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Title: In mid-air

Author: R. J. McSwiney

Release date: November 4, 2025 [eBook #77176]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith Corporation, 1929

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN MID-AIR ***




                           IN MID-AIR

                        By R. J. McSwiney

            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He was flying an old type of tractor biplane, which, having gone out of
date for fighting purposes, had been assigned to raiding duties.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.

He began his steep dive, and as he felt the chill air rush and roar past
his ears, his emotions underwent a great change. Now he experienced a
wonderful exhilaration. Yes, he would die, but willingly and usefully!
And, by God, he would wipe out of existence this Huns’ nest of mischief
in his passing! He could have shouted with the exaltation he felt at the
moment--he was inspired in the performance of a great deed.

Below, he saw the fields widen out smoothly to his view, as his dizzy
descent shortened his perspective, like a picture slide being focused on
a giant screen; he saw the broadening white band of the road and the
gables of the chateau beyond, rocking and swaying, come leaping and
bounding up to meet him. He saw figures rushing madly about and was
conscious of machine guns rattling somewhere on the ground, but his
descent from behind the clouds had been so sudden and so swift that he
was but a poor target for the gunners.

In a few moments he would be on the place.

As he flashed over the road between two giant elms, he flattened his
dive and started his engine. A defiant yell was torn from his lips and
he closed his eyes, waiting to be dashed to his glorious, if terrible,
death against the graystone front of the building.

His eyes were barely closed when a violent jerk on its tail raised the
nose of his plane in the air. Mechanically, like a pilot taught to act
instinctively on the least untoward movement of his plane, he righted
the machine, but the sudden rise had sent him clear, in that short
distance even, of the slate roof of his objective.

This happened so quickly that the jerk of his machine caused him to open
his eyes with the thought that he had missed again. The last of the
peaked roofs was still streaming back beneath him, when a deafening
explosion rent the air, and he was enveloped in smoke and dust.

His plane rocked violently, but he steadied it and instinctively turned
toward his own lines, commencing to climb as rapidly as he could without
interfering with the speed of his machine. Escape was his one thought,
now; the rattle of machine guns and the bursting of anti-aircraft shells
occupied the whole of his attention. He zigzagged, climbed, dived and
climbed again; he resorted to every maneuver he had ever been taught and
that his old craft was capable of performing, until, at length, his
exhaust roaring and his engine at its highest speed, he crossed his own
lines safely.

Once across No Man’s Land, he toned his engine down and proceeded more
leisurely toward his airdrome, allowing his thoughts to return to his
miraculous escape.

Evidently, as he had swept across the road and flattened his dive, he
had unintentionally swung the bomb against the telephone cables between
two adjacent poles, and they had possessed sufficient resiliency and
resistance to sweep it off the hook where it had become stuck. Its own
momentum had carried the bulky torpedo the rest of the way and, as he
passed over the far end of the chateau, the bomb was dashed against its
front at the very place where he had intended it to strike. The jerk
caused by the bomb striking the wires had tilted the machine
sufficiently to cause it to clear the roof.

There was a happy smile on the face of the limp body that the mechanics
lifted out of the nacelle of the old converted bombing plane when it
made its clumsy landing at the airdrome shortly afterward.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Second January number,
1930, of _The Popular Magazine_.]



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN MID-AIR ***


    

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