His head did not move and he had no guidance of his plane.
Someone, however, pulled him into position; the squadron straightened and flew toward the dawn. Not only the stars now gave direction; the east evidenced itself with a pallid promise of light. Eight machines composed the squadron in which I flew—eight monoplanes proceeding by pairs; for we held no real squadron formation. In front of me, flew two machines—the one which had nearly hit me and another which seemed to control it. Behind me was a machine which, I felt, piloted me. On my right, flew two similar pairs.
Four radio-controlled machines, four manpiloted monoplanes composed our squadron. At a distance to my left, and too dimly seen to be counted, flew another formation; and we all flew fast. The early morning lights of New Jersey towns and cities twinkled below us and before the east paled grey we picked up the glow of New York and passed it southward, putting out over the sea and holding, on our left, Long Island.
We were flying, relative to the air, five miles
