Under normal conditions cadets were never posted overseas without at least 25 hours of solo flight entered in their log books—the minimum in which all tests could be passed. But on one occasion the commanding officer at the S. of M.A. called for volunteers to make up an overseas draft. Grandy and I put our names down. Nothing remained for those who had volunteered but take their examinations, which they did within twentyfour hours. Grandy, having already flunked or escaped some fifteen or more, passed this one with amazing ease. I muffed it. I got Lieutenant Smith on the phone at Leaside and begged him to call up the examining officers and try and fix it for me to get away on the draft. He arranged for me to take the two subjects that had stumped me, viva voce.
No commissioned ranks being available at that moment for the billet of conducting officer, on the C.O.'s advice, the General put Grandy in command of the draft, for, in spite of everything, he was the most experienced cadet at the S. of M.A., and on parade the smartest—when he wanted to be. Grandy rushed off to Beauchamp and How, military outfitters. He came back with a trench coat over his arm, wearing field boots, and the shoulder strap on his Sam Brown, his cadet's white cap-band discarded. All he lacked were the pips and wings. His pips, he assured me, would be waiting for him on the docks at Southhampton.
"Another country to conquer!" he said.
"Germany?" I said.
"England first," said Grandy. "We'll see how the K.R. and R. works in Albion. After that, in France. We've got to teach Parisiennes to keep their heels on the floor when they dance the tango....we'll winter on the French Riviera."
"The Riviera?"
"Military hospitals and convalescing homes abound there, and I happen to be an expert convalescent," he said.
"I hope I pass this bloody exam!" I said, lured by this conception of war—more enticing than that other war of mud, blood and poison gas in which my brother had been wallowing for two years.
"When are you taking your exam?" he asked.
"Waiting now," I said.
"The will is sire to the fait accompli," he said. "You will pass. You must pass. If you don't, by God—"
"Cadet Ingram."
Smiddy stepped out of the entry. We saluted and Grandy gave me his hand.
"Luck," he said.
"All's fixed," said Smiddy in a low voice. "See you later at the King Edward."
A disappointment was in store for me. My examinations had only just begun when the C.O. came snooping in and wanted to know what was happening.
"Carry on," he ordered.
His presence rattled me, and though the examining lieutenant did his best to help me out, motors stumped me again. It is one thing to change a spark-plug, swing a propeller, blow the dirt out of a carburetor or unserew the top of the magneto to see if something is disconnected, but ask me how all these parts function, or why they function together, today I cannot tell you.
When the C.O. left, Smiddy's friend said:
"What bloody luck! Simply can't shove you through now. But there'll probably be another draft in a few days. Awfully sorry."
In Smiddy's week-end bedroom at the Hotel Edward VII, I found distraction in highballs and the company of a darkeyed young lady who occupied the room next door. Later on Smiddy joined us.
"Don't know how lucky you are," he said. "Without flying time the cadets on that draft haven't a chance. They'll stick in an English fatigue camp till the war is over."
"Not Grandy." I said. "He'll finish the war on the general staff—or if he gets to the Riviera—as aide-de-camp to some allied dowager queen or elderly Princess Royal."
I determined not to be left behind on the next draft, and made serious efforts to master the theory of the internal combustion engine, and pass my examinations, which I did. But now that Grandy had left, and after what Smiddy had said about fatigue camps, the edge was gone from my desire for overseas posting without an impressive amount of flying time. There was no further talk of another draft from the S. of M.A., but within two weeks I was circling the aerodrome at Deseronto on my first solo flight.
The inauguration address with which Deseronto welcomed me and the fellow members of my draft from the S. of M.A. was delivered by an n.c.o. of Bow Bells origin. I learned later, from orders laborously signed by him, that his mother's name had been McGuirk.
"In the hImperial Army," he announced to us, "the last horder is the horder to be obayed. To collaborate me staitment I refer you to "'Is Majesty's Rules and Regulayshuns".
Corporal McGuirk stalked up and down, glaring at those of us in the front rank. I wondered if a grandfather of his had posed for Sir John Tenniel when he drew the face of the carpenter in Alice in Wonderland. In any case the corporal himself might well have done so, and for the legs of the young man in the Old Father William drawings too.
""'Owever," continued Corporal McGuirk, "in the hImperial Royal Flyin' Corps it 'as been seen fit to plyce flyin' horders above hall other horders. As an illustrayshun, for the benefit of the weaker hintelects, I will now—"
Cadet Wilson stepped from the ranks.
"Excuse me, Corporal, don't you think—"
"Oos haskin' you, woteveryournaimeandnumberis, wot I thinks?" shouted Miss McGuirk's son. "Fall in you dozy bugger!"
These words, spoken with such directness, warmed me—for the first and last time—to Corporal McGuirk.
My first flying instructor had about fifty hours solo to his credit when I was placed at his mercy. He was not enthusiastic about my possibilities as a pilot, perhaps because I had succeeded in demolishing two undercarriages before he had given me four hours instruction. He, naturally, was the one to get the blame. After a third undercarriage had miraculously missed the same fate he said he was going to recommend to the O.C. that I be washed out as a pilot. The prospect of becoming an observer put the wind up me: my life would be in the hands of any near-pilot I might be allotedtyping error in original. to. If my neck had to be broken I preferred to do the breaking myself. I told my instructor I could not make a good landing with him in the front seat, and if he would let me take the bus up alone I would land all right. He thought it over and asked how much dual time I had done, and then said:
"I'll be damned if I'll take you up again."
"Can I go ahead?" I asked.
