In mid-air

A War-time Flyer, Unable to Land Without Killing Himself, Decides to Die Gloriously

Six thousand feet the aneroid registered, and the objective was already beginning to take definite form in the blurred landscape below.

A cluster of drab, canvas buildings, whose weirdly painted forms were hard to discern against the sea of mud constituting their background, was all that could, as yet, be seen of the airdrome that had been picked out for that morning’s bombing raid into the enemy’s lines.

It was a chill winter morning, with swiftly moving, low-lying clouds scurrying ceaselessly across the gray sky--ideal for such an expedition.

The squadron, flying high, changed course whenever the fleeting clouds interposed themselves between it and the crews manning the anti-aircraft guns below. These, having to estimate where each change of course would carry their targets, were firing largely at random and their shooting was correspondingly poor. The smoke from their bursting shells, appearing sullenly among the clouds like sinister wads of black cotton wool, dotted the sky everywhere but in the direct path of the raiding machines.

In the rearmost plane, forming the left tip of the wedge formation, Charley Reid was straining his eyes to obtain a correct mental impression of his target and to ascertain the relation of his altitude and speed to the objective on the ground. This would enable him to determine the crucial moment at which to operate the release gear and send hurtling earthward the three hundred pounds of concentrated destructive force, which he carried slung from the undercarriage of his machine.

He was flying an old type of tractor biplane, which, having gone out of date for fighting purposes, had been assigned to raiding duties. Not being equipped for regular bombing, these converted planes carried but a single heavy torpedo, slung from the undercarriage in such a way that it could be released at will by the pilot from his seat, by means of a simple lever. The nose of the bomb is released first and, as the heavy fore end falls away from the plane, the wind catches it and drives it off the rear hook, whence it falls earthward, guided by the vanes and gradually assuming a more vertical descent as the resistance of the air overcomes its forward motion.

With his eyes now glued on the indistinct blur that represented his target, Reid made a rapid mental calculation to determine the horizontal distance from his objective at which to release his missile so that it should strike the ground at the desired point. A glance at the map pinned down in front of him showed that, when vertically above a certain road crossing, he would be at the required distance.

The crossing showed up plainly to his view as he rode past a rift in the clouds. He modified his course slightly to bring himself, the landmark, and the objective into correct alignment, and focused his gaze on the target, whose location was, now, clearly discernible, even through the scudding mist.

There! The leading plane of the squadron had dropped its messenger of death and defiance, and the large white feather of smoke that drifted quickly away from the spot proved that the pilot, not bothered by “Accurate Archie,” the anti-aircraft gun, had been able to take careful observations and had registered a direct hit. They were evidently going to make a good job of it!

There, again! And again! In quick succession, now, the white feathers sprang up among the crowded hangars, and Reid could even hear the dull reports of the explosions. Figures, too, could be observed running wildly to the shelter of the trenches dug by the farsighted Boche in anticipation of such an eventuality.

It would soon be Reid’s turn. His hand went out to the release mechanism and he glanced downward, over the leading edge of his lower plane. No, not quite yet! A second more and--there! He was directly above his landmark and headed straight for the group of hangars. He pulled the lever smartly and, immediately, set himself firmly to meet the sudden jump of the plane on losing three hundred pounds of ballast.

Tensely, he clung to the wheel; but, to his gradually dawning surprise, no jump resulted. Instead, the plane began to behave in a most disconcerting manner. It tilted and side-slipped violently, first one way and then another, throbbing incessantly as though from the vibration of an immense spring and shaking so severely that he feared it might come to pieces at any moment.

Had he bungled? Was he hit? were his first thoughts. But no! Past accidents had taught him how the plane would have acted if such had been the case. This was something different and unprecedented in his whole experience. Quickly recovering from his surprise, he steadied the jolting machine and started to climb back behind the clouds as rapidly as he could. As he rose through the enveloping mist, the peculiar antics of his machine furnished him with the explanation of their origin. Evidently, the release gear had worked smoothly, freeing the nose of the bomb, but its other end, for some reason, must have failed to become unhooked from the rear pin. He was now carrying the torpedo suspended vertically beneath him from one end, swinging crazily in the wind, and its erratic oscillations were threatening to overturn the plane, which responded to every heave with uncomfortable joltings. He smiled grimly in spite of himself; this was indeed a case of the tail wagging the dog!

Then the full significance of his position dawned on him. On the action of the release gear, the bomb had automatically become detonated, so that, now, the lightest graze on its sensitive nose cap would undoubtedly cause it to explode; he shuddered to think with what result to himself and his plane.

