THEN LUCK CAME IN

An Aviation Sergeant Who Yearned To Fly

By Andrew A. Caffrey


The sergeant was a much abused man. Wartime flying had not used him any
too well; nor had after the war aviation done any better. Now he was
nearing the end of his Army career.

The sergeant had wanted to fly. He wanted to go solo and do his own
birding. It had always been his one ambition. And it was through no
fault of his own that the big desire had never been fully realized.
Fact is, along those lines the much abused sergeant was without fault.
He had always done his share.

The sergeant was too willing in 1917. Later--too late--he realized
this. Had he held off, as the other millions did, and waited for the
war to get at good speed, he would have made his way into a ground
school and started right. But the sergeant did not know that there were
to be such schools. None knew this. So the sergeant enlisted. Willingly
the aviation branch of the Signal Corps took him. Oh, yes, of course,
they said he would fly.

But the sergeant turned out to be a handy mechanic. Good mechanics were
few--and are still--so the sergeant, though he didn’t guess it, was
never going to get to fly.

On the other side of the pond his bad luck continued. That was when
they made him a sergeant, made him a sergeant, chief airplane rigger,
while they made flying cadets of the goldbricks in his squadron. That
hurt--hurt like--well, it hurt.

“But look here, Sergeant,” his commanding officer said in rebuttal,
“now let’s be reasonable; it takes years to make a good mechanic. And
only hours to _lache_ a full fledged pilot; and the stuff of which
airmen are made need not know anything--or much. See the point? You’re
important on this field; these other birds going out as cadets are, as
a rule, culls we’re glad to be rid of. Now get back to your hangar and
feel satisfied that you are doing your bit, and a hell of a big bit,
Sergeant!”

That line of official chatter did not help the sergeant at all.

“I’ve heard it before,” he told his rigging crews. “Doing my bit! Bit
be damned! The effect of my first patriotic drunk has worn off. What I
want to do is fly and I’m going to!”

The sergeant did learn to fly; but he “stole” the flying time, begged
all the dual control instruction he could mooch and waxed mighty handy
on rudder bar and stick. And he learned quickly. You see, like many
other mechanics, he really knew how to fly before he ever had a ship in
his hands. Once in the air he merely had to gain the feel of the thing.
And he got it too. He made a takeoff on the third hop, landed on his
fifth.

His job was on a pursuit field--all single seater planes. The ship on
which he had learned--a Nieuport 23--was a two place visitor. He was
all set to fly alone. Then, that same day, they took the 23 away. The
sergeant saw red, and spoke in the same color.

“Cheated again!” he said. “I’m going into town, get all drunked up and
take an M.P. apart! Wait and see!”

                 *       *       *       *       *

You can not get the sergeant’s point of view unless you have loved air
and wanted to fly. But if you had loved air and wanted to fly, you
would have gone to town with him and helped take a flock of M.P’s
apart.

Unofficially grabbing flying time wherever and whenever he could get
any, the sergeant lived in hopeless hope, if such a thing exists. But
our war lasted only a day; and once gone it was gone forever. The
sergeant’s field did not go directly out of business, with the coming
of the Armistice, but his interest in things did. For him it was the
end of everything--and nothing.

Then, with the idea of training more pilots for future wars,
headquarters sent the sergeant’s squadron on to an Avro, two place,
training field. The sergeant’s interest came back. He stole lots of
time, loved Avros and added acrobatics to his straight flying. The war
after the war was treating him better.

New made flying cadets came to that field. Lord! Where did they get
such dubs? The sergeant wondered. From every orderly room at the center
was the answer. It was a dog robbers’ holiday.

“I’ll get the C.O.’s permission to turn you loose, Sergeant,” an
instructor said. “You can fly rings round any bird in this group. I’ll
get papers through for you too; no reason why you shouldn’t get a
brevet. I understand that they’ve handed commissions to a few 31st
men.”

The sergeant said that they had.

For a night, life couldn’t be improved upon.

Next morning, February 12, headquarters “washed out” all flying and
called in the Avros. They say that the sergeant took a lieutenant of
M.P’s apart at high noon of the same day in the public square at
Issoudun. After that, for him, the world fused.

The sergeant’s outfit came back to the States. Air Service wanted to
hold some of its best mechanics. At Mitchel Field they promised the
sergeant and some of his gang that, were they to reenlist for another
stretch, flying would be their dish for sure.

The sergeant took his discharge. Then he was tempted--and fell. He put
up his hand for another hitch. And headquarters shipped him to
Carlstrom Field, Florida.

