MEN WITH WINGS

Radio Record, Volume XII, Issue 35, 10 February 1939, Page 21

MEN WITH WINGS

The_ TechnicALHE OF ThE BAsED on ER2a8 PASEAMOlM 4E U 0 TENEE]

SYNOPSIS. Scott Barnes, aircraft designer now flying the mail; Patrick Falconer, bored with looking after his father’s estate, and Peggy Ranson Falconer, mother of a baby girl, face the responsibilities of life in 1920, seventeen years after they, as children, built kites, watched Peggy’s father go to his death in an aeroplane of his own making. Pat, combat pilot, has come home from the World War a restless hero with his bride, Peggy. Scott, third member of the triangle, loving Peggy, is a bachelor. CHAPTER VII © TRED and dirty from his mail run, Scott Barnes wearily mounted the stairs leading to his apartment. At the top of the flight he paused, his eyes widening with surprise as he saw the door ajar. He advanced, stuck his head inside. Pat Falconer was in the little, ene-room bachelor abode, cheaply furnished, untidy, piled high with books, charts, blueprints and drawings of aeroplanes. Pat was reading a magazine, sitting in a chair beside the wall bed, which looked as if it hadn’t been made for a week. He looked up at Scott, ran his hand nervously through his hair. Scott saw that he was haggard, his face lined and drawn, his skin pale and grey. "QOh-hello, Pat," he said. "Hello, Scotty," Pat replied. Scott pulled his wadded helmet «and goggles from his coat pocket, -tessed them on to another chair. ‘Phen he went into the bathroom, filled the wash basin, dipped into it. ‘Pat lit a cigarette, rose, went to the door, leaned against it. He inhaled deeply, then blurted: "Scotty, I’ve got to get out of this town." The words had no effect on Scotty. He continued to wash his hands and face. Pat pressed:

"The night Patricia was born I. got drunk with some friends who are going over to fly with the French in Morocco. | signed up to go with them." He leaned forward nervously, watching Scott’s back for a faint sign of reaction, found none. Pat’s yoice rose aS he continued. His words were clipped, tense. "t gan’t breathe around here any more. It’s driving me mad, sitting around. Sleeping with my eyes " Scott dried his hands and face with a towel, jammed it back on to

its rack, brushed by Pat as if he had neither seen nor heard him. Pat followed, saw him sit down, took a chair opposite him. He groped for words for a minute. Then he faltered: "You-you don’t understand, Scotty. You’ve never had that ache inside of you. You’re satisfied. As God is my judge-I wish I were!" He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes appealing to his friend. Still Scott said nothing. "Nobody who has_ been through a war can just come home and forget-like turning off a light," Pat explained. He saw that Scott’s face was a mask and that his eyes were boring into him, as if reading his soul. Slowly, he got to his feet. "The boat sails to-night, Scotty," he said. "I’d say goodbye to Peggy and Patricia-but if I tried it I wouldn’t go. And I’ve got to go." Pat was staring at the carpet. Slowly his head came up. ‘There was a half-smile on his face and a far-away look in his eyes as he added: "When the motor is making me deaf again... and the propeller is blowing the hair off my head.. and I can smell that funny stink of castor oil... and see some big, blue mountains to climb over... then I’ll be happy again." He shot a pleading look at Scott. "Will you look after Peggy and Patricia for me until I come back?" he asked. Scott finally replied: "You know I will..." Pat rose, walked to the door. Scott followed. Pat turned, extended his hand. Scott gripped it tightly. Tears welled in his eyes. "Goodbye, dirty face,’ Pat choked. He went out, closing the door behind him. Scott stood staring at the door, listening to Pat’s even steps on the stairs.

‘His face clouded at contemplation of the job which faced him. He changed his clothes, slammed a hat on his head, went downstairs, crawled behind the wheel of a battered roadster. A few minutes later he turned it into the driveway leading to the entrance to the Falconer mansion. The butler greeted him, admitted him. Just as he stepped into the reception hall he looked up. He saw Peggy starting down the stairs. She was dressed in a negligee. Her face was pale, She came down the steps slowly and with difficulty, leaning heavily on the banister.

