Two airplaces in flight with a girl jumping from wing to wing

PICTURE STUFF

By Raoul F. Whitfield

Illustrated by William Molt

The first of a spirited series of sky-aventure stories by a writing-man who has himself been a test pilot.

Russ Healy’s dislike for camera-men and cameras dated from those air-seconds, six months ago, during which he had fumbled for the rip-cord of his Irving seat-pack ’chute, while tumbling down from the wreckage of the DeHaviland he had been piloting. That D.H. had been airworthy until the pilot of the camera-ship had crashed her tail assembly, five thousand feet above the earth. With all the air in the sky he had banked into the D.H., just after his camera-man had shot Al Rodger’s jump from a wing of Healy’s ship. And right then the veteran had commenced to dislike camera-ship pilots. The fact that all of them had got down on ’chutes didn’t make any difference. The fact that Russ hadn’t been flying his pet Jenny, the “Old Lady,” didn’t help much. Russ was off the shoot stuff.

“No more for me!” he’d say. “The pilots these camera boys get to fly ’em are crazy. And the crank-boys are crazier. When I see a movie ship in the air—I nose down and land. Let ’em have the sky—that’s me!”

The outfit just grinned. Russ Healy is a long, lanky veteran. Two thousand air hours, with a bit of every type of flying thrown in—he knows his stuff. There had been a time when he’d almost gone “film-flying” himself. But no more. When a fellow’s ’chute opens only a hundred feet off the ground—he does some thinking.

Bob Brooks, boss of the Brooks’ Flying Circus, humored Russ. He let him handle the jump-off ship, and the upper plane in the air-transfer stuff. But he kept him away when they were cranking something. That is, he did until we hit Bakersfield. Then things went bad. They go like that in a flying outfit. Quiet for a few months—and then everything pops the wrong way.

That was what happened at Bakersfield. Sid Lunn blew a front left tire in a forced landing, and when we pulled him out of the wreckage he had a busted leg. Charlie Ryan taxied into a couple of carelessly-deposited fuel cans and the plane nosed over. He came out with head cuts that would stop his flying for a week. And to top the three-day session off, Mel Duncan went up in a Laco Special, and the engine cut out, went dead. It was a night flight, and Mel was too far from the field to glide in. He cut loose a flare which didn’t light. So Mel stepped over the side and let the plane go. The ’chute let him down hard and gave him a nasty drag. They flivvered him into the Bakersfield hospital with a couple of broken ribs and a fractured left wrist.

On the fourth day Russ and myself were sitting on a couple of empty oil cans and smoking pills. We were wondering who’d get it next, but we kept that guesswork to ourselves. It was a pretty quiet session until I happened to look up and spot Bob Brooks coming along with something decidedly nice.

“Hey!” I muttered. “Bob’s wife is gettin’ thin, Russ.”

But it wasn’t Bob’s wife. It was a knickered lady with blonde hair and a pretty face. We saw that as they got up close; and we saw, also, that she carried a helmet and goggles in her left hand.

Russ groaned. “Here comes more trouble,” he stated grimly. “Bob’s had an idea.”

They came up and we got off the oil cans. Brooks introduced the lady. Her name was Joan West, and she was better looking the closer you got to her, which isn’t the usual thing. She gave us a smile that was one hundred per cent perfect. Bob started talking about the weather, about the latest flight across the Atlantic—about everything but what he wanted to tell us. Finally he got around to it.

“Miss West,” he said cheerfully, “is going to work with us tomorrow.”

I stiffened. Russ groaned. There was a little silence.

“That’ll be great,” I managed after a few seconds. “Fine.”

Russ managed something that was close to a smile. But he didn’t say anything. Bob Brooks nodded his head.

“It ought to be good,” he stated quietly. “Miss West is making a plane transfer—without the usual rope ladder. Wing to wing.”

