Pilot's Death

Jaunty, cocksure, well-muffled and goggled, Carey Pridham, 29, married, strode over to his Pitcairn Super-Mailwing at Newark, N. J. airport an early morning last week. He opened the mail compartment, chucked in his load of mail, and climbed into the pilot's seat. The Wright Whirlwind, nicely warmed up, was flipping the prop over slowly. The ship trembled in its wheel chocks. He opened up the motor to recheck the steady drone of power that was to carry him to Boston. Mechanically everything was fine. The ship had had its regular inspection the night before. A perfect trip depended solely on the pilot himself. Mechanics hauled away the chocks. Pridham taxied to the end of the field, roared down the takeoff strip and was off in the fast increasing light--for his last trip. One hour later, by the dawn's early light, he was approaching the Hartford aerodrome, Brainard Airport, at the edge of the Connecticut River. He tipped the nose of his plane to the field, left his motor open. Two observers watched him, amazed that he was going into a needless power dive. Below him, in a little one-story observation shack, with a platform on the roof, should have been the night-watchman. Pridham dove his Pitcairn to zoom over it. The observers presumed that he intended to rouse the watchman with the snarl of his motor. He misjudged his distance by inches. His wing ripped off the platform, the plane out of control hurtled about 100 feet to the Connecticut River and landed in four feet of water, upside down. When the observers extricated him he, the jaunty, cocksure pilot of the hour before, was dead.

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