Scott watched her, waited in pitying silence, his jaw set firmly. He started as Peggy gave him 2 searching look and said, flatly: "He’s gone, isn’t he." "Yes," he replied. Peggy held tightly to the banister to steady herself. "Where?" she asked. "Morocco," he told her. Scott explained slowly, carefully, about the way Pat felt. "T knew this was coming... but so soon..." Peggy said, dully. "He'll be back,". Scott assured her. "He’s got something inside of him. He’s got to kill it-wear it out." "1 knew he was restless and unhappy," she said, half to herself. "Il knew Patty was a disappointment to him." She paused. "I’m glad he didn’t say good-bye to me. i'd have cried and begged him to stay and been a fool... ." Scott caught a sweet, sad expression which he had not seen on her face since they’d been children, as she confessed: "Scotty-I was so happy for a while. It was like being in heaven -just to be with him."

Scott Barnes’s reserve cracked for just a moment as he said: "I wish he were hearing thisinstead of me." Peggy didn’t seem to hear. "THe’d have stayed and done his duty if Td asked him-but he wasn’t made to do his duty," she continued, wearily. "It’s funny’d rather have him for only a little while than any other man for a lifetime. ..." "You’re-taking it swell," Scott said. "? was ready for it," Peggy confided. "I’ll just have to wait... to have a vacation in my life until he comes back." Scott tried to share her mood. But he said, grimly: "If he isn’t cured the next time I see him, I’m going to do a little doctoring on him-with a baseball a) 2? Peggy brightened. "That’s a promise," she said. "You go to bed, now," he told her. "How about dinner to-morrow. night, and a show?" "Td love it." "It’s a date," he agreed. ‘TH be going. Good night." As he spoke, he turned, walked to the door.

"Good night," Peggy said, softly. For a moment, he looked at her in silence, then went out. Peggy started down the last step or two, trying to smile. As the door closed bee hind him and she heard his footsteps die away, a cry of anguish came from her throat. She crumpled to the floor, lay there, wracked by sobs. Pat had brought a crisis which in time became less sharp, but the ache never died from Peggy’s heart. Scott tried to comfort her, but felt strangely inadequate, Strangely apart from her, If anything, during these weeks and months, his love for Peggy grew, became more engulfing. And with that protecting devotion came 2 love for her child, Patricia. In the late summer of 1920, both Pat and Scott contributed to one of those crises which were always arising in the offices of the Underwood "Daily Record" where, at all times, Hiram Jenkins, uncle of Scott, and Hank Rinebow, were bickering. : Late one afternoon Hank drifted from his editor’s desk, grabbed a piece of copy from the telegraph operator-and then raced into Hiram’s office. "Here’s somethin’ for us to splatter all over the front page toe night!" he exclaimed. ‘"They’ve just completed the first run of the trans-continental air mail! New York to San Francisco!" Hiram’s hat remained on his head and his feet remained on his desk. "Nope," .he said. "But this is history," Hank argued. ‘"They’ve--," "Been carryin’ the mail across the continent in trains fer years," completed Hiram. : Hank’s voice rose as he argued: "This is planes, not trains. Trains don’t fly." Hiram rocked his feet off his desk, sat bolt upright, banged his fist on his desk. "Just a minute!" he snapped. "1 got a story here about Pat Falconer. He just ended a war in Morocco single-handed. Blew up a well and caused a whole tribe to surrender! The French are gonna decorate him." "The French," Hank stormed, "decorate everybody." "He’s a local boy!" shouted Hiram. "He’s wounded. May lose aleg. That’s news!" "A local boy flew the first leg of that transcontinental mail run, too. (Continued on next Page.)

