Tales of the Air Mail Pilots

by Burt M. McConnell

The field flood-light—a powerful searchlight—makes the landing field lighter than at noontime.

By resting at frequent intervals, this husky Iowan accomplished two more miles in as many hours. But now, after an eight-hour battle with the elements, the pilot had arrived at the stage where he was absolutely exhausted and almost in despair. How simple a solution of the problem, he thought, merely to lie down and go to sleep. Just then, however, he heard above the whistling of the wind the familiar drone of a Liberty motor. Glancing up, and almost unwilling to believe his eyes, the weary flier saw a plane directly above him. A miracle had happened. One of the boys, Bishop concluded, had learned by wireless that he was missing, and was now in search of him. The “shipwrecked” pilot frantically waved his heavy flying suit, but, despite his efforts, the plane passed a thousand feet above him, flying eastward, without even a signal. Within a few minutes it was out of sight.

Bishop now gave up hope. Was he to die almost within sight of a haven? By this time it had stopped snowing, but a moderate gale still howled out of the southwest. Bishop sat down to rest and think things over. He was now on a “hogback,” perfectly level and almost free of snow. As he sat there, another miracle happened; a miracle to stir one’s blood. It was this: Bob Ellis, Bishop’s companion, flying from Salt Lake City to Rock Springs, had seen his machine on the ground, but had noticed that the engine was running. Ellis, anxious to keep to the schedule, and believing Bishop was not in difficulty, continued on. But soon after his arrival at Rock Springs, Salt Lake reported by wireless that Bishop was missing. Ellis thereupon asked permission of the Division Superintendent to retrace his flight to the spot where he had seen Bishop’s plane on the ground. This was a splendid thing for Ellis to do. He was weary from his four-hour flight. The wind was still blowing at forty miles an hour. Nevertheless, this fearless pilot waited only long enough for a ship to be fueled.

Taking along a mechanic in case of accident to his own motor, and food and coffee for Bishop, Ellis set out in the face of the gale to find among a thousand hills a stalled machine and its helpless pilot.

When I remarked to Ellis, a few weeks ago, in a conversation at Salt Lake City, that this was a “mighty fine thing” for him to do, he replied: “Oh, that’s nothing; Bishop or any other pilot would do the same thing for me. We realize that any one of us may get into a jam at any time. And then it’s up to his fellow pilots to get him out of it.” This is the code of those who go down to the sea in ships.

After a flight of less than an hour, Ellis and his mechanic sighted Bishop’s machine, half buried in the snow; a dead thing. There was no sign of Bishop. Moreover, his trail had been blotted out by the drifting snow. Ellis, flying low and in wide circles about the stalled machine, asked himself what he would do in similar circumstances. Immediately he concluded that he would make for the farmhouse, twenty miles away. With an Air Mail pilot, to decide is to act and within fifteen minutes, Ellis, flying a hundred feet above the snow, had “picked up” a floundering figure half way between the stalled machine and the farmhouse. Settling gradually, in order not to break the undercarriage of his plane and thus leave all three at the mercy of the blizzard, Ellis and his mechanic landed near their exhausted comrade.

After a meal and some hot coffee, Bishop was able to “sit in” at a council of war. Ellis’s machine, they agreed, could carry the three of them, provided it could get into the air. But ground conditions were so unfavorable—the drifts were so deep—that this seemed impossible. It was then agreed that they would “taxi” the machine to a clear spot six miles to the westward, from which to take off.

For four miles, with each mile rapidly eating up their fuel supply, they churned their way through the powdery drifts, with Bishop huddled in the cockpit and the mechanic, comparatively fresh and warmly clothed, clinging to a precarious position on one of the wings. Finally, Ellis, realizing that his gasoline supply was becoming dangerously reduced, suggested that Bishop, with the aid of the mechanic, try to reach the farmhouse, now some four miles distant, while he flew back to Hock Springs to report Bishop’s safety—and get more gasoline. This they attempted, but Ellis, watching Bishop’s faltering footsteps from the air, realized that his exhausted comrade would be unable to accomplish the four miles. Swooping downward, Ellis again landed near the struggling pair, helped them to climb aboard, and swore that he would get the ship off the ground with the three of them on board, or “bust her up.”

Finding a ridge comparatively free from snow, Ellis, with his motor racing at full speed, and his plane reeling drunkenly amid the entangling sagebrush and snowdrifts, succeeded, after swaying and dipping for two hundred yards, in getting into the air. Little by little, an inch at a time, then a foot, with his propeller racing faster than it had ever gone before, Ellis finally climbed twenty-five feet into the air. By facing directly into the wind, the pilot utilized its velocity to attain an altitude of a thousand feet. Then he turned, and with the wind at his back, he flew with his passengers to Hock Springs—and safety—in half an hour.