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The Flight Is On · The Non-Stop Stowaway

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Chapter six of The Non Stop Stowaway. This is a LibriVox recording. All
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LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,
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please visit LibriVox dot org. Read by voice over Leon The non Stop Stowaway
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by Clayton Knight, The flight is on to the two men in the cockpit
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of the monoplane. The tense drama of ours had been packed into those few
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seconds of the takeoff. As a skipper very carefully opened the throttle, the
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engine took hold and the plane gathered headway. The soggy condition of the field
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after the rain seemed to hold them back. They could feel the wheels of
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the undercarriage sinking deep into the sod and the mud. Jack was conscious for
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a fleeting second of the lights of parked cars reflected in numberless puddles along the
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course. The roar of the engine increased. They rolled faster and faster.
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The skipper sat tense, watching the instruments with an occasional quick glance ahead.
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They were rolling still faster, now gathering speed, and from the corner of
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his eye, Jack saw the skipper push the control stick forward to get the
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tail off the ground. Striking uneven spots in the field. The big plane
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rocked gently. Still it seemed to drag, but always their speed increased over
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the ground. They were halfway down the field, was still not enough momentum
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to lift their heavy load from the earth. Three cores of the way down
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the field and no tendency to spring away from the rain soaked ground. Jack
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glanced quickly at the skipper's face to see if all was well. The skipper
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was looking straight ahead in a fascinated manner. As the end of the runway
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approached and the shallow gully that lay beyond. Too late now to shut down
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the engine and make another try the next second would decide. The skipper pulled
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gently on the stick. The plane lifted ever so slightly, cleared the ground,
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dropped back again for one last little bounce, and then it was almost
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as if the intense concentration of those two men helped to lift that tremendous load
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into the air and hold it there. They whizzed off the end of the
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runway and soared just above the shallow gully which had been the graveyard of an
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earlier attempt. Once in the air, the plane gained altitude very slowly.
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Just ahead was the line of hangers, one of which had housed it for
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so many weeks. The skipper turned the plane slightly so that they might pass
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between the hangers and a line of trees. The red obstacle light on top
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of the highest hangar was methodically flashing its warning. They cleared it safely by
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several feet and continued their climb. By the time they had gone a mile
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farther, they had height enough to make a gradual turn and head into the
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rising sun. As he came back over the field, escort plains came alongside,
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and in one of them a newsreel photographer was steadily grinding the crank of
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his machine getting a record of their start. The sun rose from behind a
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heavy bank of clouds and touched them, lighting up the orange wings till they
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seemed a blazing flame. The land beneath still lay wrapped in a blue haze.
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To their right, a larger bank of threatening clouds was even then sprinkling
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its waters into the distant ocean. The escorting plains came closer, looking tiny
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and unsupported, their whirling propellers perfectly visible against the blue gray background. By
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the time the Dauntless had reached the end of Long Island. All of them
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had turned back save one, and there its pilot, with his hands high
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in the air, sent them a last handshake and a wave banked his machine
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sharply and left them. It was like the last wave from a ship's pilot
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as he sends the vessel off to sea alone. By this time they had
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fifteen hundred feet altitude and were beginning to breathe easier. Jack leaned over to
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the skipper and said, we're off. How does it feel. The skipper
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smiled and replied, she handles pretty well, but it did seem ungodly tail
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heavy at the takeoff. The sooner we can get those small cans in the
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rear compartment, emptied, the better I'll like it. We'd better not try
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it yet, but as soon as we use some fuel out of the main
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tank, we'll empty a few of those spare cans and heave them overboard.
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Setting their course across Long Island Sound. They could see ahead the dim line
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of the Connecticut shore, and Jack lowered their wireless aerial and clicked his first
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message to conners. It was short and to the point, Everything going well,
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signed Dauntless about seven o'clock they were over Cape Cod and could see many
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boats and steamers crawling over a smooth sea. Jack sent another message to conners,
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reporting all well, then clicked off in code, signing off to empty
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fuel from spare cans. The skipper nodded as Jack explained that he would now
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attempt the replenishing of the main tank. He carefully climbed from his seat next
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the skipper and had only just started to squeeze up into the space between the
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top wing and the tank when he stopped with a start. Peering at him
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over the top of the tank was Kiwi, with a self conscious smile on
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his face. The skipper partly turned to see why Jack had dropped back into
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his seat. Jack clutched the skipper's shoulder, leaned over and shouted, cripes,
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the Keiwi's with us. For a few seconds, none of the three
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moved. The skipper was plainly unbelieving. He thought that Jack must be dreaming
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coming out of his trance. Jack motioned to Kiwied to come forward. Kiwi
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wiggled his way over the tank, still wondering how he would be received.
