Over night almost, this flood had come.
Over night, also, America organized to save the people in the flood path.
When this appalling disaster broke, the American Red Cross moved swiftly. At Troja, Alabama, was set up a special Flood Relief Headquarters. Here quickly came the key men of the Red Cross staff from all neighboring states. To work in liaison, there came also officers of the Army, Navy, Public Health Service, Coast Guard, Department of Agriculture, Veterans’ Bureau and the railroads which served the flooded area. It was an effective relief force, equal to any war-time organization.
It was a war these men were fighting—a war against a treacherous, rolling, yellow flood.
From all over the Union came shipments of food, clothing, tents, medicine. There were garments to fit any size refugee, from an infant on up. There were specially prepared tin cases of food, all ready to be dropped down by airplane to hill-top refugees, or those marooned on drifting houses, so as to keep life in their bodies till boats could haul them off to safety.
Hal was surprised to see in the midst of a supply train standing out in the railroad yard, a long box car bearing in big letters this striking sign: “Extra Airplane Parts. Rush to Three-River Flood District.”
“The airplane is showing the world what it can do in times of trouble,” said Colonel Wiljohn, noticing Hal’s excited gaze upon the portable aircraft shop on the side track. “Aviators are the eyes of the Rescue Program, boy; scout planes fly this blasted flood day and night, reporting refugees, their exact location, and the best way to reach them. See, here come some results now.” He motioned out towards the water.
A square-nosed old river steamer was pushing in before her a barge loaded with the pitiful, shabby furnishings of many a humble plantation tenant home. Over bundles of bedding, the dogs and children crawled; amid piles of rickety furniture, tin tubs and hastily gathered utensils and tools, the family mules and cows were tethered. On the decks of the steamer, itself, huddled half a hundred cold, wet, hungry refugees. The boat was a weather-beaten old side-wheeler, clumsy and creaking. But to those refugees, just snatched from the jaws of death, she probably seemed the finest ship afloat.
Planes came in, other planes took off—an endless chain of scouts.
Hal was aching to be out on the work.