We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
6
NEWSREEL MAN
peered out to check the path of the ship. A fleet of motorcycles came racing down the field, and above the din of their multiple exhausts we could hear the thunderous roar of the waiting thousands. The motor cops circled us, forming a cordon to ward off enthusiastic greeters. One of the officers noticed that besides protecting the Winnie Mae, he and his companions were also giving one newsreel outfit a break. “How did you get out here?” he barked. “Scram before I wreck your camera.” Just a nice guy. The cameraman’s answer was typical: “How’ve ya been?” By this time the crowd had descended upon the plane, and Post was forced to cut his switch. Thousands of w’ell wishers crowded around the cockpit to get a first glimpse of the two intrepid men.
Then the storm broke. Cops started to lam people over the head with clubs. They tugged and pulled innocent bystanders into the melee. Naturally the spectators resisted. Instead of minding their business and guarding the ship, the officers started a first-rate brawl. One of our aids lit a flare well back from the ship, and he was quite capable of handling it, but some dopey individual snatched it out of his hand and tossed it without regard for its destination. It landed on top of a car, the owner in turn heaved it wildly, and this time it rolled almost under the wing of the ship. Law and order! Len Hammond, another newsreel man, carrying a “mike,” fought beside me in an effort to reach Post’s side for a few words. The pilot obliged as best he could, and that was all we expected. Someone hit me a wallop over the head, and another started to wrench the microphone from my hand. I hope he liked the two-hundred-volt shock he got for his pains. My feet were all tangled up in a mess of cable, and hot sparks from a flare dropped down my neck.
Despite my troubles I could not help laughing at poor Floyd Gibbons. Shirt torn, necktie twisted, and dripping w'et from the heat of a thousand straining bodies, he was taking it with a grin. Besides trying to introduce the fliers over a portable microphone to the listeners of a nation-wide network, he was shouting for water. That was all Wiley Post was interested in. “Oh, boy, is there a mob here!” exclaimed Gibbons to his radio audience, then in the next breath to the milling crowd: “Water! Someone get this poor man a glass of water!” I’ve often wondered if Post ever got that drink. Everyone was strain