Читать книгу Mark Gilmore's Lucky Landing - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 3

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Two circumstances influenced Mark’s transition from that of a student flier in the New Jersey flying school of the East Coast Airlines to that of a skilled instructor in their isolated branch school at Greeley, Kentucky. One factor was Mark’s level-headed heroism and the other was Lieutenant Peter Hammil, his instructor.

It had its beginning when Lieutenant Hammil took off with Mark one balmy spring morning on a sort of farewell lesson flight. Sitting in the observer’s seat, Mark had some fleeting concern as the smart little plane left the field behind and soared toward the sun. This concern had to do with the state of health of his instructor who had reported for duty that morning with “jest a cold” as he himself remarked.

But manifestly this tall, raw-boned Kentuckian had more than a cold, Mark was quick to observe. The blue, usually sparkling eyes looked dull and feverish and his breathing was difficult even as he spoke. Yet in spite of Mark’s protests he insisted on giving the farewell lesson.

“Fer why should I make yer wait jest cause I have a little cold,” he countered with a weak smile. “I mebbe hev soaked up a heap of new ways livin hyah in the no’th so long but I hain’t come ter gittin’ in bed fer a cold. Now come ’long, Brother Mark, an’ after I show yer a last dive, yer kin climb in back an’ try it ’fore we come down, hey?”

Mark decided that the lieutenant must know how he felt and allowed himself to be taken from the field. But now, somehow, as they kept gaining altitude, he was not a little worried about the instructor for his deep voice sounded small and weak as it came over the phone.

“Jest goin’ ter let her climb ten thousand an’ then I’ll let her smack into it,” he was saying. “I’ll give you the word, then you kin watch and when we’re on level keel, climb back and try it.”

“It’s O. K. with me, Hammil,” Mark shouted back, “and if you want, I’ll try it right now. You sound as if you’re kind of choked up or something. Think you want to go on?”

“Sho. It’s jest the altitude chokes me a bit, Brother Mark. I’m fine an’ what’s more I’m anxious ter show yer this trick fer the last time.”

Mark smiled and felt of his safety belt to see that it was secure. Lieutenant Hammil scorned such protective measures, of course, but then he was a veteran flier. Still with the vertical dives he executed, a little precaution was necessary, but he always insisted that he could balance himself with the ship. He didn’t need any namby-pamby safety devices—not while he had his senses; not this son of the hills!

“Here’s hoping he’ll always have his senses,” Mark chuckled, and his eyes swept the fast disappearing green of earth beneath them. Every moment seemed to snatch it further away. He glanced about the observer’s cockpit and heartily wished that the plane had dual controls. It struck him as singular that he should wish it at this late lesson. He had, at every other lesson, been thrilled when the lieutenant’s deep drawling command sent him climbing out of his own seat and back along the fuselage to his instructor’s cockpit. This exchange of places in mid-air held such an element of danger that it kept his nerves tingling. It had been half the fun of his ‘stude’ experiences! But now it gave him not a little anxiety. Every ship should have dual controls, he told himself, especially while there existed Lieutenant Hammils!

Mark smiled as he thought of his pleasant training experience with the good-natured Kentuckian. That alone had been worth his father’s disapproval of a contemplated air career. Not only had Hammil been an efficient teacher—he had been Romance and Adventure also, with his background of native mountain lore and his subsequent war life.

Hammil had emerged from the wild fastnesses of the Kentucky hills and enlisted in the army during that turbulent year of nineteen hundred and eighteen. His story of how he got into the aviation service was one that Mark liked to recall in an idle moment. Also it was pleasant to reflect on their many talks in which the Kentuckian declared he would never go back to his native hills.

“Yer see my kin hain’t never going to understand why I stick to flyin’ up no’th here instead o’ goin’ back home an’ gittin’ in the same old rut as they,” he would tell Mark. “I jest made up my mind after the war that I’d stick to aviation instead of spendin’ the rest o’ my life pickin’ fights with the Riggses—they’re enemies of my folks.”