                 *       *       *       *       *

New classes of cadets came to that field. Even one of the cooks from
the sergeant’s overseas squadron was among them. They were the worst
cadets the sergeant ever saw. But he worked planes for them; and in
turn, headquarters never did put the sergeant on flying status. But the
much abused one continued to mooch some unofficial airwork. So the
months of his one year enlistment dragged by and he came toward the
happy end, the end which was going to be so welcome because he did not
give a good, bad or indifferent damn. And he told his C.O. as much when
that worthy asked him whether he intended to sign up for a third
cruise.

“You’re not talking to me, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said. “For three
years I’ve lived on hope. When I took on this reenlistment, they
promised me, on a stack of Bibles, that I’d fly. And have I?”

Any number of ex-overseas men could answer this.

“But this time you will,” the lieutenant said. “This school has the
ships and men now, and I’ll promise you--”

“Tie that outside, Lieutenant,” the sergeant answered, “I’ve heard it
all before.

“By this time next Monday afternoon, America will have one more
civilian on her hands. And she’s going to collect a mean problem, too.
I’m sore, Lieutenant. I’ve been cheated too often to smile and turn the
other cheek. This deal I’ve had handed me by Air Service smells like a
eucalyptus kitty-- See that guy climbing into that rear cockpit--” the
sergeant pointed to a plane at the deadline--“well, that same jaybird
used to be a bum cook in my outfit overseas. Shane’s his name. All that
feller ever did for American honor was lap up French booze and make
trouble. He was our ace of aces at it, too. Shane and me, Lieutenant,
have been two different kinds of soldiers, but today he’s getting in
official flying time and I’m still begging rides like a raw John
Recruit. Where’s your damn’ justice in that? I’ll answer--out for lunch
with two rags around her eyes! Me, reenlist? In a pig’s eye! Wonder
what’s wrong with that plane.”

The plane into which they had watched Cadet Shane climb had started for
a takeoff, bounced into the air, fluttered a few rods and dropped again
for a hasty landing. It taxied back to where they were standing. It was
one of the sergeant’s ships. At the deadline the instructor, Lieutenant
Black, swung from his front cockpit, removed his goggles and said:

“Wish you’d look this ship over, Sergeant. The controls jam in the air.
Bob Watts was flying it this morning and he had the same trouble.”

“I’ll work her over,” the sergeant promised. He looked at his watch.
“Four o’clock now,” he said. “You won’t want to fly any more today,
Lieutenant. She’ll be jake in the morning.”

“That’s O.K. with me, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Black agreed, and walked
away with the sergeant’s C.O.

Cadet Shane was sore. He had been robbed of his afternoon period and
did not care who knew that he was burned up.

“Damn’ funny you guys can’t keep ships in condition,” he said. “I
haven’t had two hours’ airwork outa this hangar in two weeks.”

“Too damn’ bad about you, Shane,” was all the sympathy the sergeant
extended. “If you’re as rotten a flyer as you were a cook, the field
will be the winner if you never fly.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

For the next hour the sergeant, with a helper, worked the ship that
went wrong in the air. At the end of said time he had located nothing
wrong with the controls. Bob Watts came along during operations and
told his story. Then, just to be on the safe side, the sergeant sent
for the field inspector, Blackie Milander. He came along and demanded--

“Wot’s eatin’ you, kid?”

“This crate, Blackie, was turned in because her controls froze in the
air,” the sergeant said. “I’ve looked her over, and my fair haired
helper here has looked her over, and Lieutenant Watts was on hand and
had his say and look, and we find nothing wrong. The control cables,
all of ’em, are O.K. Not a fray on any of them. The ball socket joint
is jake; and the pulleys are free. Now, you give her the expert eye,
Blackie, and say what’s to be done. Gladly we pass the buck to you and,
if failing, you muff the torch thus thrown, well you’ll get burnt.”

Blackie, working till long after retreat, scratched his head finally
and announced:

“Damned if she ain’t got me stopped! On the ground here, everything’s
free. D’you know what I think, Sergeant?”

“If a thought there be, Blackie, shoot before it burns you out. What do
you guess?”

“I think that Watts and Black are full of hop! There’s nothing wrong
with this pile of wreckage, and I’ll give her a clear bill. Let me O.K.
that flying sheet.”

When the hangars opened in the morning the sergeant’s C.O. was at hand.

“What did you learn about that plane of Black’s?” he wanted to know.
“Anything haywire?”

“Not a thing, Lieutenant,” the sergeant admitted. “What say if you and
I give it a hop right now? See if we can locate any ‘bugs’ in the air.”

“We’ll do that little thing,” the C.O. agreed. “Got a helmet and
goggles I can use?”

While the C.O. waited, and the men started the plane’s motor, the
squadron clerk came to the hangar for the C.O. They talked for a few
minutes, then the C.O. told the sergeant:

“I’ll have to call this flight off for now. There’re some papers for me
to sign. I’ll see you later.”

