now, gentlemen, I want to introduce undoubtedly the greatest big-ship pilot in America.”

His head dropped to his folded arms. That afternoon was his Gethsemane, and he got very drunk again that night.

* * * * *

As the weeks passed his tranquil exterior was not entirely assumed. It wasn’t as bad as he had thought, and the ache within him became only a dull one. Dick Redding took over the big-ship work after Brad Sparks was killed, and Finley was always a passenger on test flights. His judgment of performance, and analysis of it, was as accurate as ever, which helped his self-esteem. It warded off the time when the ground would be his exclusive habitat, and the work of the air would go completely past him.

Nevertheless, the pride of the pilot, which passeth all understanding, was strong within him, and there was no earthly eminence which could replace what he had lost.

And Kink Forell never missed an opportunity to remind him of what he had lost. The Kink was going wild. His callous kidding of Finley, unrelieved by any undercurrent of humorous raillery, had crystallized the growing weariness of the little group of flyers with Forell and all his works. The brilliant youngster sensed the change in feeling toward him, and something indomitable in him made him deliberately pursue the course which had caused it.

He received no more casual compliments about a particularly skillful bit of work, so he went wild trying to force them from the taciturn airmen. His flying brought frequent gasps from even the old-timers, and scarcely a day passed, toward the end of the month, when Forell’s matchless airmanship was not a topic of conversation--when he was not around.

Finley’s animosity toward him grew in strength. That the Kink was like an annoying hornet, buzzing around him constantly in an endeavor to sting him, was not important. Forell grew to blame Finley for his ostracism, and never missed an opportunity to get in a dig. That didn’t matter. A fat-headed young fool like Forell couldn’t affect Finley’s peace of mind for a moment.

Rather, the older man’s dislike was the result of his utter contempt for Forell’s blind insanity. There was a bird with a brilliant future, he reflected a thousand times, who was throwing away his chances for an ideal life, through sheer egotism. A born aerial engineer, a flying genius, young, handsome, loving his work--why, the Kink could be one of the biggest men in the service, and an asset to it.

But because he was a stubborn, unbearably conceited brat, a year or so would see him dead, or an outcast, unless he mended his ways. Never had he been so cocky and domineering, nor his tongue so nasty, as now, when the dislike of his fellow-pilots was something tangible in the very atmosphere.

But he was showing the strain, Finley observed when he met him one Saturday morning in the adjutant’s office. The Kink’s lean face was thinner, he was somewhat pale, and there was an unhealthy glitter in his eyes as he said--

“What are you doing here?”

“Got to see the major at ten.”

“That’s funny as ----! So’ve I! What does he want with the two of us?”

“You go in together,” the adjutant informed them. “Shoot!”

The C.O. was standing behind his desk, a paper in his hands.

“Morning, gentlemen. Get ready to take off in a Briston as soon as you can pack a bag,” he said crisply. “The reserve squadron down at Nashville are dedicating a hangar they’ve built on some lot they’ve leased for a flying field. They’re getting a couple of Jennies to get in flying practise on. There’s a banquet tonight. Forell, you give ’em a flying exhibition this afternoon. Finley, they want you for a speech at the banquet tonight. Don’t go crazy, Forell--just give ’em a little show.

“Better start right away. It’s a two hour and a half trip. You’ll be put up down there. If you’re having a good time, you needn’t come back until Monday morning.

“Good luck. That’s all.”

“Boy, this’ll be fun!” Forell chuckled jubilantly as they went out. “Ever been in Nashville? They sure have good-looking Janes there, and we’ll be cocks of the walk. You’re not too old to like the women, are you?”

“How soon can you be ready?” demanded Finley. “I’ll be set in half an hour.”

“Me too. Let’s hope you don’t crash as a speechmaker, anyhow! I do the flying and you tell ’em how, eh?”

“See you in half an hour.”

They took off promptly in the trim observation plane. It was of duralumin construction, and capable of any kind of acrobatic work. It could do a hundred and fifty miles an hour on the level, and represented the last word in a two-seated fighting plane.

Finley, like all pilots, was uncomfortable without his own hand at the stick, but Forell was not called on to meet any emergencies as they roared down the Big Miami to its junction with the Ohio, thence down that majestically muddy stream to a point above Louisville where they cut southwest across the Kentucky mountains until they hit the Louisville-Nashville railroad. From there it was but a half-hour run across the brooding, wooded hills to their destination.

* * * * *

There were fully five thousand people at the field, and shortly after they had landed Forell went up for his exhibition.