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He shyly put one hand forward in a grasp Dad's shoulder with as hard a
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squeeze as he could muster. Dad realized then that Kiwi's presence was an actual
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fact. Here was a stowaway, another life that must be reckoned with in
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this adventure. He would have preferred not having the additional responsibility. There had
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been enough details to think about, but there was nothing that could be done,
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and his plans must be adjusted to cover this new situation. Kiwi can
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only say in a shy voice, I can help Dad, and I didn't
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want you to go without me. Jack slipped back into his seat, put
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on his phones and sent out Connor's call letter. As soon as he got
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an answer, he clicked off a message that the Kiwi was aboard a stowaway
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and that he would be put on the usual bread and water diet of all
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stowaways and made to work. The skipper then said to Jack, here's your
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helper for the gas, and to Kiwi, he said, well boy,
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you're in for a long ride this time. Kiwi went to work with a
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will, unlashed the cans, unscrewed the tops, and passed them over to
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Jack, who, standing on his seat, poured the fuel into the main
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tank. They disposed of five of them. As Jack opened the sliding panel
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of glass beside him, a terrific stream of air blew into the cockpit,
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and he hurled each can in turn as far out and down as he could
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so that they would not be carried back into the tail. Kiwi looked out
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of his little side window to see the tumbling into space, turning over and
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over, the light glinting on them as they fell beneath them. The wind
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must have been freshening, for there were signs of white caps on the level
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floor of the ocean. Dimly to the left could be seen the shore line.
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Shortly after eleven o'clock, Jack picked up signals from the s S.
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Mauritania. She was notifying the shore stations that she believed she had sighted the
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Dauntless a short time before. A little later, they were passing over land,
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which Jack said was the shore line of Nova Scotia. Kiwi commenced to
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feeling hungry and busied himself peeling one of Old Bill's oranges, most of which
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he passed over to Dad and Jack. Jack took over the controls and flew
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the plane a couple of hours while the skipper stretched himself and carried on a
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halting conversation with Kiwi. He learned how, when he had sent him to
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find Bert, Kiwi had made a hesitating search, had circled back to the
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plane, and without being seen, had climbed into his place in the rear
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compartment. Dad tried to look stern, but Kiwi could feel that already he
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had been forgiven. The plane hummed along, and they felt almost as though
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they were on a picnic. About twelve thirty they passed Halifax, and Jack
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wireless that all was well. Soon they passed over some broken clowns and found
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the air very bumpy. They were picked up and carried, sometimes fifty feet
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before being dropped. Jack had his latest weather map tacked to a small board
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in front of him, and he remarked that they might expect this sort of
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weather or worse. Before they reached Newfoundland, they noticed a slight haze coming
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up before them, and for the next hour they ran through intermittent showers,
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giving the skipper his course to fly. After a careful checking with his tre
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indicator, Jack called to Kiwi and they began the transfer of five more cans
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of fuel to the big tank with the air as bumpy as it was now,
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this was no light task. Once, when the plane gave a sudden
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lurch and reared upward with one of the bumps, Kiwi lost his balance and
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tumbled over on the floor of his compartment, and before he could pick himself
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up and rescue the can, some of the precious fluid had been lost.
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After that, he was more careful and braced himself securely against the sudden lurching
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of their ship. They were twice as long making the transfer this time,
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but it was finally accomplished and Jack heaved the cans overboard. This time,
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Kiwi was unable to follow them on their downward flight. Often they disappeared from
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view within a split second of being hurled out. The broken clouds were making
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the skipper's job of piloting much more difficult. Trying to keep the plane on
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an even keel and follow their set courses took all his attention. Intermittent showers
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beat down upon them, and big rain drops were carried back along the underside
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of the wings in small, hurried rivulets. To Kiwi in the back,
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with his nose pressed against the window pane, it seemed like summer downpours that
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he had witnessed from their little cabin back home. He had become accustomed by
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now to the smooth roar of the motor, and was not so conscious of
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the strain on his ear drums. Through holes in the clouds, he could
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occasionally see the ocean tossing black and green far beneath them. Jack wanted to
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make sure of getting a last bearing on land before they swung off to the
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open Atlantic, and asked the skipper if he could not drop a little lower
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under the clouds, so that Newfoundland would be plainly seen. Even under the
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clouds, which were only about eight hundred feet above the water, the visibility
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was very poor. A thick mist was shut in on them. They flew
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on, trusting to their instruments, and once later in the afternoon, the
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clouds parted for a few moments and gave them just a glimpse of land nearly
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dead ahead, not long enough, however, for them to identify it positively.
