Mr. Montee

Hospital attendants in San Antonio, Tex., smiled pityingly at an elderly gentleman whose two broken ribs and fractured collarbone they were plastering last week. He had been run down by a motorcycle --another one of these dizzy old jaywalkers, they supposed. But when they finished their ministrations, the hospital folk had a shock. The patient felt his casts, winced a bit, straightened his good shoulder and announced that he would leave town at once as he had entered it, by airplane. He was on his way from Los Angeles to Mitchell Field, N. Y., and could not delay longer, he said. Doctors expostulated, bystanders said, "Teh, tch!" The elderly gentleman paid no attention, clambered into his plane, flew to Mitchell Field.

He was one James W. Montee, 64, of Los Angeles, "oldest commercial pilot in the U. S." Not until his 60th birthday did he make his first solo flight, but for six years prior he had ridden in planes over California to point out that great state's scenic wonders to tourists. His three sons are commercial pilots, one of them having won a transcontinental race in a plane built entirely by his parent.

Mr. Montee had begged a plane of Major General Mason M. Patrick, Army air chief. He had obtained his request and been assigned Lieut. Donald Fritch to fly with him as pilot. Lieutenant Fritch, of course, did much of the actual operating of their craft, but admiration echoed for the battered elderly gentleman who stepped out on Mitchell Field and asked the way to a hospital.

A man like that, no longer supple of bone, was taking: long chances, flying with fractures. His hosts led him to a Long Island hospital. There Mr. Montee thanked them, and asked for pen, ink, paper. He would let doctors examine his breakage, yes, but first he must write to Air Chief Patrick for another plane, to carry him on visits to Eastern airdromes, then across the continent, back home.