With that swarm of spectators intent on his every move, the Kink was inspired. Finley watched him send the Briston hurtling across the sky in a breath-taking dive, upside down, and then bring the ship out of it through a straight nose dive that drew shrieks from the women and awed comments from the men. It darted upward on its tail, spinning a full turn, and there was speed enough left under Forell’s handling to allow him to arch it over on its back once more. For a moment it gathered speed, upside down, and then did a complete roll which left it upside down again. Another instant to gather speed, and he had flopped it over on an even keel once more.

Finley, his eyes shining with admiration, told the reserve officers--

“There, boys, is about the best stunt pilot you’ll ever look at!”

Shortly afterward the two McCook men left the field in the cars of their hosts. Finley was to stay with a young lawyer who was plainly honored to have him as a guest, and by the time several fingers of mountain dew, collected in the shine of the moon, had done its work, he was having an excellent time.

The banquet, it appeared, was not restricted to the reserve squadron, for there were fully five hundred people around the tables when Finley got up to speak.

He was surprized at their absorbed attention. He did not realize that the passion for the air which had absorbed him for eighteen years shone through his slow, almost halting words, and made them live. He was stunned at the solid applause when he sat down.

The toastmaster was on his feet.

“You know who you’ve been listening to,” he told the enthusiastic crowd. “One of America’s greatest pilots. Here’s where the program is supposed to end, and it’s getting late, but I think we all feel like just a word or two from Lieutenant Forell.”

Kink leaped to his feet, his face flushed and his words tumbling over themselves as the applause smote him.

“All I can say is that you’ve been listening to a man who can’t fly any more, so what he says means something. He knows, and he--can’t do any more to develop the game. That’s what lays ahead of all flyers--either have to quit, worn out and through, or get killed. But who cares? It’s the greatest game in the world!”

Finley’s face did not change. Forell had to dramatize himself, of course.

They took off Monday morning at eight o’clock, but there were fully five hundred people at the field to bid them good-by. Finley, his hand itching for the stick, sat tensely while the Kink took off. Forell held the ship close to the ground, and then zoomed it over the hangar. He followed the curve of the roof around, the wheels almost touching it, and dived briefly down the other side.

Finley relaxed. The grandstanding was over now, he hoped.

As the Briston droned swiftly across the rugged mountains Finley’s flyer’s instinct literally forced him to sweep the ground ceaselessly with his eyes. Most of the time he had a tiny clearing or a possible field always in mind in case the motor started missing. That was tough country down there.

He stiffened as there came a break in the even rhythm of the Liberty. For a moment the motor spat and missed. Then, for a moment, it fired steadily.

Finley was ready to sink back thankfully in the rear seat when the four hundred and fifty horsepower engine coughed again. His eyes leaped to the tachometer. Only nine hundred revolutions.

Forell did all he could. He jazzed the throttle, dived steeply, and tried the spark at all positions. The motor was stumbling along, its r.p.m. only seven hundred now.

Finley’s hand gripped Forell’s shoulder. He pointed down at the one possible field, three thousand feet below. Forell nodded impatiently, and turned to his work.

The field was an oblong, and very short on its longest side. Squarely in the middle of it stood a single tree, which turned the possible landing space into two strips, scarcely twenty-five yards wide. It was on a steep slope, and at its lower edge another hill, heavily wooded, started rising from the very rim of the field. As they spiraled down over it, Finley saw that in order to land uphill, the ship would be forced, willy-nilly, into a fairly steep glide down that other slope.

Forell was a master-flyer, but never-the-less it was agony for even the self-controlled Finley to sit idly by and watch Forell fly. Perfection in judgment and airmanship was necessary if they were to make that field in safety. There was not so much as a cabin within five miles, should they be hurt.

Kink started banking for the field halfway up the slope which faced it. As the nose swung toward the clearing the pilot stopped the spiral when the radiator was pointed toward the field at an angle.

While the tense Finley wondered, momentarily, what he was going to do, Forell sent the Briston into a gradual side-slip. It dropped down the mountainside with scarcely thirty miles an hour of forward speed, and he did not swing the nose for the right hand strip until the ship was at the very end of the towering trees which formed the barrier.

He dropped it over them, fishtailed it with the rudder, and set it down squarely in the middle of the landing lane. It trundled past the tree with scarcely ten feet of clearance on each wing, and came to rest twenty yards from the woods at the upper end.

The landing had been perfection itself.

“Sounded like water in the jets!” yelled Kink as he snapped off the switches.

Finley nodded as he hit the ground. That had been his diagnosis of the trouble, exactly.

He measured the field briefly with his eyes, and got the tool-kit out as Forell climbed out.

“We’ll take a look,” Finley drawled. “Let’s hope it’s just a jet.”

