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Conditions Change · The Non-Stop Stowaway

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  Chapter eight of The Non Stop Stowway. 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 Stowway
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  by Clayton Knight. Conditions change. The sun was getting lower in the heavens,
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  but having spent so much time in the murky twilight of the clouds,
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  the lights still seemed very bright to them. The clouds beneath them remained unchanged.
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  Kiwi looked straight down and watched them as they drifted by, until he
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  became almost giddy. He called Jack's attention to the shadow of the plaine racing
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  across this uneven surface. Soon the sun disappeared from view, but the uncanny
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  lights still held. They flew on and on. There was nothing to see
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  in all this vast No one seemed to be able to reason out where this
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  uncanny light was coming from. Since the sun had set, all felt that
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  a change had come over them. Where a few minutes before they had stared
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  at disaster, Now they ceased to worry about their engine or its failure.
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  The plane nearly flew itself. There were no bumps, and it needed very
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  slight correction at the controls to keep it on its course. The clear light
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  seemed to come from tiny, bright particles in the air, such as one
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  sees on a dewy morning. Gradually, Kiwi became conscious of something ahead,
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  far off on the horizon. The rolling clouds seemed to merge into something else.
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  Could it be hills that he saw? He looked at their altimeter.
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  It showed that they were flying at about twelve thousand feet. He glanced back
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  to the horizon, and the land seemed plainer. He thought he must be
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  dreaming. He rubbed his eyes vigors and looked again. It was still there.
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  He glanced at Dad and Jack to see if they too had discovered it.
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  Jack's head was nodding and he appeared to be asleep. Dad was leaning
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  forward with an intent gaze, brushing the back of his hand across his eyes,
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  as though he too, could hardly believe that what he saw was true.
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  Kiwi saw him throw a quick glance across at Jack's charts, study them
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  for a moment, and then look quickly ahead again. The apparition was still
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  there. The skipper studied it for some minutes, it seemed miles and miles
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  away, but was getting plainer. Kiwi thought he could see darker masses slightly
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  to the left. Dad was still straining forward, and without moving his eyes
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  from the horizon, nudged Jack. Jack came to with a start, noticed
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  the skipper's tense attitude, and peered ahead through that peculiar light. Slowly,
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  he too discovered those strange shapes. He consulted his map, then the compass
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  and drift indicator. Puzzled, he turned to the skipper plainly, here was
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  something that neither could understand. At last, Jack was able to say,
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  can it be a mirage? Without moving his eyes from it. The skipper
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  replied, it's possible. Early one morning, over Saint Omer in France,
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  I saw something like it for a few seconds. But this has been in
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  sight now for some time. With each passing second, the apparition was becoming
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  a little more distinct. Key, we leaned forward and asked, what is
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  that? Dad? Have we reached land? Dad shook his head and there
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  was another long pause as they all studied this appearance of land ahead. Jack
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  looked at his charts and knit his brows. He went over their course on
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  the map and shook his head, as puzzled as ever, he could find
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  no solution. Now the hills, instead of coming nearer, seemed to recede.
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  It should be night now, if their clock and watches were right.
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  The dazzling lights still puzzled them. A little later, Jack turned to the
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  skipper and said, doesn't that look like a plane just above the horizon.
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  In another few minutes they made out several more circling just over the hilltops,
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  and then off to the right they could see about a dozen planes flying in
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  formation. They also decided that some tiny specks on what seemed to be the
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  surface of the clouds were other planes resting there. A look of helplessness was
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  beginning to cloud the skipper's face. There had been few times in his flying
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  experience when he had not had a very good idea of where he was.
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  Once or twice he had been lost in the air, and it carried with
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  it a feeling such as one never has when lost on the ground. On
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  the ground, even on the darkest night, and in a strange country,
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  there was always the possibility of meeting someone who could supply directions, or of
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  finding a signboard that would locate one. But in the air. There was
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  no passing stranger or friend that one could ask for help. The skipper remembered
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  the first time that he had been hopelessly lost in the air. It had
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  happened while he was training in England. He had flown to an air drome
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  several miles from his own, hoping to find there an old friend and to
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  renew acquaintances. He had followed a railroad line, which in almost every case
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  is perfectly visible from the air and is the shortest connecting link between cities and
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  towns. This particular railroad skirted in a wide circle a town near the air
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  drome he was to visit, and it was joined there by several other branches
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  of the road locating the air drome he lay. As he came down,
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  a severe rain storm had swept over the field. Upon learning that his friend
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  had been transferred to another air drome, he was anxious to be off and
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  away, but those at the field counseled him to wait until the storm was
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  over. In about twenty minutes, the heavens above the field were clear,
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  and he took off to return to his own aerodrome. Picking up the railroad
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  line again, he was confronted with the problem of deciding which branch he must
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  follow. Relying on his compass, which he had every reason to believe was
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  accurate, he chose the one that seemed to lead off in the right direction.
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  He had followed it for some time at an altitude of about five thousand
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  feet when he overtook the same storm. The tops of the clouds were too
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  high to surmount. They also extended nearly to the ground and were emptying torrents
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  of rain over miles of country. There was nothing to do but fly through
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  them, and although in those he had little or no experience in flying a
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  compass course, he felt that now would be a good time to practice it.
