Word: feets
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...high-altitude flight to Boston. Lieut. Colonel William Henry Rankin, U.S.M.C., sitting under the curved glass canopy of the lead jet, took his two-plane flight over an angry anvil of cloud, sat back casually as his eye ran across the instrument panel. Altitude: 47,000 feet. True air speed: 500 knots. It was a crisp, sunlit flight, and the only problem in sight was to bore down through the overcast to the rain-browned runways of the Marine Auxiliary Air Station at Beaufort, S.C., only minutes away...
...down over his face, 2) the plane's canopy blew off, 3) an explosive charge sent seat and pilot into the thin, -65° air, and 4) in the air a cable from the plane yanked the metal seat off his rump, left Marine Rankin above 40,000 feet with his jet helmet, oxygen mask and his parachute, preset to open automatically-at the safe-breathing level of 10,000 feet. "I had a terrible feeling like my abdomen was bloated twice its size. My nose seemed to explode. For 30 seconds I thought the decompression had me," recounts...
...afraid the hail would tear the chute. Sometimes I was falling through heavy water-I'd take a breath and breathe in a mouthful of water. Sometimes I had the sensation I was looping the chute. I was blown up and down as much as 6,000 feet at a time. It went on for a long time, like being on a very fast elevator, with strong blasts of compressed air hitting...
...just try to finish the race on our feet, men," mumbled the New York Daily News's Frank Holeman. nodding sleepy-eyed over a glass of white Georgian wine in Sverdlovsk's Grand Urals Hotel. His sentiment was shared by all of the 73 U.S. newsmen accompanying the most tireless tourist ever to visit Russia: Vice President Richard Nixon. "[The other] tourists encountered along the way are regarded by now rather enviously as a happy, carefree lot," cabled the Washington Star's European Correspondent Crosby Noyes. "For them there are, presumably, no pre-dawn departures, no missed...
...helmeted pilot waited for the thumbs-up sign from a frizzy-haired native, then raced his blue and white Cessna down the crushed-coral airstrip, over the palm-dotted swamplands, and high into the sky to hurdle the jagged mountain peaks concealed in thick cumulus clouds. Settling his sandaled feet on the rudder, he flew with one hand as the other fingered a heavy gold cross hanging from his neck. After a short flight-over forbidding jungles, the pilot banked his plane, swooped down toward a clearing and made a smooth touchdown on another makeshift airfield. There to greet...