Public-domain ebook
The Old Lady flies
Language: en4,471 downloads on Project Gutenberg
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Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #78035.
About this book
The story opens in the gritty world of a post‑war flying circus, where the narrator introduces Russ Healy, a sentimental stunt pilot who treats his battered biplane, the “Old Lady,” as if it were a living companion. The opening passage sketches the circus’s eclectic crew, their precarious finances, and the looming decision to retire Russ’s beloved Jenny in favor of a newer, faster Waco. Through a rapid succession of dialogue and description, the narrative establishes a tense standoff between Healy’s devotion to his antique aircraft and the pragmatic, profit‑driven concerns of the circus manager, Bob Brooks. The conflict is set against a backdrop of air‑show performances, movie‑industry work, and the ever‑present danger of crashes, hinting at the high‑stakes drama that will follow without revealing how it resolves.
Written in a brisk, hard‑boiled style reminiscent of 1930s pulp magazines, the prose captures the roar of engines and the camaraderie of a tight‑knit aviators’ community. The voice is colloquial, peppered with period slang, and moves at a fast clip that mirrors the aerial stunts it describes. Readers who enjoy vintage adventure tales, early Hollywood’s fascination with aviation, or stories that blend technical detail with personal loyalty will find this short‑story collection engaging. It appeals especially to fans of classic aviation fiction and those who appreciate a slice of the golden age of flight, where daring pilots and their temperamental machines take center stage.
Characters in The Old Lady flies
- Russ HealyTall rugged pilot, leather bomber jacket, flight goggles, crisp cap, stubble, 1930s
- Bob BrooksMid‑age circus manager, crisp suit, fedora, thin tie, clean‑shaven, confident expression
The opening · free to read
STICKING TO HIS PLANE.
Russ Healy always insisted that the old girl understood. But Russ was that rare sort of creature--a flyer who was sentimental. Of course, on the face of things, it was sheer rot. A plane is an inanimate object, theoretically--and therefore incapable of understanding. But Russ didn’t look at it that way. There was no doubt about the fact that he loved the Jenny.
He’d picked her up right after the war, on a government sale. She hadn’t been flown at all, and Russ had worked with her ever since that time. He’d joy-hopped her, taken a chance on air advertising, smoke writing, stunting. He’d even done some air surveying with her, and I think he chased boll weevils, down South, at one time--spraying from the Jenny.
She’d cracked up with him more than once, but Russ would just patch her up--and patch himself up. She wasn’t a pretty sight. She was dirty--oil-stained, her wing fabric of varied colors, her struts lacking varnish. She sagged a bit on her under carriage. But her flying wires were right; she was rigged properly for the air. She was slow, of course--powered by an old Hall-Scott engine, and sluggish on the controls, compared to the new ships. Just an old lady, that was all she was--an old lady, still turning a prop and taking the air, but pretty far out of date.
We had eight ships in the circus, and five pilots. That is, we had five fliers who could do more than get off and land. A couple of the grease monkeys could qualify--indeed, had qualified--for a license, but that doesn’t make a flyer--not by about a thousand air hours and considerable natural ability. However, when we made the jump from the outskirts of one town to the outskirts of another, the two mechanics each flew a ship, and Bob Brooks, who ran the Brooks’ Flying Circus, flew the other. That got the eight ships around, and made a nice showing in the sky.
It was Bob Brooks’ wife who started the thing. She was a peach, and Bob was crazy about her. I didn’t blame him.
We ran into a streak of tough luck. Charlie Ryan crashed on a landing, and both he and his mechanic, riding in the rear cockpit, were badly smashed up. Then Duke Conroy got in a spin, out of a side-slip--and we had to leave him at the hospital pretty badly hurt.
It was then that Bob’s wife had her little say. It was, in effect, that her good-looking husband keep both feet on the ground.
We stayed around Los Angeles, picking up a few movie jobs, and looking at the mountains and the Pacific from the air until the boys came out of the hospital. We lost a little money.
Then Bob Brooks called us into the big tent we slung up on the field in which we were parking, and gave us a little talk. “I’m giving the air the air,” he said. “I never did do much but ferry. I’ve got too much brain.” He grinned, and so did we. “And now I’m not even ferrying. So we’ve got to cut down a bit. We’ll drop two ships. Vance Bailey has bought that Standard. Now, about the other----”
Brooks’ eyes went to those of Russ Healy, and we knew right away what was coming. It gave me a jolt, because I knew Russ--and I knew the way he felt. And I guess it gave the others a jolt, too.