I regarded the girl with considerable admiration. There aren’t many boys or girls doing it that way. A rope ladder dangling from the plane above means clearance. Either ship can hit a bump—drop or rise—and have air. But in order to go from plane to plane without a rope ladder, that means one wing-tip must come within four or five feet of the other. It’s a tough way of shifting ships.

Russ grunted. “First time you’ve done it that way, Miss West?” he asked grimly.

The girl laughed.

“It’ll be the second,” she said slowly. “I tried it one other time, but the ships—”

“Yeah—it’ll be a good one,” Bob cut in sort of loudly, and I figured right away that he was trying to cover something up. But so did Russ Healy.

“What happened the other time?” he asked.

The girl looked at Bob, then at me. She spoke in a cheerful tone.

“The ships got tangled up,” she stated. “But the pilots weren’t as expert, I’m sure, as you men.”

I grinned. Bob Brooks grinned. Russ Healy nodded his head slowly.

“Maybe not,” he agreed, but his tone wasn’t exactly convincing.

“We’ll work it this way—” Bob said slowly. “Mac, here—he’ll fly Miss West up in a D.H. She’ll do some wing work, and then you get off in the Old Lady, Russ. She’ll work off the left wing. You get your right wing just over it. We’ll rig on a wood loop-grip for her, and she’ll swing off and climb up. A few more stunts on the upper surface—then you can come down.”

“If not sooner,” Russ muttered. “Well, you’re the boss.”

Bob nodded. “Now, the camera-ship’ll be winging as close in as—”

Russ let out a roar. The girl looked startled. Bob stopped talking.

“Nothing doing!” Russ snapped grimly. “What do you mean, camera-ship?”

Bob spoke sharply. “I wouldn’t ask you to do it, Russ—only we’ve got three pilots on the injured list and—”

“And you want a couple more fixed the same way!” Russ cut in. “Nothing doing!”

The girl laughed again. Only this time her laugh wasn’t so pleasant.

“We’ll all have ’chutes,” she said icily. “I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Healy.”

Russ was getting sort of white around the lips. I could see that he was thinking back, remembering.

“Nothing doing!” he muttered for the third time. “If you keep the camera-ship out of the air, boss—”

“We’re doing it for them!” Bob cut in. “The National News people want something snappy. We’re in this business to make money—and this means we’ll make some. You’ve got to fly the high plane, Russ.”

I knew right away that Brooks had made a mistake. Russ’ eyes and his words got cold.

“There’s only one thing I’ve got to do,” he stated grimly. “And I’ll do that in a natural way if I don’t fall for this picture stuff.”

The girl had a derisive expression.

“Maybe it’s just as well,” she said slowly. “If that wreck over there is the one he was going to fly—I doubt if it could get enough altitude for me to pull the stunt!”

I held my breath. Russ Healy was rigid; his eyes narrowed to little slits. If a man had made that statement about the Old Lady, there would have been plenty of action.

The Old Lady was an ancient Jenny. She was battered and patched, oil-stained and weather-beaten. But Russ had worked over the old Hall-Scott engine. He’d redoped the wings and fuselage fabric again and again. He’d kept that Jenny in the air year after year—and he loved her. She’d let him down once or twice, but she’d always done it decently, given him a fair break. When any human slammed the Old Lady—

“Boss,” Russ’ voice was grim but steady, “I don’t like picture stuff. You know that. But there’s something else I don’t like, too. I’ll fly the Old Lady tomorrow!” He looked the girl squarely in the eyes.

“I’ll let you climb up on one of the Old Lady’s wings tomorrow,” he said grimly. “And when you get aboard, and get through playing around on the wing—you just tuck yourself in the rear cockpit. Lady—won’t we have fun!”

Then, abruptly, Russ turned his back on us and walked away. I stared at Bob, and he stared at me. Joan West shrugged her slender shoulders, and laughed. It was supposed to be sort of a gay laugh—but somehow it didn’t seem to register that way. Bob spoke.