"All I'm worrying about is, if you break your neck, I'm the one responsible for this bus," he said doubtfully.
"I've been up a lot with Lieutenant Smith at Leaside," I said.
"Too long ago....Oh, hell, take her up anyway," he said.
That was enough for me. I pulled down my goggles and started opening the throttle.
"Hey!" he yelled running up to me. "If you find you can't keep her nose in the wind for the take-off, throttle down and taxi back."
But in a few seconds I had forgotten him and his advice. I was in an airplane, alone, the sky above me, resplendent now with the crimson of sunset. A good omen! For some reason—later I realized it was not enough right rudder—the machine began to describe a circle. Instead of heeding instructions, I gritted my teeth and opened the throttle full. With a roar the machine and I left the ground in something approaching a flat turn and rose with the wind instead of against it. I was so thrilled to find myself in the air alone that it took me some time to realize I was making a left hand circle of the aerodrome: the blue right-hand-circuit saussagetyping error in original. was floating above the hangars of 84 squadron.
Within five minutes all other machines were forced to land.
Had I stuck my head out of the cockpit then, I would have seen our Packard ambulance careening around the aerodrome below me—an earthbound vulture, waiting for its prey to fall.
So efficient had this ambulance service become, so sure the judgment of its drivers, that a few weeks later a driver calculated the spot where a spinning machine was due to crash with such accuracy that he got there first. The falling airplane struck the ambulance, killing him and the medical orderly. The pilot got off without a scratch.
Blissfully I continued circling to the left and then, suddenly realizing it was propeller torque that was pulling me around, straightened the nose out with more right rudder.
Without the weight of the instructor in the front seat the machine was fast gaining height. Soon I had left the aerodrome a thousand feet below and was over the railroad, headed toward Bellville. Fortunately, I did not let the radiator cap get too much above the horizon, and so kept my flying speed. Below me, about three hundred yards ahead, flying at right angles to me and toward each other, I saw two machines. I thought it curious that they did not give each other a wider berth. Suddenly they struck, head on... One of them burst into flames and spun earthward leaving a black trail of smoke behind it. The other dropped like a bullet, a detached wing floating down after it. I did not have the nerve to watch for them to hit the ground. A feeling of nausea came over me and I stuck my head in the office. The sweat, pouring from my forehead had clouded the lenses of my triplex goggles, and my crash helmet felt like a steel band pressing into my temples. I pulled it off and it dropped from my knees and rolled forward. The next minute it was tangled up in the rudder bar and the machine swung around in a flat turn. Up went its nose. The crash helmet rolled back. I grabbed frantically at it, caught it, and flung it overboard. The motor stalled....I was spinning. Had it not been for Smiddy, I would have got mine then, never having been spun at Deseronto. But I resisted the beginner's impulse to pull back the stick, and shoved it forward instead, applying opposite rudder at the same time. In a turn and a half we came out, easily, gracefully—as though it was the most natural thing in the world for us to do, which it was.
А wave of emotion swept over me.
"Good old JennyOriginal footnote by Ingram: "The Curtis JN4 model biplanes were known as Jennys."!" I shouted. "You've a brain of your own, by God!"
Had it been practicable I would have climbed out of the cockpit and kissed her on the radiator cap.
Throttle wide open I was again soaring. I managed to wipe the moisture from the inside of my goggles, holding the joystick between my knees. Then I leaned out of the cockpit and filled my lungs with air. There were cloudbanks all around me, below me. I glanced at the altimeter. It registered 3800 feet. Even with Smiddy I had never been up over 1500. And where was I? Through a rift in the clouds I caught sight of ground.. water: the lake behind the aerodrome. I shut off and began a gentle glide. After a while a series of backfire explosions took place. They continued with disturbing frequency. At 5:15 p.m. I had taken off. Five minutes was the alloted time for a first solo flight, enough to make one circuit of the aerodrome. It was now after six. I was already down to about 1500 feet, coming out of the clouds. The water I had glimpsed through that rift in them was still there. But the aerodrome ... the hangars ... the water tower?
The backfires had become quite alarming; it was beginning to get dark, too, and the continuous red streak that shot out of the exhaust when I opened the throttle again brought visions of fire in the air. The motor had begun to miss, so I started looking about for a place to land. And then, to the north, about two miles away, I spotted the water tower. At last I was headed for the aerodrome. It was deserted but for one solitary machine in the middle of it, about which people were moving. I was relieved to note that in landing it was the only thing I would have to avoid. Following some unskillful and dangerous manoeuvering I slipped in past the water tower, my eye on that stalled machine. But somehow, in spite of my resolution to steer clear of it, it seemed to be coming nearer. I applied right stick and rudder, left stick and rudder, but to no avail. The mechanics working on the stalled machine scattered. They were waving violently to me and shouting. But my Jenny, which had acted with such docility in the spin, seemed to have undergone a change of sex, and in spite of all my efforts acted like a male dragonfly making for the tail of a female—and made it, by God!
My undercarriage struck the fusilage of the stalled machine about two feet above the tail-plane, breaking its longerons. The only damage to my own plane was a flat tire and a broken aileron. The following morning I was up for orders on three charges.
"How does it feel to be up?" whispered a pal of mine, up for orders too, a Jewish boy from New York by the name of MacDonald.
"Not the first time I've been up—nor you either," I said.
"Not orders, dumbell. Solo. I'm taking mine at 2:30. Would have gone yesterday if you hadn't tried to beat it to New York with the only bus, in commission in flight B."
"Solo?" I said, "Nothing to it!"