The Mad Major

Daredevils they were, and their countries vowed never to forget them. For four years of World War I, they got 100 m.p.h. out of tin-Lizzie aircraft that bucked like hiccuping buzzards, flying by the seat of their pants, tossing bombs like baseball pitches, extending the realm of human conflict to the third and last element: the air.

Many flew to their deaths, and their names became aviation's legends: Germany's Baron Manfred von Richthofen, who shot down 80 foemen, Ireland's "Mick" Mannock (73 kills), U.S.'s Raoul Lufbery (17 kills). Other aces survived to make their marks on the brave new world: Eastern Air Lines President Eddie Rickenbacker (26), "Billy" Bishop (72), World War II commander of the Royal Canadian Air Force, France's Rene Fonck (75), who collaborated with Vichy, Hermann Goring (22), a celebrated suicide.

Britain's "Mad Major," who shot down 15 German planes, was one of the lucky ones. His real name was Christopher Draper, and he earned his sobriquet by hedgehopping across no man's land to pepper the German trenches with bullets from a .303 rifle, his Webley revolver, and anything else he could lay hands on.

Peace brought only boredom to the Mad Major's sort, and as he aged, he drifted to bit playing on the London stage, stunt flying in an aerial circus. He even peddled hacksaw blades at an Ideal Homes Exhibition.

In the '305, adrift and disgruntled, the Mad Major developed a crush on Adolf Hitler and peddled Nazi propaganda in England. Later he repented and served, a tired old retread, in the Royal Navy. Last week, lonely, broke and 61, he made something of a comeback.

Round the Bend. In a rented, 100-h.p. Auster monoplane scarcely bigger than his World War I Sopwith Camel, the Mad Major climbed to 500 ft. over the City of London. It was lunch time, and, as he could see through the upper frames of his bifocals, Thameside was black with people. Suddenly he sent the little silver Auster hurtling out of the sun, straight for Blackfriars Bridge. Girls screamed, bowler hats ducked, but, with inches to spare, the Mad Major leveled out, missed Blackfriars, and with wheels brushing the water, skimmed upstream towards Waterloo Bridge. Between the water's surface and Waterloo's arches at low tide there is a bare 50 ft. of clearance, but the Mad Major never faltered. Like a darting kingfisher, his Auster shot under Waterloo's central arch. The Mad Major rounded the bend that takes the Thames toward Westminster. He jinked past a river steamer, circled the county-council hall and swooshed under Westminster Bridge (clearance: 40 ft.), within yards of New Scotland Yard. Next came Lambeth Bridge (clearance: 43 ft.), then Vauxhall, Chelsea, Albert and Battersea Bridges. Not one is 50 ft. above the water yet the Mad Major flew his plane under arch after arch at 90 m.p.h.

Spectacular Job-Hunt. Of 18 bridges in the heart of London, the Mad Major had shot 15, missing Hungerford, Barnes and Kew because "the rising currents were tricky . . . and I didn't want to take any risks." Then he flew back to the Herts & Essex Airplane Club and stepped out on to the tarmac, a splendid, grey-haired figure (6 ft. 2 in.) in blue blazer and the wings of the Royal Aero Club. "I feel absolutely marvelous, marvelous," he said, ticking off the bridges as if they were fallen Fokkers.

An awed London bobby was waiting when the Mad Major got home to his Bloomsbury basement flat. So was the London press corps, as the major had intended. "I did it for the publicity," he confessed disarmingly. "For 14 months I have been out of a job, and I'm broke. I wanted to prove that I am still fit, useful and worth employing." There were four job offers in no time, but before accepting any, the police advised the major to drop in at the local station for a little chat. "They tell me I can be jailed [possibly for six months]," said the major, as if remembering that Napoleon, too, had written his memoirs in captivity. "It was my last-ever flight," he said. "I meant it as a spectacular swansong."

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