“He’ll be all right by tomorrow, Miss West. Russ is all right. A camera-ship tangled with him six months ago—and he’s off them. But he’ll be all right. You stirred him up.”

There was plenty of truth in that statement. The girl sure had stirred Russ up!

“But what did he mean? What will he do, after I make the transfer?”

Her voice trembled slightly. Brooks was trying to think of a good answer, and I couldn’t help getting in a little dig.

“It’ll be all right,” I said slowly. “We’ll all have ’chutes, won’t we?”

The girl wasn’t around in the evening, and just before dark, when the air was pretty calm, Russ and I took a couple of ships up and played around a bit. Russ had the Old Lady and he had her within three feet of my left wing-tip several times. When we came down Bob grinned at us.

“It’ll go fine!” he stated enthusiastically. “She could have reached up and made the transfer a half dozen times—just now.”

Russ nodded. “Sure she could,” he returned grimly. “But there wasn’t any camera-ship in the air.”

Bob eyed Russ narrowly. “Look here,” he said slowly. “This little girl’s all right, Russ. The camera people picked her for the stunt—she didn’t pick them. I don’t like the way you talked to her today.”

Russ swore softly. “How about the way she talked to me?” he asked. “She thinks the Old Lady is an air wreck. And I aim to show her that—”

“Oh, that—you don’t worry me any there,” Bob cut in. “That lady has looped a ship sixty-two times in succession. She jumped twelve times. You can’t scare her any. I’m not bothering about that any. But she’s a lady and—”

“So’s the Jenny!” Russ interrupted grimly. “She’s no wreck, that plane. Lady West said she doubted if that Jenny could get altitude. Well, I hope she dresses warm tomorrow.”

I stared at Russ. That was the bunk. The ceiling of the Old Lady wasn’t so much that either Russ or the girl would be apt to catch even a mild cold, and he knew it. So did Bob Brooks. He shook his head slowly.

“It’s a nice job, this transfer,” he said slowly. “And we need the coin. Don’t muss it up, either of you fellows.”

“Give the same advice to the camera-ship pilot,” Russ muttered. “He’ll need it most.”

Bob had started away, but he turned around, a grin on his face.

“Not that boy,” he said quietly. “He’s the guy who gave Miss West that little sparkler she’s wearing on a certain finger.”

I chuckled. Russ Healy groaned.

“Makes it worse yet!” he stated. “He’ll be nervous when she starts to grab for the loop on the Old Lady’s wing-tip. Well, maybe she’ll get sick before tomorrow, or something.”

I grinned. “That queers your game, Russ,” I stated as Bob walked away. “If you pull anything funny after the girl gets aboard the Old Lady—that camera-ship pilot will be waiting for you to come down.”

Russ Healy’s eyes were narrowed. He had a peculiar expression on his lean, browned face.

“Mac,” he said slowly, “they can say things about me—but not about that Jenny. The Old Lady is all right. When they talk like that girl talked—I’ve got to show them they’re wrong. Tomorrow—I’m showing her.”

I didn’t like his tone. It was a little too grim. “How?” I asked curiously.

But Russ just lighted another pill and glanced up toward the darkening sky.

“Maybe we’ll get a break, Mac,” he returned after a little silence. “Maybe the picture stuff will go all right. And if it does—well, you’ll see how a certain clever little lady learns something about the Jenny.”

“Remember, Russ,”—my voice was almost persuasive,—“she’s a woman.”

Russ sighed heavily. But when he spoke his tone was hard.

“Ain’t it the truth!” he stated.

It was about ten minutes of four, and there was a pretty fair crowd on the field which we were using for the outfit. The Old Lady was on the deadline, and I had the DeHaviland that I was going to pilot alongside of her. The camera-ship had flown up from Los Angeles, and was a racily-lined two-seater. She was resting on the other side of the battered Jenny.

