Air Stories, April 1936 — page 79: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ONE MINUTE TO LIVE ““ Now as soon as you yank the smoke release, twist away from each other, and jump clear of your machines. Rather than be burned alive, you’ve jumped, see? Now, for heaven’s sake, don’t open your parachutes until you’ve dropped out of camera range. You’ve got to free-fall out of the picture before you use your ’chutes. New from the time you yank the smoke release, you have a full minute in which to get clear before the time bomb goes off in the petrol tank. One whole minute, which is plenty. Okay! Any questions? None, eh ? All right. Up and at it!”’ No cream-puff stuff! Face smarting, Corbin walked over to his ’plane and climbed in. A minute or two later, he sent it thundering across the narrow field, pulled it clear, and went racing up towards western skies. Little beads of Sweat studded his forehead, but his mouth was bone dry. For the ten thousandth time he retraced in thought every step he had taken last night. No, there hadn’t been a single slip-up. Jackson had been wriggling into the parachute harness when he went into the dressing-room this morning. He’d only beern a few seconds behind Jackson, so he knew that the other pilot had not re-folded his ’chute. Sure, everything was all right. It was just that his nerves were jumpy. After all, he’d never killed a man in his life. But he really wasn’t killing Jack- son. Jackson was killing himself. Cer- tainly |! It would be Jackson’s hand that would pull the release-ring of the parachute. He’d take a rest after this, though. Go away some place and forget. Then he’d come back better than ever. And no Jackson, damn him, around to— The green Verey-light ! It seemed that he’d been in the air only a couple of minutes or so. Time was whipping past. That’s what he wanted, though. Here comes Jackson. Make it good, Prouty? You’re damn right, I’ll make it good. I’ll give you a piece of flying you won ’t forget for along time. Hi !— not so close, Jackson! You'll get it soon enough without wrecking us both. Cut it out, blast you! Your wheels almost touched the top wing that time. Showing me up, eh? Well, it’ll be the last time. The very last flight for you, Jackson. I wonder what you’ll think when you see those shroud lines. part, and the silk fold up? I wonder if you’ll guess, Jackson? I hope you do. I really hope you do! Look out! Damn you, look out! Ah, the fred light ! Good-bye—Jackson ! There ! He’s going over in a half roll. There he jumps out. A whole minute. I want to see him open up. I’ll still have plenty of time. There— there | He’s down below camera range. His pilot ’chute—he’s pulled the ring. Now—now, Jackson! Now, watch the silk. Now My God! The silk has billowed out, and the shroud lines are holding! They weren’t frayed enough! Not a single one of them has parted. But, they should, they should ! But Jackson was floating down ! He—— His own ’chute? Had he made a mistake? Had he hung Jackson’s ’chute on the wrong hook? No, he couldn’t have done that. He put on his own ’chute this morning. It was .on him now. Or was it? If he could only twist around and see the name tag sewed to the back of the pack. God! Jackson was still floating, so he must be wearing the defective ’chute. He’d made a mistake ! Jackson’s ’plane! It had exploded ! His own machine would go up any second. Time had whipped past. There was only a few seconds’ leeway. Get up—jump out! Maybe you haven’t made a mistake! Get up—get up! Move your legs! Move your legs ! Move your arms! Get up—zget up and jump I IRECTOR PROUTY, Jackson, and the Ajax property man stared puzzle- eyed at the dirt and blood-smeared parachute pack on the dressing-room table. A bit of white cloth was sewed to the back of the pack, and stencilled in ink on it was the name Corbin. ‘‘ Something must have happened to him,’’ Prouty said in a hushed voice. 365 comilclooolks (Cl Q)