Realizing the extent of his danger and the necessity of freeing himself of the encumbrance, he tried to shake it off the hook, where it had caught. Nose-diving steeply, until the jerk of his machine told him that the bomb had reached the rearmost limit of its swing, he zoomed violently, trying to lift his plane at as steep an angle as practicable. But, unfortunately, the old E. 8 was not built for rapid climbing, and all his efforts resulted only in increasing the stress on his plane to such an extent that he gave up these maneuvers in fear of buckling his wings.

He steadied his plane again, and looked round him. The remainder of the squadron was nowhere to be seen; it was back at the airdrome by this time, he supposed. He looked downward to get his bearings and started off after them. They might be able to suggest something to rid him of his unpleasant appendage. Under the friendly cover of the clouds, he opened up his engine and was soon circling round his own flying field, at as low an altitude as he dared, in the hope that his comrades would see his plight and come to his assistance, though, as a matter of fact, he did not see how they could do anything to help him.

He dared not land. The shock of the bomb on the ground would certainly be sufficient to explode it, however easily he might attempt the feat. He could not stay up in the air forever, that was equally certain; and, besides, he had only enough gas to carry him for a few hours longer. Was he doomed? He realized that he was unless something was done, and done immediately.

His maneuvers had the result, first, of bringing everybody out from the hangars to watch him, and, then, of sending them hurrying off to shelter, in fear that the bomb was in danger of falling off and dropping among them.

For a few moments, he was at a loss for some means of communicating with the ground, and he cursed the parsimonious policy that had refused to equip these converted machines with wireless.

With difficulty, he extracted a notebook from his pocket and, steadying the plane to reduce the incessant jolting as much as possible, he set about the awkward task of writing a message. The control required the use of both hands and the rush of wind made the paper difficult to keep in place, but he accomplished the work eventually, writing a few letters, hastily, at a time. “Bomb stuck on rear hook,” he penciled laboriously. “Can you suggest anything?” Then, descending as low as he dared over the center of the landing field, he cast his missives over the side.

Rising again in wide spirals to a safer altitude, he watched the flimsy paper float slowly down and was relieved to see that it had been observed, for a figure darted out of the headquarters tent and stationed itself in the center of the field to receive it. Would it never reach the ground? He could see it flutter earthward, blown hither and thither by the wind, the figure of the mechanic below changing position constantly, so as to be beneath when it landed. At length, it reached the ground, was picked up, and carried into the headquarters tent.

A long wait ensued, fraught with anxiety for the impatient Reid, during which a conference was, no doubt, being held. After some time, a ground flapper was brought out and commenced flashing a message to him. “Cannot suggest anything unless you can shake it off, but do not try it here,” he spelled out. So! It was as he thought. They could not help him.

Could he not, by flying low over some treetops, brush the devilish thing off? No, he knew that the concussion would be sufficient to explode the bomb. God! If he only had an observer with him, or if he could only leave the control for a few seconds!

His utter helplessness left him dazed and numbed. An overwhelming emotion of self-pity surged up in his breast and a bitter, unreasoning feeling of resentment against his fate held him in its grip. He groaned aloud in his despair and, for a few moments, was completely oblivious to his surroundings.

His brain cleared, however, and, gritting his teeth desperately, he struggled to regain the mastery over himself--to think clearly. There was no use giving in. No, he must die! Then let him choose a man’s death and die in a fashion that would turn his fatal accident to some good account in his country’s service.

A hazy plan was forming itself in his brain. Still circling over the home airdrome, he looked at his map, on which all targets were clearly recorded, and picked out a German headquarters that was marked for early destruction. Yes, that was it. He would land on this, and the explosion that sent him into eternity should send with him a number of the hated enemy. There would be no question, this time, of his bungling or missing. He would save his squadron a trip.

His mind once made up, he was not slow to act. He raised his elevators and soared up to a sufficiently high altitude to bring him above the shelter of the clouds and steered directly for his new objective. A few minutes were sufficient to bring him to its vicinity unobserved and, dropping slowly, he began searching the country for his new target. By frequent comparison of the ground with his map, it was not long before he recognized the commandeered chateau, where the German general and his staff had established themselves. He saw the broad ribbon of the route nationale, bordered with high trees and telegraph poles, and the building he was intent on destroying some twenty yards on the far side of it. He pointed his plane at the road in front of the house, where he planned to flatten out his dive, so as to crash into the center of its facade at a height that would allow the torpedo to strike over the entrance.