Fifteen minutes before the first cadet class reported for the nine
o’clock period, Lieutenant Black came to the line. The sergeant told
the lieutenant all that he had not learned.

“But I don’t want to pass the buck too crudely,” the sergeant
concluded. “What’s the matter with us two going up in the thing and
learning what’s to be learned?”

What the sergeant wanted was more airwork. He would have taken his
flying on the tail end of a rocket were no other means offered. The
fact that a ship’s action was in question meant nothing to him. More
than likely the sergeant was glad that nobody had been able to locate
the kink; test flying is always to the liking of a real lover of air.
The betting’s even that the sergeant had planned this moment during the
previous night. As he talked, he talked Black toward the waiting plane.
The instructor was adjusting helmet and goggles, and his silence gave
consent.

“It’s funny,” he finally said, as they waited for the motor man to warm
the engine, “but those controls did jam. I don’t want any of my cadets
to get in dutch through mechanical faults. They’re bad enough without
that. The Lord only knows when I’ll be able to turn any of them loose.
Such an iron fisted bunch of shovel apprentices I’ve never met. They
wouldn’t’ve made good K.P’s. for the wartime _kadets_.

“And these damn’ Jennies have got to be right, Sergeant. As right as
they can be, and if they were twice as right as that, they’d still be
all wrong. Climb in and we’ll take a turn of the field.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

While they were adjusting the safety belts, Cadet Shane came running
along the line of hangars. He scrambled aboard Black’s lower wing and
talked into the instructor’s left ear. Black throttled his motor low,
pushed back his goggles, thought for half a minute, studied his
instrument board dials, shook and kicked his controls, then turned to
the man in the rear seat and said:

“Sergeant, I’m going to give the cadet his hop. These controls seem to
be O.K. Chances are, there was nothing wrong with them.

“Jump out, Sergeant, and I’ll let you know how they act. Watch my first
turn of the field and see how I’m getting along. Climb in, Shane! Let’s
get going!”

The sergeant went back to the hangar. He wasn’t talking to anybody, for
the time being, but he hurled an open can of red paint the length of
the big building and said to a few idle privates--

“Clean that up!”

Then, where a group of flying cadets were busily rolling two small
cubes on a work bench, the sergeant came down in hot wrath, threw the
harmless squares through the skylight and yelled--

“Get to hell out of this hangar and stay out!”

After that the sergeant went out, retrieved the dice and reestablished
the game. He told the cadets that he was sore about something but could
not recall just what. After sending the privates off to goldbrick in
the post exchange, the sergeant mopped up the paint.

Master Sergeant Sciples, in charge of the hangar, came along to start
the day. Sciples was spending this enlistment on the construction of
certain souvenirs. And at no time did he allow hangar work to cut in on
his program. He was an easy boss. Sciples looked at his sergeant rigger
and came out in language that lay people erroneously suppose is solely
characteristic of the Marine Corps. Here and there, without half
trying, Master Sergeant Sciples could extemporize in a manner that
would make the Marine Corps’ glossary look like a first reader for
morons. Sciples’ language, to say the least, was able.

“Sergeant,” he said, “one look at you, you tells me that you haven’t
had your morning flight. When will you forget this flying stuff and put
your mind on next week’s debut into the outer world? Why, you-- Snap
into it and get wise!”

“But, Sciples,” the sergeant said. “It’s the same old story. The same
thing that I’ve been up against for three years. And it makes me mad,
Sciples. Hell, if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never lose this desire
to fly. It’s different with you, you old decrepit”--the sergeant was
never entirely tongue tied himself--“You don’t care about flying. The
bug’s never grazed upon you. You don’t know the hell and pain and
longing that an egg like me faces, Sciples. Why, Sciples, this thing of
giving a right arm for something is nothing. I’d do another stretch in
this damn’ Army if I really thought that I’d aviate. And that is what I
call bravery.”

“Crazy as a loon!” Sciples exclaimed. “Why you--you don’t know enough
to--”

“And this was the most cruel thrust of all, Sciples,” the sergeant went
on, “this thing that came off half an hour ago, why--” The hangar’s
telephone rang, and Sciples, with the sergeant still talking, strolled
toward the instrument--“why, there I was all set to take off with
Black. Had myself nicely planted in the rear seat, and who comes out
and robs me but my ex-cook, that rotten cook, Shane, and--” There were
tears in the thick voice.

For a minute Sciples talked over the line. In the end he said, “Well
that’s hell,” and hung up.

“What’s hell?” the sergeant forgot his own troubles long enough to ask.

“Cadet Shane,” Master Sergeant Sciples said, “Shane, the man who
unseated you, Shane and Black spun into the ground ten miles from here.
They both burned to death.”


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 15, 1928
issue of Adventure magazine.]