Landscape: Memory by Matthew Stadler, Columbia University. Writing Division Page A
Book: Landscape: Memory by Matthew Stadler, Columbia University. Writing Division
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blue expanse at a height of 2,000 feet, when the monoplane collapsed on the descent. Quivering for a fraction of an instant like a wounded bird, the machine, shrouded in flame and vapor, hurtled from aloft as a dead weight.
In that fraction of a moment it was apparent that Beachey, still exerting the nerve that made him famous, endeavored to direct his course for the bay. But the Taube was beyond human control.
The litter of the wreckage shot into the water between the transports Logan and Crook lying at the Fort Mason government piers. Strapped in the aluminum body of the car, Beachey disappeared beneath the waves. When the rescuers arrived a moment later there was hardly a ripple on the surface. Only a small piece of the wooden frame floated to mark the spot where the hero of the air had gone to his doom.
Just what caused the harrowing tragedy is a matter of supposition. Even experts and Beachey's mechanicians cannot definitely account for the disaster. The monoplane was faster than anything that the daring aviator had ever piloted and of a type with which he was not so familiar as with the biplane in which he had made over a thousand loops.
In looping the loop a few minutes before Beachey was evidently in complete control of the machine and also as he made the upside-down flight. It was as he straightened out for the perpendicular dive to the green that the new monoplane failed him. He had often dipped from as great a height in his biplane, but the double wings had withstood the tremendous pressure that was now exerted on the single fan of the Taube. The propeller's revolutions were reduced, for it could be plainly seen turning over.
Within 500 feet of the earth the wings could no longer hold. They wobbled and closed about the little car, from which trailed a wake of fire and smoke.
"Oh, God! Beachey is gone!" was the cry that came from thousands of blue trembling lips.
For a moment that vast ashen-faced throng stood frozen with terror.
Then hope and panic gripped them alike. Beachey, their hero, the youth who had convinced others of his often-expressed confidence that he would never be killed in his "game," they thought could not have been vanquished by the elements to which he was so closely attuned.
Mumbling hysterically, they moved in a great mass in the direction where the machine had disappeared behind the outer buildings.
"Maybe he'll land in the water! Beachey can't be killed!" were now the cries as the throng rushed toward the eastern fence. Even the guards, white-faced too, could not stem that sympathetic tide. Thousands poured through the work gates, tripping and stumbling, before the exposition police mastered the situation.
But the hope was in vain. Around the transport wharves the crowd swarmed, breathless, only to watch the grapplers and divers pry into the secret of that hideous sight concealed by the bright, placid waves.
Beachey, "the daredevil of the air," had paid the penalty for his valor.
A thrilling account, as one should expect from a first-class newspaper. And though I was actually there to witness this tragic plunge, I find my memory is pale in comparison. The actuality was so impossibly indistinct, filled with disjointed actions and bad smells. I was more aware then of the uncomfortable fit of my shoes than the "hope and panic" that gripped us.
They'll be showing films of the crash at the cinema starting tomorrow and that is what I want to see. It's so much easier to focus one's attention in a theater, and the view is better.
Mr. Taqdir, with whom Mother and Duncan and I saw the fatal crash, anticipated my incomprehension on the spot. As the crowd pushed and shoved us along through the gates, he gathered us all into his big arms and urged us to face the tragedy bravely.
"We cannot be passing it over with eyes closed," he announced resolutely. "Face this now, each of us." And we shuffled forward through the frozen throng to peer into the unchanged waters of the bay, looking, I
In that fraction of a moment it was apparent that Beachey, still exerting the nerve that made him famous, endeavored to direct his course for the bay. But the Taube was beyond human control.
The litter of the wreckage shot into the water between the transports Logan and Crook lying at the Fort Mason government piers. Strapped in the aluminum body of the car, Beachey disappeared beneath the waves. When the rescuers arrived a moment later there was hardly a ripple on the surface. Only a small piece of the wooden frame floated to mark the spot where the hero of the air had gone to his doom.
Just what caused the harrowing tragedy is a matter of supposition. Even experts and Beachey's mechanicians cannot definitely account for the disaster. The monoplane was faster than anything that the daring aviator had ever piloted and of a type with which he was not so familiar as with the biplane in which he had made over a thousand loops.
In looping the loop a few minutes before Beachey was evidently in complete control of the machine and also as he made the upside-down flight. It was as he straightened out for the perpendicular dive to the green that the new monoplane failed him. He had often dipped from as great a height in his biplane, but the double wings had withstood the tremendous pressure that was now exerted on the single fan of the Taube. The propeller's revolutions were reduced, for it could be plainly seen turning over.
Within 500 feet of the earth the wings could no longer hold. They wobbled and closed about the little car, from which trailed a wake of fire and smoke.
"Oh, God! Beachey is gone!" was the cry that came from thousands of blue trembling lips.
For a moment that vast ashen-faced throng stood frozen with terror.
Then hope and panic gripped them alike. Beachey, their hero, the youth who had convinced others of his often-expressed confidence that he would never be killed in his "game," they thought could not have been vanquished by the elements to which he was so closely attuned.
Mumbling hysterically, they moved in a great mass in the direction where the machine had disappeared behind the outer buildings.
"Maybe he'll land in the water! Beachey can't be killed!" were now the cries as the throng rushed toward the eastern fence. Even the guards, white-faced too, could not stem that sympathetic tide. Thousands poured through the work gates, tripping and stumbling, before the exposition police mastered the situation.
But the hope was in vain. Around the transport wharves the crowd swarmed, breathless, only to watch the grapplers and divers pry into the secret of that hideous sight concealed by the bright, placid waves.
Beachey, "the daredevil of the air," had paid the penalty for his valor.
A thrilling account, as one should expect from a first-class newspaper. And though I was actually there to witness this tragic plunge, I find my memory is pale in comparison. The actuality was so impossibly indistinct, filled with disjointed actions and bad smells. I was more aware then of the uncomfortable fit of my shoes than the "hope and panic" that gripped us.
They'll be showing films of the crash at the cinema starting tomorrow and that is what I want to see. It's so much easier to focus one's attention in a theater, and the view is better.
Mr. Taqdir, with whom Mother and Duncan and I saw the fatal crash, anticipated my incomprehension on the spot. As the crowd pushed and shoved us along through the gates, he gathered us all into his big arms and urged us to face the tragedy bravely.
"We cannot be passing it over with eyes closed," he announced resolutely. "Face this now, each of us." And we shuffled forward through the frozen throng to peer into the unchanged waters of the bay, looking, I
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