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  Entering the clouds, he had been appalled at the turmoil the swirling winds
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  carried him this way, and that he was dropped down fifty or one hundred
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  feet, and as quickly snatched up and carried upwards. He fought the storm
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  for half an hour, marveling at the force of it. His whole attention
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  was devoted to keeping his plane on an even keel. Occasionally he glanced at
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  his compass to see it turning this way and that, so that he only
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  had a hazy idea of his general course. He watched fascinated as the lightning
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  played through the thick clouds. Always he kept a close watch downward to catch
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  the first view of the ground, hoping against hope that his guiding railway line
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  would appear somewhere. When the air did clear below, he was warned to
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  find nothing but water beneath him. For a matter of seconds, he flew
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  on, hoping that it might prove to be a lake or the wide mouth
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  of a river. Slowly it was borne in on his consciousness that he was
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  out over the North Sea, and that very probably his compass had been playing
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  him tricks and could not be depended upon. However, the right way must
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  be back, and, losing no time, he swung his plane around and
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  started in that direction. Almost at once he was again swallowed up by the
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  storm, the rain coming down upon him in torrents. His goggles became obscured,
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  and he pushed them up to get a clear view ahead. The unaccustomed
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  rush of wind and rain in his eyes made it impossible for him to see
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  with any distinctness. After coming through the storm the first time, he had
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  promised himself that never again would evolveoluntarily repeat such an experience, but here he
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  was back in it again, fighting as hard as before to keep the plane
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  flying in some semblance of a straight line. He could keep no track of
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  the time, and when the storm did lessen, he felt that it must
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  have been hours that he had been fighting those contrary swirls of air. A
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  great feeling of relief welled up in him, as at last he saw land
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  underneath. Even though he had no idea of his location, at least there
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  was solid ground under him. Bewildered, he looked for a sign, some
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  town, or some familiar forest formation that would locate him. Off to one
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  side, he saw a railroad line. Whether it was the same one that
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  he had been following or not, he could not tell, but it would
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  surely lead him to a place that might help him. The plane he was
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  flying was a difficult one to land on a small or uneven field, and
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  he had no intention of taking that risk unless it was necessary. Sighting a
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  town ahead, he flew low, hoping to read the sign on the railroad
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  station, His eyes still smarted from the rain. The station proved to be
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  too well surrounded by telegraph wires on tall poles and the chimneys of a factory
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  to permit him to fly near enough to make out the name. He was
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  completely lost, there was no doubt of it. There was nothing to do
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  but go on, even though his fuel supply was getting dangerously low. Another
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  town some distance away lay wrapped in a haze. Approaching, he was overjoyed
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  to recognize in the center of it a large star shaped building, probably a
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  hospital. From this point he knew he could find his way. He remembered
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  that nearby there was a large country house surrounded by formal garden. He looked
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  in the direction where he expected to see it, but it was not there.
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  When he did locate the house, it seemed completely turned around, and
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  he had to readjust himself to this changed condition before he could shape his course
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  for home. As he did so and the compass ceased its slow turning,
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  he discovered that it was off many points and had been one of the causes
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  of his bewilderment. He was now able to find his way to his own
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  aerodrome without further trouble. Now again, the skipper had the same peculiar lost
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  sensation, even though he had Jack, an expert navigator, with him.
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  The situation in which he found himself brought back the old baffled, hopeless feeling.
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  It had been a long time since they had left the ship behind,
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  since they had seen anything but this rolling plane of clouds, and now they
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  were facing a situation so unusual that he felt numb trying to understand it.
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  Land seemed to be ahead, where their charts told them no land could be.
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  Several planes were flying in their direction. One large and unwieldy, approached
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  quite close, its occupants. Leaning over the side studying them, Kiwi thought
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  he knew every type of plane that was being flown in his day and age,
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  but he had never seen one like this before. Jack pointed it out
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  to the skipper and they both examined it closely. Suddenly, the skipper blurted
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  out, why it's a Gotha. As the plane came nearer to them,
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  it dipped lower and made its ponderous way to one side. Then it swung
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  in a wide circle and drew close behind them. As they flew on,
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  other planes passed above and beneath them, and the skipper's face grew more and
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  more bewildered as he identified one after another planes long obsolete in the flying world.
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  A monoplane such as Blerio had made history with in crossing the English Channel
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  some twenty years ago, appeared early types used in the war swooped down upon
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  them. As they sailed along the Great Plateau. More and more planes,
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  whose pilots seemed filled with curiosity, came into view. They were being hemmed
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  in closer and closer. Dotted here and there on the surface were machines of
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  every conceivable design. The crew of the Dauntless were at a loss to explain
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  it all. Stretched out on his perch on the top of the tank,
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  Kiwi was immensely interested in the sight. One pilot in an old bombing plane,
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  a clumsy flier at best, edged in so close to get a better
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  view that the skipper had to turn sharply to avoid a collision. Everywhere they
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  looked were antiquated planes, continually closing in on them. The skipper began to
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  fear that he would never be able to pilot the Dauntless through this swarm.
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  As they twisted and turned, Jack leaned from his window and tried to signal
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  the other planes that they must stay farther away. They were like a cloud
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  of birds pecking at an owl who had looted their nests. The skipper grew
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  nervous at the thought of being driven down to a landing. There seemed to
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  be a concerted action to keep the Dauntless from continuing its flight. Try as
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  he would, the skipper could find no way in which to shake off these
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  persistent pursuers. Their motor, which a short time before, with its missing
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  and spluttering, had brought their hopes of ever seeing India to an end,
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  now functioned with absolute perfection. Constantly they were being driven closer to the surface,
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  and even though they had out distanced some of the heavier and slower machines,
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  others had taken up the chase and were frolicking about them. Kiwi was
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  delighted with their tumbling antics. In a few minutes more, they were so
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  close to the ground that there was nothing left for them to do but land.
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  The skipper, his face red with anger, yanked back the throttle.
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  The motor quieted down till the propeller was just ticking over. They glided rapidly
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  in the wheels, found support on the surface. They had landed. End
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  of Chapter eight