Mark admired him for breaking away from such tradition and following a clean, wholesome career in the air. None of the Hammils had ever done so before and it was easy to understand why the lieutenant did not have any wish even to go to Greeley, Kentucky, where the East Coast people were intending to establish a flying school. “To help the lonely mountain people come more in contact with the world” was one aim of this famous commercial air concern. “And what better way than the air—to teach them to fly!”

What better way indeed! Mark envied the veteran flier who would be chosen for that post despite Hammil’s assertion that the East Coast people were crazy. He knew the country around Greeley, he had said—it was not many miles from his boyhood home. What was more, he knew the people and what would be their attitude toward such a project. “Thar ain’t goin’ to be many applicants ter fly—if any!” he had declared. “They don’t want to come inter contact with the world and most of ’em, including my own kin, are suspicious o’ fliers an’ flyin’ an’ that takes me into account too.”

Mark reflected upon all this and supposed that Hammil knew just what he was talking about. Still there was something fascinating in the thought of a flying school in that isolated place. To try and recruit the rugged, warring clans into airmen would be a novel experience. But it would not be for him, he mused. A month perhaps before he had his license, and then the East Coast company would find a post for him as an inexperienced pilot. Well, he would make the best of it. The thrills and glory of the air did not come all at once.

Mark had reason presently to remember that thrills and glory, especially thrills, had a way of sneaking up on one unsuspected. Lieutenant Hammil had startled him, so wrapped was he in his own thoughts, by calling out, “Here we go, Brother Mark!”

Mark grinned and sat back tightly. Then as he felt the ship’s nose tilt, he peered over the edge of the cockpit, intent upon observing every detail of Lieutenant Hammil’s dive. To be sure, he had seen many of them, but this one was important to observe not only because it was the last lesson, but because he was determined to execute his with the same skill when the control of a ship was in his hands alone.

The plane plunged straight through a film of clouds without a quiver. “Gee, that’s swell, Hammil!” Mark breathed into his phone.

They kept on plunging, however, and Mark shouted questioningly into the instrument. Wasn’t it dangerous to let her out that much? He was beginning to get a glimpse of the spring-green earth. Would it be wise for him to take a long dive like that too? Mark screamed the question into the phone.

Lieutenant Hammil made no reply whatsoever. They kept on plunging at a terrific rate of speed. Mark felt suddenly chilled and turned as best he could to see the pilot’s cockpit. At first he could not quite make out what it was that he saw, but in another second he realized that the Kentuckian was not in control of the ship—he was unconscious, slumped down behind his controls.

Mark got free of his safety belt in a flash and was scrambling like a monkey upon the fuselage. He writhed and wriggled across it, unmindful of his precarious position. A slip and ... well, there was the earth yawning and rocking below. Time was precious and he couldn’t think of the ifs—all that mattered was to get his hands on the stick.

A well-timed pull and he brought himself to the pilot’s cockpit. One long arm reached, strained, and he felt the stick. One thrust of his hand sent it back and with soul-satisfying ease, the plane roared out on an even keel not five hundred feet above the airport.

Mark wriggled himself into the cockpit, half-sitting on the lieutenant’s still prostrate form. Hammil half-opened his eyes, however, as they swiftly circled the field.

Mark smiled. “Excuse me sitting on you, Hammil,” he said, “but I guess you fainted. I’m making for the runway in a sec so keep your shirt on.”

Hammil nodded weakly and murmured something about Mark trying it.

“A dive—now?” Mark asked. “Not just now. There’ll be plenty of other times—when you’re better.”

The Kentuckian seemed to understand then just what had happened. His feverish eyes lighted up with admiration and he put up a trembling hand, pressing Mark’s arm gratefully.

“Good work, Brother Mark,” he mumbled hoarsely. “Yer took a terrible chance fer me an’ I won’t fergit it!”

Mark shook his blond head. “Forget it, Hammil,” he said, modestly. “It was nothing—absolutely nothing!”

And though Mark meant what he said, he had the feeling as he brought the plane safely to the field, that the incident was something if only because it had established him as a capable pilot in the eyes of Lieutenant Peter Hammil.

For to Mark, Hammil’s opinion was the opinion of the world.