Bob Brooks came along the deadline with the girl on one side and a short, good-looking chap on the other. As they neared the three ships Bob gestured toward them. Russ was fooling around with his pack-’chute and watching the three at the same time. So was I.

The good-looking bird halted, stared at the battered Jenny. I could see that he was taking in her patches, the slight sag of her under-carriage, the lack of varnish on her struts. With the D.H. and the camera-ship for contrast, the Old Lady looked more of a wreck than ever.

Russ Healy gave his pack-’chute a final pat, and moved toward the group. I tagged along. There was a broad grin on the short fellow’s face as we came up.

“That the one you go up to, Joan?” he asked, and she nodded her head.

He groaned loudly. “When you get inside don’t snap the safety-belt,” he advised in a grim tone. “It’ll be easier for you to go over the side when she starts to break up under the added weight of your one hundred and fifteen pounds.”

The girl laughed. It was a musical laugh, but I could see it didn’t sound that way to Russ Healy. He glared at the good-looking chap.

“Meet Steve Lott, Russ.” It was Bob Brooks who spoke. “He’s piloting the shoot-ship.”

Russ nodded. But he didn’t raise his right hand from his side. Lott kept right on grinning.

“If we’re all set—let’s go up and get it over with,” Russ said slowly. “I don’t like the job, anyway.”

Lott grunted. “Shouldn’t think you would,” he agreed. “Not flying that piece of junk!”

I grabbed Russ by the right arm, and hung on. But the funny part of it was that he just sort of smiled. He stared at Lott, and then at the girl. When he spoke his words were addressed to her.

“I’m kind of sorry for you,” he said slowly. “You might have picked out a real man.”

Lott glared at Russ, and Bob Brooks started to talk fast and give final instructions. He wanted the stuff pulled at four thousand, so that the camera would get some of the earth detail in. And he wanted every one to take their time.

I saw that the girl was watching Russ a lot, and I felt kind of sorry for her. It looked to me as if she were a little scared. So just before she climbed into the rear cockpit of my D.H., I said a few words to her.

“Don’t let Russ bother you,” I told her. “He was just talking yesterday. And he’s a flying fool.”

She stiffened. Her chin came up a bit.

“I’m not afraid of him,” she stated in a hard tone. “It’s the wreck he’s flying that worries me.”

I started to tell her that the Old Lady was all right, and just then Russ started to rev her up. She had a roar like two ordinary planes, and there wasn’t much use getting hoarse yelling at Miss West. Anyway, it was ten to one that she wouldn’t be convinced.

She had her pack-’chute on, and adjusted her helmet. She wore no goggles. As she climbed into the rear cockpit of the DeHaviland, the camera-plane took off. I revved up the D.H.’s engine, and Russ taxied the Old Lady out. He waved a hand, and I waved back.

I jerked my head. Miss West had an expression of intense dislike on her fair face; it was directed toward the taxiing Jenny. I smiled grimly, muttered a sort of half-prayer—and advanced the throttle a few notches. The D.H. rolled out, and I gave her left rudder to get her nosed into the wind. Then I opened her up—and took off....

We were at four thousand—the three planes. I had the D.H. throttled down a bit, flying into the wind. We were approaching an airspot almost directly over the circus outfit’s field. The camera-plane was off to the right, but not very far off. It had about twenty-five feet more altitude, and I could see the head and shoulders of the man who was making the shoot. He was standing in the rear cockpit, and his camera was mounted on a movable bracket.

I jerked my head, banked a bit—then straightened the D.H. out. The Old Lady was coming up from behind. Russ Healy had her within a half mile of the D.H. I twisted around, nodded my head to the girl.

“All right!” I snapped. “Let’s go!”

She understood, of course, though it was doubtful if she heard my words above the roar of the engine’s exhausts. The next thing I knew, she was working her way out along the lower wing surface. She moved along as if she were going somewhere—and without the slightest false effort. I grinned. The weaker sex? It was almost funny—that line!

