The Flying Reporter

by Lewis E. Theiss

Jimmy looked very sober as he climbed into his plane. He was about to tackle the meanest job a pilot is called upon to attempt. Had he been at the other end of the line, starting westward, with the wind in his face, instead of starting eastward, with the breeze at his back, he would hardly have dared to attempt it. But inasmuch as he did not have to make a landing in Pennsylvania, he was willing to try it, although the weather man had suggested that by the time he reached Long Island it might be foggy there also. Jimmy decided to take the chance.

But he wasn’t going to take any more chances than he absolutely had to take. So he switched on his navigation lights, tested his landing lights, made sure his flares were hooked, ready for release, and glanced at his instruments. Then he speeded up his engine and listened to its roar. The instant he was satisfied that everything was working perfectly, he took off.

He hopped into the wind, then circled back to the east, and was away like an arrow. Although the atmosphere at Cleveland was only beginning to grow foggy, before Jimmy had risen a hundred feet in the air the bright lights of the airport began to be blurred. As Jimmy passed directly over the great hangar, after circling, he could barely tell where it was. In another minute low clouds had wiped out every trace of the earth. No matter where he looked, nothing was visible but thick, clinging banks of fog.

Jimmy had been in fog before, but he had never made a trip such as this one promised to be. Always the fogs he had ridden through had dissipated after a time, but this fog-bank bade fair to cover every inch of the four hundred and fifty miles or so to his home field. The possibilities of getting lost, of crashing, of meeting with dire disaster in a flight of such length, were too many for Jimmy to allow himself to consider them.

He did not permit himself even to think of these possibilities. Instead, he called up every bit of flying ability he possessed to meet the situation. At two or three hundred feet elevation he had gone blind. From that point onward, he had to fly wholly by his instruments.

Setting his course by his compass, he sat listening to the guiding note of the radio beacon, his eyes glued to the instrument board. From his compass his eyes darted to his turn-and-bank indicator, then to his air speed indicator. Occasionally he glanced at his engine instruments, to see that his propeller was making the necessary revolutions per minute, that the engine temperature was not too high, that his oil pressure remained constant.

But mostly he kept watch of his speed and of his position. The steel ball in the centre of the turn-and-bank indicator had to be kept right in the centre. Every time the ball began to slide one way or the other, Jimmy had to bring his ship back to a level keel, for the moving steel ball showed that he was beginning to dip to one side or the other. Sense of balance told him little or nothing; and had it not been for his indicator, he might soon have been flying upside down, as many a pilot before him had done. Nor could he allow his ship to drop below a speed of sixty miles an hour, lest it come crashing to earth.

All the while the radio beacon signal was buzzing loudly in his ears. “Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” the signal sounded. It came to him with startling intensity. That was because his ship was close to the beacon itself. As he traveled onward, Jimmy knew, the signal would grow fainter and fainter, for during the first half of the flight to Bellefonte he would be guided by the signals from the airport he had just left. Beyond that he would be guided by the Bellefonte signals, and he knew these would grow ever louder as he neared that field.

Up he climbed, and up and up, seeking to get above the fog. Again and again he glanced at his altimeter, but though he had risen to five thousand feet, and then six and seven and eight thousand, he was still in dense mist. He continued to climb, to watch his instruments, to listen to the radio beacon. All the time he was trying to check his position. He watched his air speed indicator. He watched his tachometer, which indicated his revolutions per minute. He watched his clock. He checked one against the other. With a twenty-mile wind at his back, Jimmy figured he must be making fully one hundred and fifty miles an hour. At that speed he should make his home field in close to three hours. Then he should have to make the trip to the New York office of the Press. It looked to Jimmy as though he ought easily to reach the Press office by eleven o’clock. The thought heartened him.

He could travel faster, if he had to, but he did not want to drive his ship as fast on the return trip as he had driven it in coming west. It was too hard on the ship. So he watched his instruments and held his plane to the speed indicated.