"MEN WITH WINGS" (Continued from previous page.) i

Your own nephew!" Hank yelled. "I won’t let family sentiment interfere with the conduct of this newspaper!" Hiram bellowed. "Nor brains, either!" Hank’s Jungs were at the bursting point. "Set. this headline!" shouted Hiram, as he scrawled, passed over a sheet of paper. It stated: "LOCAL BOY MAKES GOOD IN MOROCCO." Hank was too speechless with rage to say anything, The clash between Hank and Hiram was history, however, by the time Pat Falconer came home. Moonlight shone on the spacious house which he had deserted to find adventure. As he advanced up the drive-way Patricia cried, lights lit in the windows. Automatically Pat walked faster, his stiff leg dragging. He found his key, admitted him. self to the house. "Pat!" The glad cry rang on his ears. "Peggy ... Peggy darling!" he cried. She saw his limp as he continued up the stairs. She ran down to meet him, sought his embrace, held him tightly. He bent, kissed her, "TI can’t be this happy... after what I’ve done..." he faltered. "We're both glad you’re backPatty and I," she said, softly. "It ‘doesn’t matter where you went... "or why... only that you’re back." CHAPTER VIII. AVIATION history was made in the five years which followed _Pat Falconer’s return to his Long Island home late in the summer of 1920. Man’s wings grew stronger as Sacdura and Coutinho flew: from Portugal to Brazil; as Kelly and MacReady linked New York and San Diego in a non-stop flight; the United States army pilots flew around the world; Pinedo made a round trip. between Italy and Japan, and Commander Byrd and Bennett looked down. on the North Pole from their cabin. And, at the same time, Pat Falconer had solved a problem, had met the temptation to adventure, by going into aero-

plane manufacturing in California. With Scott Barnes designing his ships, he was successful. By 1926 they had a large, modern plant, covering several acres. They employed hundreds of workmen to turn out their biplanes. for five years, Pat Falconer had been content to fly his own planes and test them. It was Captain Arrachart’s 2,737miles non-stop flight, counled with a mention of the fact that interest was being revived in Raymond Orteig’s 25,000-dollar prize for a nonstop flight from New York to Paris, that gave Pat his idea. He was weighing it carefully, smoking a cigarette, pacing up and down in his office nervously, when Scott entered with a model aeroplane in one hand and an assortment of blueprints in the other. Pat took the model from him. "Will it fly?" he asked. "Tt’ll fly the wings off anything in the air now,’ Scott answered, spreading out the blueprints on Pat’s desk. "Come on-lll go over the specifications with you." "No you won't," said Pat, holding up his hand. "I don’t understand that stuff. I’ll wait until you get it finished and then I'll fly it." "Mind initialling these plans so we can start construction?" Scott asked, sourly. "You’re still president, you know." "And not a very interesting job, either," said Pat. He initialled the plans. The men-faced each other. "Your old complaint isn’t coming back on you, is it?’ Scott demanded., *A little." Pat sat on the edge of his desk and grinned at his friend. "I’ve been a good boy for five years now. Say-they’re getting interested in. Orteig’s offer again. If you installed extra wing tanks and put fuselage tanks in, what would be the maximum cruising range?" "About four thousand miles-but I know what you’re thinking, and the answer’s ‘No!’"- Scott said. "Why?" asked Pat. "Instruments are the thing now, Pat. Flying by guess and by the seat of your pants is a little bit out of fashion. A long range flight like you're talking about ought to bea definite contribution to avia-

tion. And it’s only a_ stunt with you." "Okay, Scotty. Suppose you spent about three months and taught me to fly your way? Would you build that ship for me?" Scott grinned. "If youll do that, Pat, you're practically in Paris." Pat, as he promised, went to work that day to learn blind flying. He studied for several weeks. Finally, the plane was completeda sleek, high-winged monoplane that, for all its modern characteristics, was reminiscent of the first ship Scott had built thirteen years before. Pat began fiying it imme-diately-particularly during bad weather. Always, the ever-loyal Joe Gibbs, who went wherever Scott went, managed to fly with Pat. After one of the first flights, Pat asked Joe: "Are you satisfied?" "With the ship-yeah," Joe drawled. Later, Joe privately confessed to Scott that Pat had learned practically nothing about either instrument flying or navigation, and that whenever he got into bad weather he was fost. "On this flight, we came out low once and 2 cow had to lay down to get out of the way,’ Joe confessed. "We went up again and flew blind. I got so I couldn’t set in my seat, so I says, ‘Hither ’m nervous or this plane is upside down.’ It was. And when it come time to get in, I think an angel brought us back. I had nine last letters wrote to my mother when he says, ‘I’m gettin’ pored-I think Ill set her down here.’ We were both very astonished when it turned out to be our field." Seott, in the days that followed, tried to get Pat to take instrument flying seriously, learn navigation and meteorology, but Pat always parried his suggestions with a good-natured grin. And while Pat stalled along, learning nothing, the setting for a mighty drama was being laid. The nation gradually was becoming aware of the fact that not only were several transatlantic flights being planned, but that those who were going to attempt the feat might even becomé. involved in a race. While his friends waited anxiously for the flight, Pat Falconer was doing his best to make good for them on the fiying field adjacent to his factory in California. His streamlined monoplane was poised, ready to take off on the first leg of his long hop-to Curtiss Field, Long Island. Peggy and Patricia came to the field to