The wind zipped her tight-fitting blouse close about her. She grasped first one strut, then the next. Out near the edge of the wing-tip, she suddenly threw back her head and laughed, waving a hand. I grinned back at her. As she reached up toward the loop on the upper surface I thought my ears picked up the blending of another engine roar with mine. Then the girl was swinging up—had vanished from sight.

I glanced to the right, saw that the camera-man in the rear cockpit of the third plane had started to crank. The D.H. was handling nicely; there was pretty fair air at four thousand.

My job was to keep the D.H. on even keel while the girl did her stuff on the upper wing, and it wasn’t such a tough job. From time to time I glanced at the camera-man, cranking away. I could see Lott’s helmeted head. The pilot of the third ship had her in pretty close; I guessed that Russ Healy was almost above me now—with the Old Lady.

Then, glancing to the left, I saw the battered Jenny. Russ waved a hand; the ship banked back over the D.H. I kept the nose of the plane lined up on the horizon, corrected for even the slightest bump with the ailerons. We were just passing over the outfit’s field—when it happened.

I felt the D.H. jerk madly around—to the right! There was a ripping, tearing sound. The joy-stick was twisted from my grip. The right wing surface warped before my eyes!

As I cut the throttle I realized what had happened. A wing of Healy’s ship had tangled with mine. And the D.H. was finished—I knew that in one flashing second. And I knew, as my hands fumbled with the safety-belt, that the ships had freed themselves again.

I tried to hold the nose of the D.H. up—it wouldn’t come up. As we went slowly into the first turns of a spin—a plane flashed downward, off to the right. No—two planes!

The Old Lady was going down tangled with the camera-plane! There had been a triple crash!

And even as I saw the two ships going down, in a slow spin and almost flatly—my eyes picked up the form of the girl. She was lying flat on the upper surface of the Old Lady’s right wing. Lying motionlessly! She had made the transfer—and then had come the triple crash.

I stood up in the cockpit, swung a leg over the side to the left, lower wing. We were spinning to the right, and I wanted to get clear on the outside. My right hand gripped the stick, trying to keep the D.H. from going into a tight spin, while my left groped for the dangling ring of the ’chute rip-cord.

It found it, and I hooked a finger through the ring. Then I let go of the stick, got my other leg out of the cockpit—let myself be wind-battered away from the ship.

I counted five—jerked the ring. There was the crackling sound of the pilot-’chute, as it snapped open—and almost immediately the greater crackling of the bigger spread of silk. The harness tightened about my body. My head was jerked upward. Then I was drifting, shaking off the effects of that plunge—and staring beyond the falling arc of my wing-warped plane.

The camera-ship and the Old Lady were above me. My drop had been faster than their slow-spinning fall. And they were close—too close for comfort. I could see things clearly. The girl was out of sight; I couldn’t see above the upper wings of the Jenny. Even as I stared, two objects shot downward from the camera-ship. Lott and the camera-man were getting clear!

Planes in collision with a parachuting pilot

The camera-ship and the Old Lady were above me—too close for comfort. The girl was out of sight.

Their ’chutes functioned perfectly. They drifted down, within twenty feet of each other. I stared at the crashed, tangled planes. Why hadn’t the girl jumped? And what was the matter with Russ Healy?

It hadn’t been a wide-open crash. And I couldn’t tell whose fault it had been. But I could guess—the nose of the camera-ship seemed jammed into the rear cockpit of the Jenny; her left wing slanted up over the tail-assembly of the Old Lady. It looked as if the camera-ship had banked to the left—and crashed the Jenny.

“Get clear!” I muttered hoarsely. “Get clear—you two!”

The tangled planes were spinning faster now. They were dropping below my drift-level, within fifty yards of me. I got a glimpse of Russ Healy’s head. It moved. He wasn’t out. I screamed at him.

“Get clear, Russ!”

