The gasoline truck had arrived and after servicing the ship I took off again and headed west. I had no place in mind for the next stop and intended to be governed by my fuel supply in picking the next field.
The sky was overcast with numerous local storms. I had brought along a compass, but had failed to install it on the instrument board, and it was of little use in a suitcase out of reach. The boundary lines in the south do not run north and south, east and west as they do in the Northern states but curve and bend in every conceivable direction, being located by natural landmarks rather than meridians and parallels. I was flying by a map of the entire United States, with each state relatively small.
I left Meridian and started in the direction of Texas, cutting across country with no regard for roads or railways. For a time during the first hour I was not sure of my location on the map, but soon passed over a railway intersection which appeared to be in the proper place and satisfied me about my position. Then the territory became wilder and again I saw no checkpoints. The storm areas were more numerous and the possible landing fields farther apart, until near the end of the second hour I decided to land in the first available field to locate my position and take on more fuel. It required nearly thirty more minutes to find a place in which a plane could land and take off with any degree of safety, and after circling the field several times to make sure it was hard and contained no obstacles, I landed in one corner, rolled down a hillside, taxied over a short level stretch, and came to rest halfway up the slope on the far side of the field.
A storm was approaching rapidly and I taxied back towards the fence corner at rather high speed. Suddenly I saw a ditch directly in front of me and an instant later heard the crash of splintering wood as the landing gear dropped down and the propeller came in contact with the ground. The tail of the plane rose up in the air, turned almost completely over, then settled back to about a forty-five degree angle. My first “crack-up”!
I climbed out of the cockpit and surveyed the machine. Actually the only damage done was to the propeller, and although the wings and fuselage were covered with mud, no other part of the plane showed any marked signs of strain. I had taxied back about thirty feet east of the landing tracks and had struck the end of a grass-covered ditch. Had I been ten feet farther over, the accident would never have happened. The usual crowd was assembling, as the impact of the “prop” with the ground had been heard in all of the neighboring fields and an airplane was a rare sight in those parts.
They informed me that I was halfway between Maben and Mathiston, Mississippi, and that I had flown one hundred and twenty-five miles north instead of west.
When enough men had assembled we lifted the plane out of the ditch, pushed it over to a group of pine trees and tied it down to two of the trees. After removing all loose equipment I rode into Maben with one of the storekeepers who had locked up his business when he heard about the landing of the plane.
I wired Wyche at Americus to ship me one of the two propellers I had purchased before leaving, then engaged a room at the old Southern Hotel.
While waiting for the propeller I had extracted promises from half a dozen citizens to ride at five dollars each. This would about cover the cost of the “prop,” as well as my expenses while waiting for it to arrive. When it did come I put it on the shaft between showers, with the assistance of most of Maben and Mathiston. I gave the plane a test flight and announced that I was ready to carry passengers when it was not raining too hard.
The Mississippians who were so anxious to fly when the propeller was broken immediately started a contest in etiquette. Each and every one was quite willing to let someone else be first and it required psychology, diplomacy, and ridicule before the first passenger climbed into the cockpit. I taxied over to the far corner of the field, instructed my passenger how to hold the throttle back to keep the ship from taking off, and lifted the tail around in order to gain every available foot of space for the takeoff.
The first man was so audibly pleased with his ride that the others forgot their manners of a few minutes before and began arguing about who was to be next.
That afternoon a group of whites chipped in fifty cents apiece to give one of the negroes a hop, provided, as they put it, I would do a few “flip flops” with him. The negro decided upon was perfectly willing and confident up to the time when he was instructed to get in; even then he gamely climbed into the cockpit, assuring all of his clan that he would wave his red bandana handkerchief over the side of the cockpit during the entire flight in order to show them that he was still unafraid.
After reaching the corner of the field I instructed him, as I had the previous passengers, to hold the throttle back while I was lifting the tail around. When I climbed back in my cockpit I told him to let go and opened the throttle to take off. We had gone about fifty yards when it suddenly occurred to him that the ship was moving and that the handle he was to hold on to was not where it should be. He had apparently forgotten everything but that