see him off. Mechanics warmed the motor of the ship, which bore the legend, "Miss Patricia--New York to Paris." . Photographers crowded around the plane taking pictures while reporters questioned Pat, Peggy and the excited seven-year-old daughter of the famous couple. The word to hop finally came from Scott, who had gone on to Curtiss Field with Joe Gibbs. Pat received a wire from his friend advising him that the weather along the route was fair and that he must use his instruments rather than "the seat of his pants" on the flight. A mechanic notified Pat that the motor was warm and performing satisfactorily. Pat turned to Peggy, took her in his arms. "We've had a funny life, haven’t we?" he asked, sombrely. "Always saying goodbye." Pat held her close for a moment, released her, went to the ship and climbed in. At the eastern end of the continent, Scott and Joe, advised that Pat had taken off on what would be a twenty-hour flight, knew that work was ahead of them and settled down for the long wait. The day drifted into night, night into day again-a day. of fog and mist, a grey and bleak day. With the morning, Scott and Joe came out of their hangar, worry on their faces as they scanned the overcast. "Ten minutes to five," Scott said, glancing at his watch. "He’s overdue." ° "Probably buckin’ a head wind," Joe answered, with false assurance. . They started walking down the field, nervous, alert. They ignored Commander Byrd’s tri-motored Fokker, the "America," which waited in an adjoining hangar. "He was on his course over Columbus," Scott said. "J wish he’d get here so I can go to work on the crate," Joe mused. They walked a bit farther, stopped in their tracks at the faint sound of a distant motor. "~That’s his motor,’ Joe said, positively. "And it’s startin’ to rain." Tensely, the two men _ waited, their eyes straining into the murk. The sound grew louder, drummed steadily overhead, faded again to the east. They faced each other. "He's over-shot the fieldheading out to seal" Scott gasped. "Get that amphibian! We'll go after him!" Quickly they spread the alarm, made known their purpose. Mechanics wheeled out the am-

phibian, started the motor. Hardly waiting for it to warm, Scott crawled in. Joe piled in behind him, closed the door. Scott sent the ship racing down the field, pulled up into the fog. He held full throttle until he got above the soupy stuff, ploughed into sunlight. Wordlessly he cruised eastward. Finally he said: "T guess we've lost him." Joe turned away from his contemplation of the billowing mist beneath him. "No, we haven't!" he shouted. "Look!" Scott looked in the direction he pointed, saw a thin shaft of smoke coming through the blanket. "tts those smoke bombs we made him take!" Joe yelled. "He’s Janded on the water. Then set ’em off. They’ye come up through the soup!" . Scott nodded, dived, got down through the layer of fog, circled until he found the sinking monoplane. They could both see Pat clinging to the top of it as_ they settled into the rough sea. Scott taxied the ship to the wreck, Joe opened the cabin door, clambered across the struts to the floyit> leaned far over. Pat was able to grab his hand, pull himself on to the amphibian. They got back into the cabin. Pat eyed Scott. "| knew fi’d be you-or nobody," he said. "Thanks." "What happened?" Scott asked. Pat. grinned sheepishly. "OQvershot the field," he admitted. "There’s no use lying. I got over the water, ran out of gas, spun down through the fog. I pulled out of the spin, but too late. I hit hard." Awkwardly, Scott reached out, patted his friend’s shoulder. Then he gunned the motor, raced inte the heavy sea, got the amphibian on its step, and finally into the air. Agatn he went above the fog, turned, flew back to the field. He got beneath the overcast, found the field, let down his wheels and landed. He was taxiing toward the hangar when a motor-cycle patrolman sped across the field, warned him to stop. Then he, Pat and Joe saw the reason for the orderanother plane. Its motor was running wide open as it gathered speed’ slowly, careened down the runway, got off the ground, settled back, got off again. "7 hope he makes it!" Pat exclaimed, just before the ship passed them. All read the name on the side. i was: SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS. (To be continued.)