Flight of the Phoenix Read Online Free Page A

"Halloo! We're here to refuel."
    The men nodded and began talking among themselves in a strange language. Two hurried into the shack, then came back out carrying a ladder and a huge funnel. The others had already reached the plane and began unloading fuel cans from the cargo hold.
    "They seem to know just what to do," Nate said.
    "Of course they do. They refuel the airmail service that runs from London to Budapest. They're old hands at this."
    Nate watched as a man climbed up the ladder and began pouring the fuel into the airplane's fuselage through the large funnel. The smell of petrol filled the air.
    "I'm going to catch a quick wink while they fill the plane," Aunt Phil said. "They've plenty of cots in there, so you're welcome to do the same. Or wander around and explore a bit, whatever you'd prefer." With that, Aunt Phil disappeared into the shack.
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    The first thing Nate did was go find some privacy behind the nearby bushes. When he returned, three of the men were still refueling the plane, but the rest had returned to their fire. He wasn't sure what to do, so he wandered over toward them, feeling shy. They stopped talking when he drew close. One of them pointed to his hair, then nudged the man next to him. The other man nodded and smiled. "Flutt," he said, and they all laughed. But it was a friendly laugh, so Nate smiled back.
    Someone shoved a bowl of hot stew into his hand. Goulash, they called it. As Nate wolfed it down, one of the men took out a flutelike instrument and began to play softly.
    When Nate was done, he thanked the men and went inside the shack. He was surprised at how tired he was, since he'd slept most of the flight over. He fumbled around until he found an empty cot. He settled under the blanket, warm and full with the strange music sounding softly in his ears. Maybe travel wouldn't be that bad after all.
    ***
    The next morning, they were back in the plane and on their way before the sun had risen. Things quickly returned to the
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    bone-rattling monotony of the day before. Nate hunched down to stay as warm as possible.
    Some time later, Aunt Phil twisted around in her seat. "Something's wrong with the propeller," she called back to him. "I think some debris has gotten tangled up in it. We need to remove whatever it is before the prop stops altogether."
    Nate's chest suddenly felt hollow.
    "Feel like stretching your legs?" she yelled.
    Before Nate could ask what that had to do with the propeller, she shoved a piece of rope at him. "Here. Slip this around your waist."
    Wrenching around in the cramped seat, Nate did as he was told.
    "There," Aunt Phil yelled when he had it secure. "Now take these and you're all set." She thrust a pair of leather gloves at him. She kept talking as he tugged them on. "I'll slow her down so you can climb out onto the wing and make your way to the propeller. But if I have to slow down too much, we'll stall. So be quick."
    Nate looked at her in disbelief. Surely she didn't mean for him to--
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    "Hurry, Nate! I don't want the prop to give up altogether! Then we'll stall for sure."
    Did she mean for him to crawl out onto the nose of the plane to fix the problem? He felt a sharp yank at the rope around his waist. "Get moving!"
    Apparently, she did. Very glad for the rope that anchored him to the plane, Nate stood up. Struggling to keep his balance, he crawled out of the cockpit and lowered his feet over the side until they touched the wing. Gripping the side of the plane for dear life, he shuffled his feet along the wing, inching closer to the propeller. The plane bucked and dipped, adjusting to his shifting weight. Even with the slower speed, the wind screamed past him, tugging at his shirt, his helmet, his body, trying to dislodge him from his wobbly perch. His heart hammering in his chest, Nate kept his eyes glued to the nose of the plane and tried not to think about how far down the ground was.
    His body hugged the side of the plane as he scooched his way forward. When