“About the other,” Bob repeated uncomfortably, “I guess we’ll have to let the ‘Old Lady’ go, Russ.”
Well, there it was. Russ Healy blinked a couple of times. He’s tall and lean, with gray, squinted eyes--and usually there’s a tight little smile playing around his lips. But the smile wasn’t there now.
Healy shook his head slowly. Then he got a pill from the pack. “If you do,” he said very slowly, “I’ll just go along with her.”
Bob Brooks frowned. “You can have the new Waco, Russ. You can do anything with her. She’s got power, climb, dive. She’s an easy rider----”
“I’m sticking with the Old Lady,” Russ said quietly. “When do you want me to cut loose?”
I saw then that Brooks was getting sore. Russ Healy was a sweet stunt flyer; in fact, he was a good man all around when it came to air stuff. There wasn’t much that Russ couldn’t do, or hadn’t done.
“Look here!” Brooks said. “We can’t fly a ship around if there’s no one to climb inside and get at the stick. You don’t expect me to let a new plane drop--and hang on to a rambling wreck? Why, that Jenny is liable to fall to pieces in the first spin you get her into, and----”
Russ Healy’s eyes narrowed. “Think so?” He spoke grimly. “Well, I’ll just take her up there now--and loop you ragged, and then I’ll come down in the tightest spin----”
“Yes you will! Not with me!” Brooks’ face was flushed.
“That’s right,” Russ said grimly. “I forgot you were quitting the air.”
It was his tone that did it. And they had both flared, were both pretty hot.
Bob Brooks glared at Russ. “I’m not quitting the air until we hit Tia Juana,” the boss said slowly. “I’ll fly the Waco down. You can take that wreck of yours--and cut loose, any time you like. What do we owe you?”
Russ Healy smiled. “Not a cent,” he said. “I owe you fifty bucks--the final payment on that last wreck replacement material for the Old Lady. I’ll see that you get it by dark.”
Then he turned and walked away.
“Not so good, Bob!” I said. “You’re cutting loose the most popular guy in the outfit--and just because he sticks by his old bus.”
Brooks didn’t see it that way. He spoke to the rest of the gang: “We’re losing money. I can’t fly all the ships we’ve got. Why should I get rid of the new ones--just because I’m sentimental? This is a business--not a sob factory!”
There was common sense in that. We could see Brooks’ side of it. And the sky-riding game hadn’t been so good lately--something had to be done.
“I think a lot of Russ Healy,” Brooks went on, looking at each one of us in turn. “Even if he did hint that I was showing yellow by sticking on the ground--I like him. Some of you boys talk to him. He could store that ship up at Al Garvin’s hangar. Then every month or so I’ll give him a day off, and if he’s close enough he can come back and pet it.”
With that final sarcasm, Bob Brooks walked out of the tent. I chased after him, having just had an idea. They don’t come very often, but sometimes they’re good when they do come.
“Russ is sore, Bob,” I said, “and he owes you fifty bucks. He’s going to try to get that fifty. I happen to know that he hasn’t got it. And he’s going to try to show you up--show you that the Old Lady can still do her stuff. Now--how’s he going to do it?”
Bob frowned. “He isn’t! He’s just talking.”
“You know better than that,” I replied. “He isn’t that kind. I’ll tell you what he’s going to do--he’s going to tackle the ‘War Aces’ job!”
That got Bob. That job happened to be one which had been turned down by three flying outfits and a half dozen joy-hoppers who were going it alone. A fellow named Conant was directing a picture of war-flying days, and he wanted some crash stuff. He was willing to pay for it, and he didn’t expect the pilot to kill himself. But he wanted a crash--and some tight, low spins that wouldn’t be easy.
“Russ wouldn’t do that job,” Bob said. “He’s too wise for that.”
“But he’s sore,” I repeated. “It gives him a chance to show you what the Old Lady can do--in the air. And it gives him a chance to hand you the fifty and tell you----”
An exhaust roar cut me short. We both stared toward the dead-line. There was only one ship out of the canvas hangars, and it was the Old Lady, the Jenny.
I swore softly. “Stop him, Bob! Stall him off. He’s going to fly over to that field where they’re doing the air-shoot on----”
“Come on!” yelled Brooks, and ran toward the ship. I followed. We dodged through the wash of the Old Lady’s prop; her engine was being tested with blocks under the wheels. We both climbed up on a wing as Russ Healy cut the throttle and eliminated most of the exhaust roar.
“Forget about that fifty, Russ.” Bob Brooks grinned. “We’ll call it square. Where are you going----”
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