Talking Screen (Sep-Oct 1930)

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Last of The Squadron of Death wrong — a pilot blinded by a late afternoon sun is the, best guess — and the two craft collided in mid-air, burst into flames and sent the charred bodies of eleven men to watery graves. Director Hawkes was among them. That is why Dick will always insist that he sent his buddies down. He contends that he should have suggested that Hawkes postpone the flight a few days until the Paramount task had been completed. NINE years of supplying hair-raising stunts for pictures — jobs that ran the gamut of the spectacular and perilous, from jumping from blazing buildings and jagged cliffs to parachute leaps, changes from plane to plane and actual crashes. Nine years of watching his friends in the profession pay with their lives have failed to singe the devil-may-care spirit that keeps him in the game. Offers of executive posts with transcontinental air lines or experimental positions with aircraft manufacturers have come to him, but they lack the appeal. Money means little to Dick Grace. When the Caddo Company organized a force of forty pilots for the battle sequences of Hell's Angels, Dick was in a hospital recuperating from serious injuries. "Well, I guess I can't be in on them all," was his comment at the time. But when this $4,000,000 picture was in its final stages, the company announced that the last air shot was being held up because the director could find no flyer willing to crash a giant Gotha bomber — an unruly craft — from clouds to earth in flames. IT'S ONLY a publicity stunt, but it's a nasty slam at us fellows," Dick said to me at the time. "I want to call their bluff, i ll bet my ten thousand dollar government life insurance policy against ten dollars that 1 can do it and come out alive." It was a sponing proposition on Dick's part because $2,500 is the regular price for a crack-up job. But the bet remained untouched. "We found a man last night," was the reply I got from the producers. "Anyhow, we don't expect the pilot to be killed." The pilot, apparently under secret contract throughout the press agent's attempt to build up the stunt, took to his parachute as the big ship went into its dive several thousand feet up. But a mechanic, riding in the rear of the fuselage to shoot off the smoke bombs, never had a chance. His body was found in the flaming wreckage. And Dick had been willing to do both the flying and smoke-shooting for ten dollars! AIRPLANE crashes — the intentional ones ^ that stir theatre-goers as the pictures unfold on the screen — are costly affairs at best. A miss is as good as a mile. That is why Dick has reigned as king of the crashers ever since his friend Omar Locklear, first of the film skydevils, went into a fatal spin while making a scene five years ago. A crashing plane must be landed on a designated spot, so that ground cameras, set {Continued from page 23} up and waiting a few feet away, can record the incident. Otherwise, it is lost. Directors must consider the cost of the plane. Its wreckage is worthless. They must consider the cost of the pilot — and the added cost in case he is killed. They must consider lost footage. But they know Dick never has "let them down," even though hitting the spot meant serious injuries to himself. "How do you want it?" Dick inquires when he is engaged for a tumble. "One wing off, two wings off, nose dug in the ground, or the ship on its back.'" Then he spends days testing the plane, weakening certain spots, strengthening others, that the final splash will be more spectacular. THE day set for the crack-up comes, and he again goes to the director. "Where do you want her.-'"' he will ask, for he knows he must land a certain distance from the camera. The director points out the spot. " O. K.,"' says Dick as he strolls to the designated place and spreads his handkerchief on the ground. That is his target — the target he watches as he goes into the dive. And Dick generally hits the bit of white linen. Never has be landed more than five feet from it. Dick is only thirty years old, yet he is the veteran of this crashing game in Hollywood. He also is a veteran of the World War, having seen active air service on both the French and Italian fronts. How come he got into the Navy flying corps at the age of seventeen? Dick did what hundreds of other American youngsters did upon their country's entry into the conflict. He lied about his age. Dick's parents reared him to be a lawyer, his father having served for many years as chief justice of the North Dakota Supreme Court. The summer he graduated from high school at the age of sixteen he toured the mid-Western county fairs as aide to an exballoonist, flying one of the old type pusher planes. ODD jobs over a period of weeks brought him enough wealth with which to purchase the materials for a contraption that somewhat resembled the present day gliders. The empty hayloft of a deserted barn was his workshop. Finally, he was ready for the trial flight. Hauling the glider to the roof of the barn, he climbed in and pushed off. That was the last he remembered that day. Wlien he came to in his own bed, his mother sobbing at his side and a pihysician hovering nearby, he discovered that his experiment had failed at a cost of a broken arm. He had been in Hollywood for several years and had performed scores of daring feats, when he was called upon for what he considered was to be his big adventure. He had crashed planes before — both intentionally and unintentionally. The studios knew his ability — and his grit. That is why Direaor "Billy" Wellman, himself a world war flyer, contracted with him to do three crack-ups in Wrings. DICK travelled to Texas with the Wings company — Buddy Rogers, Gary Cooper, Dick Arlen, Clara Bow, Mary Brian, Jobyna, Ralston and hundreds of bit players and extras. He made ready the three planes in his own way. He crashed the first — and came through it with a few cuts and bruises. Three weeks later, he crashed the second. That was when his neck was broken. The eight months in hospitals that followed prevented him from doing the third; When the cast eventually was removed from his throat and he was released from a Hollywood hospital to which he had been removed from the army base at Houston, both army and private surgeons warned him that he must never fly again. "The slightest jar on your neck will kill you, " they told him. Less than a month had passed before he was on his way to Honolulu with a plane in which he hoped to fly from the islands to Los Angeles. He took off, but the gasoline load was too heavy for the craft and he crashed into a tree top. And it wasn't long before he was back in Hollywood, once more the star plane-smasher for the movie companies. WHEN First National was preparing to film Lilac Time, starring Colleen Moore, Dick was told to form a squadron, with himself as commander, to work for twelve weeks. "Pick your own boys," they said. He gathered around him fellows with whom he had worked in previous pictures. Ross Cooke was selected by Dick as his chief lieutenant, to assume charge in case the leader fell. The others were Clement Phillips, Charles Stoffer, Frank Baker, B. M. Spencer, Lonnie Hay and E. D. Baxter. Bill Crossan was signed as the relief pilot. On the night before the first flight, they sat about their quarters on location miles from home, playing cards and reminiscing. Dick suggested that they form a permanent organization that would be held together for other pictures. Ross Cooke went farther. He thought they should have a code of ethics and an emblem — and a name. The vote was unamimous for "The Squadron of Death. The buzzard was seleaed as the insignia. MEMBERS were to be governed by four rules: 1 — Live right, do right. 2 — Go where the leader commands. 3 — Die in the cockpit. 4 — No vacancy in the ranks ever to be filled. Ross Cooke produced a fountain pen and wrote the code on a sheet of paper. Then he passed it around and all affixed their signatures. It was agreed that this original and autographed copy would become the heritage of the last surviving member. That was the birth of Hollywood's famous Squadron of Death. Now Dick — the last survivor — is in possession of the autographed chart — the code written with the pen and by the hand of Ross Cooke. 76