CHAPTER THREE
JEEP JITTERS
Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp! Up the long concrete ramp—halt—aboutface—and back again. One hundred and twenty steps to the minute,thirty inches to each step—a fast walk, in civilian life. But thesethree, covering a prescribed beat at widely spaced intervals, marchingin silence and without pause, are not civilians. Not by a long shot!
They are Flying Cadets Blake, Enders, and Newton, wearing the uniformof the day, with field belt, bayonet scabbard and white gloves. Theirpenalty for a dirty room is posted on the company bulletin board: fivetours and six “gigs,” or demerits, apiece. That’s a lot easier thanthey expected. Still, a “tour” lasts one hour and covers almost fourmiles. They have three hours still to go.
“_And Glenn Crayle’s enjoying ‘open post’!_ Right now that mister isdoubtless disporting himself with some sweet young thing at a tea dancein the San Antonio Flying Cadet Club.... Tramp, tramp, tramp.... Here’swhere the ‘gig’ dodger ought to be! One of these days, he’ll slipup....”
* * * * *
Glenn Crayle never became a “touring cadet,” however. In small, cleverways he continued to work out his grudge against Chick and Barry. Oneof his bright tricks was to dust itching powder over the stick of the“Jeep,” or Link Trainer, knowing that Chick Enders would be the next tohandle it.
The “Jeep” is a marvellous device to teach aviation cadets the art offlying by instruments—without ever leaving the ground. Entering it,the fledgling pilot finds himself in a cockpit like that of a realplane. Before him is an instrument panel. Above him an opaque canopyshuts off his view of everything else. In his closed cockpit are allthe familiar controls. His situation is the same as if he were flyingthrough clouds at night.
Poor Chick had a case of “Jeep jitters” from the moment he started his“flight” under the hood. The little moving ball and the two queerlittle needles simply _would_ not stay in place. According to hisinstruments he dropped one wing and went into a “spit curl” or sideslip that cost him precious altitude. Correcting it, heover-controlled. Dangerously close to Mother Earth, according to theJeep’s altimeter, he zoomed, stalled, and theoretically crashed.
Climbing (in theory) to five thousand feet, Chick attempted once moreto conquer the “jeepkrieg.” For some moments he succeeded. Then,without warning, his hand on the stick began to itch. He stood it aslong as he dared, let go for one second of frantic scratching—and waslost.
Fifty feet from the theoretical ground he pulled out of his dive. Hehedge-hopped over some imaginary trees, caught the stick between hisknees, and tried to climb while scratching. Result—a third crash.
“I give up!” gurgled Chick, slamming back the canopy and bouncing outto the surprise of his instructor. “The thing has given me hives on myhands, sir. I’ve committed suicide three times by the altimeter, andI’m afraid I’ll do it in earnest!”
The instructor glanced at Chick’s reddened palm and snorted.
“Very well, Mister,” he snapped. “Spin off and get control of yournerves. You can try it again tomorrow when you’re out of the storm. Butyou’ll never learn instrument flying by mauling the stick the way youdid just now.”
Within the week Chick had mastered the art of level “flight” in a“Jeep.” Yet he knew that his itch-inspired tantrum stood against hisrecord as a prospective pilot of warplanes. The men who fly the Army’sfighting ships must have nerves of chilled steel. Those who might crackunder the strain of air combat must be weeded out.
Second thought told Chick that Glenn Crayle must have doctored the“Jeep’s” stick. No hive ever itched as wickedly as his palm; _andCrayle was using the trainer just before him_.
“I’ll call that rat out for boxing practice, and work him over,” theangry cadet told Barry. “Crayle may outweigh me, but I’ll whittle himdown to my size.”
“If you did,” Barry Blake pointed out, “he’d still win, according tohis twisted way of thinking. Crayle knows that open grudges are frownedon here at the Field. If you let yourself get mad enough to beat himup, your supervising officer will put _that_ down to poor control, too,Chick. Another show of nerves might wash you out as a pilot—for good.Stick it out, man! The sixty-hour test is only a week away.”
The sixty-hour progress test is a landmark, warning the Randolph FieldCadet that his basic training is nearly over. Sixty hours of flighttraining have been accomplished. All fundamental flying movements havebeen mastered, of course, at primary flying school. At Randolph Fieldthey have become still more familiar. Climbing turns, steep turns,“lazy eights,” and forced landings have been learned and practicedthoroughly. Now the pilot’s ability to fly by instruments alone is tobe judged.
