“Have you telephoned your wife?” he asked eagerly.
“No, sir,” I replied.
“Better do it yourself,” he ordered. “News of this will be all over town. Save her the shock.”
But when I tried to get up, I couldn’t move. The admiral pushed the bed toward the telephone. When I got our apartment, no prior news had preceded me; my wife gasped and said she’d be right over. The door opened and a doctor walked in to examine my hands.
“I’m afraid you’ll never use those again,” he said. Then he looked up. “Can you stand a lot of pain?” he asked.
I had never had to stand much. The doctor said he’d try a treatment developed in World War I, one using a solution of tannic acid. It worked and today I have nothing to show for the experience save a few minor scars. Meanwhile, the admiral sat there; for the first time that I could recall, he seemed to droop.
“Things like this,” he said, “make you wonder if this cockeyed game is worth the candle.” He paused.
“Well,” he added, standing up to leave, “there’s nothing much we can do about it but play it out. The thing’s bigger than any of us and we’re in it up to our necks.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Lone Eagle Sets the Standard
Among the aviation phenomena of the late 1920’s was the outbreak of glorified stunt flying. Barnstormers and wing walkers of the earlier half of the decade now began vying with one another on a world-wide scale, competing for rich prizes offered by various personalities, and for assorted motives. Some courageous souls, quite unprepared, took off in the direction of the wide blue yonder and never came back; others, more successful, returned to bask for a while in the pitiless glare of publicity and then faded out.