Shortridge High School - Annual Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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LIGHTNING watched the mail packed into the plane, adjusted his chute, and climbed into the cock-pit. Gas on, switch off, choke, called the mechanic, as he stepped up to start the engine. Gas on, switch off, choke, obediently echoed MacArthur, preparatory to the turning of the propellor. Contact, yelled the mechanic. Contact, echoed MacArthur. The mechanic swung the propellor, backed away, and the motor broke into its deafening roar. A moment to Warm up, and the ship taxied down the field, turned, headed into the Wind, and took oiT. As the ship cleared the ground, Mac leaned from the cockpit, and waving his hand to his companions below, disappeared into the storm, only the pin-points of light on his wing-tips and the hum of his motor testifying to the plane's close presence. For a full minute Blasengym stood watching the departing ship. His absorption was noticeable, for it was not often that the sullen-tempered observer took such interest in the routine of the airport. In a trance? gibed one of the men. But Joe gave no explanation. Instead he climbed eagerly up to the tower and there gazed long and gloatingly in the direction of the disappearing plane. Almost at once, after losing sight of the field, MacArthur realized, to his horrified surprise, that the storm had not lessened its fury. It had actually increased. Occasional lightning fiashes to the left grew closer and closer, until he found it diflicult to keep his plane nose first. Then a huge gust grabbed his ship and, nearly tearing the stick from his hand, sent him into a deadly spin! With all his skill and strength he strove to right her, but the wind had grown into a gigantic maniac whose purpose was annihilation. He found himself forced lower and lower by this demon of the elements, losing precious altitude with each repeated attack, until his altimeter registered zero-the airman's Waterloo! f, . wfzgn

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LIGHTNING IGHTTIME, and pitch black! The worst storm of the year hovered threateningly over Lunken Air- port. Rain and wind combined savagely to tear the wind-sock from its support, to rip open the hangar doors, and to rock the oflice from its foundation. The gale viciously attacked the steel framework of the weather tower and shrilled an unpleasant accompaniment to its forceful actions. High in the tower the weather observer sat, mechanically recording wind-velocity and temp- erature, charting the antics of the storm. A bell rang, announcing to the observer that a V report was about to be broadcast from the Farm- ' ingdale weather station, twenty miles to the left of the air-line. An alert business-like Voice warned of the approach of a near tornado at portentous speed. The observer, again mechanically per- forming his duty, recorded this additional storm data. All at once his body stiffened, as with the stirring of an impulse, as his ear caught the familiar roar of an engine and the sound like a thousand electric fans. It was the arrival of the 10:40 mail-plane. Ralph MacArthur, pilot, was circling the field. Almost immediately the rain-swept terrain was Hooded with brilliant light. The plane came into view, settled to the ground like a weary bird, taxied to the hangar, and, like a bird, came to rest. Men, encased in heavy water-proofs, rushed out from the office into the gale to serve the pilot and plane. How's the weather been up there, Mac? It was Big Tim Kelly, the boss, yelling against the roar of the wind and rain. A cumbersomely clad figure pulled its huge bulk out of the cockpit and answered, with a true pilot's prejudice for his beloved air, Not as bad up as it is down. Old Jupe Pluvius seems to be calming himself a bit. Can you verify that, Joe? The Joe addressed was Joe Blasengym, who was just climbing down from his observations and recordings in the tower. Yep, was the slow, sullen, yet calculating, reply. Farmingdale re- ports the wind and rain dying there and everything clear. You ought to have good weather your next hop. Falsifying a weather report! Sending Ralph to death or serious injury! What could account for such a malicious impulse? Fresh in Joe's mind rankled the memory of his late threshing at Ralph's brawny hands when the latter had found Joe taking spare parts. No thoughtful consideration had been given to the fact that the thresh- ing was a kindly substitute for the report which would have certainly cost Joe his job. had Ralph chosen to report it. J oe's type was one that failed to appreciate this kind of a favor. To him the ignominy of a threshing was something to be avenged. Humiliation and thwarted purpose had bred in him an insane desire to harm Ralph MacArthur. He was obsessed with the idea, and this night's storm was presenting a peculiar opportun- ity for his treacherous purpose. With the motor gassed and oiled, propellor and controls checked, the ship was pronounced ready for its next hop against the storm. Ralph

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LIGHTNING Back at Lunken Airport, amidst the nucleus of the storm which was dealing so disastrously with MacArthur, Blasengym sat in the storm- rocked tower, crazily delighted with the fury of the storm and his own treachery, engrossed' in morbid contemplation, almost trance-like, of the fate he had manipulated for MacArthur, scarcely conscious of the light- ning, the monstrous peal of the thunder, the sway of the tower to the evil will of the wind. I Thus it was without warning that there came the final blinding flash, striking from the heavens, and claiming the life of Joe Blasengym who went down with the crumpling tower. To MacArthur, resigned to death in the storm, it was the very same blinding flash, striking from the heavens, which brought ironic justice to Joe, that brought salvation to him in the vivid second that it warningly flood-lighted an isolated church spire in his immediate path. A timely wrench back on the stick zoomed the plane to safety. Unaware of the twist of Fate the lightning had controlled, and breath- ing a prayer of gratitude, MacArthur gallantly saluted the retreating storm. NIGHT RIDE Our little car speeds through the night, The wind blows back 'our hairg Speed and the wind are one delight, A cool dark ride, heads bare! The black and soft night atmosphere Must soothe each troubled breastg Anxiety, and troubled fear, And wrath are all at rest. The twin headlights before us spread A narrow way of light, All golden is the path ahead As we speed through the night. -Jean Coverdill