The two ships were nosing down now, not dropping flatly. I could hear the wire scream. The prop of the camera-plane was splintered—but the Old Lady’s seemed to be turning, throttled down to a low-revolution speed.

Then, with the ships below me, I saw the girl again. As I stared at her form, lying across the wing surface, I saw that her left arm was hooked through the loop placed there for stunting purposes. And I saw her move, raise her head slightly.

There was a crash—my D.H. had dug in. I looked down, saw the ship burst into flames. The field was less than a thousand feet below, the clipped grass seemed to be rising up at a tremendous speed. I stared down, kicking around in the ’chute harness, at the tangled ships again.

And I saw why the girl hadn’t jumped. Dangling from her back, hanging over the trailing edge of the upper wing surface, was her ’chute pack. Even as I watched her right hand groped toward the harness, tried to find that rip-cord ring.

“Too late now!” I groaned. “Less than eight hundred feet—”

And then, suddenly, it happened. Once before I’d seen the same thing happen. And that had been in France. There was a jerking of the two ships—they drifted apart! The spin had flung them apart!

The camera-plane went instantly into a side-slip. I kicked around furiously, tried to watch the Old Lady. She nosed down, her left wing dropping under the weight of the girl. Then her nose came up, just as I thought she was going into a final spin—her left wing came up, too. I heard the roar of her exhausts. The Old Lady was trying to fly—was trying to fly out of it!

There was a second crash as the camera-plane struck the field. I flexed my legs—seventeen feet a second was my drop-speed. The force of a ten-foot drop would be my landing jolt. The earth came up—I struck heavily, rolled over once, crawled out from beneath the collapsing silk spread.

It took me ten seconds to get out from the harness. And as I freed myself—the Old Lady came in!

She was headed into the wind. Her fuselage, near the rear cockpit, was battered. The fabric was in shreds. But she was flying. And as her exhaust roar died, and her wheels and tail-skid touched the clipped grass, I raised my eyes. Still clinging to the wood loop, on the upper surface of the right wing, was the girl. The Old Lady had brought her down!

We were grouped around Miss West. She was pale, and she spoke in a voice that was slightly shaken. But she spoke bravely. She was that kind.

“The crash came just as I lifted myself up over the wing surface of the Jenny. It nearly knocked me loose—twisted me around. I hung on, though—pulled myself up. But I ripped the ’chute pack loose from part of its harness. I wanted to get clear—couldn’t find the rip-ring. So I lay there—and waited. You know the rest.”

Bob Brooks nodded his head. Steve Lott said excitedly:

“Lord, it was close! I wanted to get in, get a perfect shot for the camera. We hit a bump—and I tried to zoom. But we crashed before she nosed up. All three ships got it. We’ll stand the loss, of course—but—”

He stopped. He was too shaken to go on. The girl’s eyes were on Russ Healy, who was frowning.

“I’m sorry!” she said simply. “No use saying what I think—you know. Man—that battered crate is—” She stopped, groped for a word, found it—“wonderful! Can she fly? I’m here—to tell you she can!”

Russ smiled, but he didn’t say much. Later, while he was patching up the fuselage of the Old Lady, I caught him alone. It had been a tight jam for all of us. Two planes gone—and three of us using ’chutes. No pictures, of course. All smashed—all that had been taken. But if it hadn’t been for Russ—and the Old Lady— Well, Joan West wouldn’t laugh that way again at a battered plane.

I told Russ that, and then I asked a question. It had been worrying me a bit.

“Supposing things had gone right, Russ—what were you figuring on doing with the girl? How were you going to prove—”

Russ Healy grinned. “Mac,” he said slowly, “I wasn’t going to do a thing. What in hell could I do? That kid had nerve.”

I chuckled. Russ Healy throwing a bluff! It was almost funny.

“She had nerve,” he repeated grimly, “and believe me, Mac, that’s what you’ve got to have—when it comes to picture stuff!”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March, 1928 issue of Blue Book magazine.