Both Barry and Chick Enders had worked hard to perfect themselves inflying “under the hood.” The test should have held no terrors foreither of them. Yet, as the hour approached, Chick grew nervous. Heknew that his instructors were watching him for signs of anotherexplosion.
“I’ll have to be extra good today,” he told his roommates, as the threedonned their coveralls that afternoon. “Captain Branch just had me inthe office for a little talk. I’m worried, fellows.”
“I noticed that you were sort of ‘riding the beam’ when you came intothe locker room,” Hap Newton said, picking up his parachute. “Eyesfixed on vacancy, expression of a calf in a butcher’s cart, and allthat. ’Smatter, Chick—did he bawl you out?”
“No, Hap, he was kind—too kind entirely. Reminded me of a sympatheticexecutioner. He’s flying with me on this test—in his own washingmachine. If he so much as coughs when we get ‘upstairs’ I’ll probablyreef back the stick and go into a stall.... Well, wish me happylandings. I’m taking off.”
Barry Blake shook his head gloomily at Chick’s departing figure.
“The kid’s in a storm already,” he muttered to Hap. “If Chick were thebest gadgeteer on the Field he’d never pass a test under the hood withthat case of jitters.”
“Instrument flying will show jumpy nerves every time,” Hap agreed.“It’s tough, Barry. The whole thing started when Glenn Crayle doped the‘Jeep’ stick with itching powder. Of all the lowdown, squirmy tricks,that was the worst! And he’ll be tickled half to death if Chick iswashed out.”
Barry Blake was so upset about his friend that his own nerves were nonetoo steady. When he stepped into the cockpit, however, he took a firmgrip on himself. Glenn Crayle, he vowed, should not have the laugh ontwo of them.
Barry was a born flier. Once in the air, he lost every trace ofjitters. His performance was better than ever. He passed the test witha high mark, and brought his instructor back smiling. Hap Newton, wholanded soon after, also passed without difficulty.
“Where’s Chick?” the latter asked, the moment they were alone.
“Still flying,” Barry said shortly. “There comes his ship. FlightCommander Branch must have been giving him an extra-thorough test.”
The two friends watched Chick’s ship come in for the landing. Withengine cut off, it glided down. The wheels bumped—bounced—came downagain.
“He’s heading for the hay,” Hap Newton yelled, as Chick’s plane slewedaround. “Give her the gun, Chick!”
As if his frantic shout had actually been heard, Chick’s engine roaredinto life. The ship leaped into the air, and climbed like a cat with adog after her.
“That washing machine must have developed a wobbly tail wheel,” Barrymuttered; “or maybe it was a freak breeze that caught him.”
“Shucks, Barry,” Hap answered unhappily. “There’s no use making excusesfor him. Chick’s still got the jeep jitters. He’s as good as washed outnow.”
“Not if he lands okay this time,” Barry said.
Chick’s plane banked, turned, and came down the base leg with openthrottle. The engine cut out. A wing dropped slightly, to counteractthe drift of the light wind. So far, Chick was handling her nicely. Atjust the right second he lifted her nose a little to make a three-pointland
ing. The tires touched....
And then it happened. The tail swung sharply. Chick, feeling it,cracked open his throttle, but he was a split second too late. Theplane swapped ends, pivoting on a wing. Dust spurted from the runway.With a splintering, ripping crash the wing gave way. The plane nosedover, propeller biting the dirt.
Barry groaned, and started running before the dust began to settle.From West B. Street came the clanging of the ambulance and the crashtruck. From the length of the West Flying Line men were running, eachwith an ugly picture in his mind’s eye—_fire_!
But neither smoke nor flame appeared. Instead, two helmeted figurescrawled out of the wreckage. For a moment they stared at each other.Then, shaking his head, the Flight Commander walked away.
Barry Blake caught Chick roughly by the arm.
“Snap out of it, man!” he whispered. “Crayle’s here in the crowd,laughing himself sick. Reef back and gain some altitude! Chin up!”
Except for Crayle, few of the cadets about the plane were laughing.From the look that Captain Branch had given Enders, they sensed thatthis was no ordinary ground-loop that would qualify Chick for theStupid Pilot’s Trophy. It was the tragedy that all cadet pilotsdread—the wash-out.
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