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They hoped for another such break in the clouds to help them with the
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navigation. The bumpiness of the air was increasing. Jack caught a wireless call
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from some station in Canada, but the message was so badly garbled by the
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static that they could not be sure of its location. The call of some
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ship could be faintly heard, but it also was too confused to be of
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any use to them. Between five thirty and six they ran into an area
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of clear weather which lasted long enough for them to place definitely the land ahead
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as Cape Race. It was just what they needed and confirmed Jack's navigation figures.
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Using it as their last point of land, Jack changed their course slightly
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and the real ocean voyage began. They were not sure they had been sighted
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at this point, but rather hoped so and that the world would know they
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were well on their way. Below them, the sea looked angry and was
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flecked with white. In his mind's eye, Kiwi had pictured this breaking away
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from land and had thought that he would be able to look far to the
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eastward across the Atlantic and feel its immensity. He was not so fortunate,
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for directly ahead and seeming to bear down upon them, were ragged gray clouds
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and rolling along the surface of the water a thick gray fog. The plane
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was still being tossed about by the confused wind, and now that they had
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their last bearing determined, it was the skipper's idea to try and climb over
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these clouds. They were soon amongst them. Darkness seemed to shut in almost
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at one and the skipper switched on the running lights on the instrument board.
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Jack was watching his instruments closely checking their drift. Kiwi, having no light
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in his compartment, crept up on the tank and lay there watching the progress
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of their plane through these dense clouds. The hand on their ultimeter slowly turned
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three thousand, four thousand, and if anything, the clouds seemed thicker.
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The fog condensed on the windows of their cockpit and was carried backwards in wisps
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of water five thousand, six thousand. Still as dark as ever, the
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wingtips could scarcely be seen. At times, the plane would plunge and rear,
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and Kiwi had to brace himself to stay in position. By the time
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they had reached nine thousand feet, the darkness seemed a little less dense.
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At ten thousand they came out into comparative twilight, but even here they could
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not see the stars, for there were other light masses of clouds above them.
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A long time passed with only the drone of the motor to be heard,
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and with nothing to be seen except piled up clouds in every direction.
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Kiwi must have dozed, for he awoke feeling stiff and cold. How much
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later he did not know. It took him a few seconds to realize where
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he was. Then he saw Dad still at the stick, and Jack bending
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over his wireless key, tiny blue sparks showing that he was sending a message.
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Kiwi was just able to follow the code, which told him that Jack
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was asking some ship if his signals were loud. The clock on the instrument
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board set half past two. The ship replied, and Jack wrote the message
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out on a little pad beside his instrument and showed it to the skipper.
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Signals very loud. You must be near. Can you see our lights?
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Some fog on the surface. Another hour passed, the same ship sent word
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that the signals were getting fainter, but another ship broke in, gave his
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position and the ship's operator, and then sent your signal strong enough to knock
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our heads off. What is your height? You must be just over us.
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We will send up rockets. Tell us if they are seen. All
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three watched on every side, but nothing except a tumbled massive clouds met their
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gaze. The air up here was getting colder, Kiwi shivered. The skipper,
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looking back, noticed him, and he crossed his mind that in the
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excitement he had forgotten to open the heater which ran from the exhaust pipe on
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the engine. It was the work of a moment to throw the lever over,
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and almost at once they felt the warm air come up into the cockpit.
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Jack took over the controls for a little time, and the skipper and
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Kiwi transferred the last of the extra fuel to the big tank and disposed of
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the empty cans. The skipper made a hurried check of their fuel supply in
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both the wing tanks and the main one, and appeared to be well content
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with the way it was holding out. Kiwi was taking small cat naps on
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top of the tank and beginning to wonder if we were not time to eat
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again. It was still dark and there was nothing to be seen, no
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moon, no stars, just a gray pall on every side. He awoke
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from a longer of one of these naps to find it much lighter, and
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the lights on the instrument board looking very yellow in the daylight. Jack was
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just saying, I think I've picked up the government radio station at Malanhad,
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Ireland, while Jack was trying to pick up their message. The skipper leaned
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forward to switch off the instrument board lights, and as he did so,
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he glanced out the window along the wing on Jack's and made an alarming discovery.
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The fuel pipeline from the wing tank ran along the outside surface of the
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wing for a short distance and then curved down to the fuselage, where it
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came through to the main tank and the carburetor. In the curved part was
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a flexible joint which had eventually vibrated loose for streaking out behind was a flow
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of their precious fuel. There was no way of knowing how long this had
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been going on. This skipper had a terrible sinking sensation as he realized what
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the consequences of this tiny leak might be. Perhaps gallons had even now been
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lost, and the seriousness of it appalled him. They would need every drop
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they had to reach India, and already enough might have escaped to ruin their
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chances of even making Europe. End of Chapter six