“----, there’s no hurry,” announced Forell, lighting a cigaret. “We’ll either have to get those trees--some of ’em--cut down, or else tear the ship down and send it home. We can’t get out.”

“Can’t get out?” repeated the bewildered Finley, jet wrench in hand. “Why--”

“Of course not!” snapped Forell, his eyes blazing suddenly. “There isn’t a chance--”

“Well, let’s look at the jets, anyway,” Finley cut in calmly, and went to work on the carbureter.

Forell paced up and down nervously as Finley worked without saying a word. Occasionally the big red-head darted a puzzled look at his stalwart, silent companion. Neither had anything to say until Finley had the jets out and was peering through the tiny openings.

“There she is!” he said triumphantly. “Look!”

The water bubble in the high speed jet was plain to be seen. Forell took a quick look through it. As Finley blew it out the Kink said jerkily:

“As soon as we get her back we’ll make for that town over north and see about getting some men to cut down some trees. We might be able to leave by tomorrow.”

His eyes blazed a challenge to Finley, but the older man said placidly--

“Let’s see whether she works first, anyhow.”

His mind was busy, however, with the implications in the Kink’s words. With eighteen years of experience behind him, he came close to knowing what could and what could not be done on a take-off. This one would have to be perfectly flown, but it could be done.

“Get in, and I’ll swing the prop,” he directed.

“Oh, what the ----’s the use?” Kink started, and then stopped.

He climbed in the front cockpit, his face sullen and his blue eyes glinting. Finley picked up two sizable rocks for wheelblocks, and then swung the propeller as Forell handled switches and throttle. The Liberty, still warm, caught at once, and idled along sweetly.

Forell turned it up a little, and tried it on either switch. He put it through its paces, with the spark in all positions, and it seemed to Finley that he was disappointed because it fired without a miss.

Suddenly the motor died, and Forell was on the ground.

“Well, let’s get started for help!” he barked. “I’ll go and you guard the ship.”

“Go for help, nothing,” Finley told him, putting the tool-kit away. “We’re going to take off!”

“Are you crazy!” yelled Forell, his face pale and drawn. “Why, ----, there isn’t a Chinaman’s chance of getting out of here!”

“The ---- there isn’t,” Finley said levelly, his eyes not two feet from Forell’s. “Listen. We get the ship up in the upper right hand corner here, swing her around, and block the wheels. Give her the gun, and right after she’s hopped the blocks she’ll be under full steam. Go diagonally for the left hand side of the tree, and right there swing her with right rudder to the lower right hand corner. That’ll give us several extra yards.”

“----! You must be going blind! Why listen, you superannuated old fool, we’d crash into those trees just as sure as we’re standing here!”

“We would not,” Finley said slowly.

“I say we would. And I’m the pilot of this ship; I’ve got the say, and I won’t take her off!”

He seemed to be half-crouched, as if prepared to fight for his very life.

“Oh, you won’t!” Finley said with deadly calmness. His eyes flickered over the youngster before him with cold contempt.

“No, I won’t, and by ---- I think you’re going totally crazy! Want to add another wreck to your--”

“Listen, you puling brat!” blazed Finley, and now all the repression of months seemed to have been released, and with blazing eyes and a torrent of speech he fairly threw his words into the younger man’s face.

“You won’t take off, eh? A ---- of a flyer you are! Got all the nerve in the world when the motor’s going good and you’ve got a crowd watching you, haven’t you? But when it comes to getting in there, out here in the wilderness, and giving her the gun when you’ve only got an even chance, you haven’t got the guts!”

“Shut up, or I’ll--”

“You’ll do what?”

Finley spat his words at him. His powerful body seemed to grow and expand until it overshadowed the slim youngster. There was contempt and hate in his eyes as his tongue played around the alternately shrinking and then wildly furious Forell, like a whip. He flayed the man he despised, mercilessly, laying bare the diseased spots within the outward semblance of the red-headed flyer.

Forell’s fists were clenched, and his eyes had the light of madness in them as Finley welded iron into his soul by the heat of his wrath. Time after time, during that stream of deadly insults which poured from the transfigured Finley’s mouth, it seemed that Forell was going to leap on him. Finley, giving not a step nor shifting his eyes by so much as an inch, dared him to come on.

“And as true as ----!” he finished, “if you funk this take-off I’ll climb in there myself and take her off, and I’ll bring her back to McCook, and I’ll label you in front of the whole cock-eyed world for the yellow-bellied, chicken-hearted, gutless ---- that you are!”

For a moment he played with the idea. He pictured himself coming in, having made the take-off that Kink Forell couldn’t make. That would show them whether he was through or not.