In the Spring of 1929, the Neches River flooded out of its banks. The Dallas-Houston line of the Southern Pacific was cut off and flood waters swept bridges and fills away from the highways isolating several small communities such as Woodville and Colmesneil. Residents in those towns, after several days, began calling for bread but there was no means of transportation to get bread in from south or north. “Send us some yeast, then,” the towns’ leaders phoned to Beaumont. “You can fly it in to us, and you might drop a few newspapers, too.” So early one Spring morning, C. C. Scott, then pilot-instructor for Sabine Airlines, and I lashed a 50-pound carton of yeast cakes on the lower wing of a Waco biplane and tied a bundle of newspapers on the other side of the fuselage, crawled into the open cockpits, and swooped away from the Beaumont Airport. The flight north to the flooded area was uneventful, but when we arrived over Woodville, it was easy to see the ring of muddy water that encircled the town. Scotty had instructed me to cut, at a given signal, the strings that held our cargo; so, after a few practice runs over a pasture at the edge of town, he looked back and nodded, and I performed with the trusty Barlow knife. I’d had no instruction in bombing, and both Scotty and I failed to take into account what the forward-downward motion of the plane, air currents, and gravity would do to our bomb of yeast cakes. But I slashed away, as the little plane roared earthward. My aim was either perfect or terrible, depending on the point of view. The 50-pound box of yeast plummeted, tumbling over and over until it crashed on the roof of a cabin which stood at one side of the pasture causing an explosion of foil-wrapped yeast cakes looking like a Fourth of July fireworks display in reverse. There must have been a dull, sickening thud as the box hit the roof and disintegrated, but we couldn’t hear it over the roar of the airplane engine. Folks in the house could, though, and they must have thought the end of the world was at hand, people poured out the doors and windows with almost as much violence as the scatteration of the yeast cakes. We had better luck with the bundle of newspapers; they landed on a vacant lot. The bundle broke open, and readers had to glean over a 40-acre field to salvage their favorite comic strips, but we could tell by their waving and nodding, as we circled, that they were satisfied. We also could see people scraping up cakes of yeast from the yard around the cabin, and we found out later that they had been able to recover enough of the leaven to make bread for everybody and stave off famine. That was before the modern bombsight had been invented. Maybe it was just as well, for if we had been using precision instruments to drop yeast on flood-isolated communities, we might have deposited the precious packages in a well. What we had wasn’t a blockbuster, but it might as well have been, so far as the folks in the cabin were concerned. Incidentally, on the way back, some 50 miles, we ran into a rainstorm and heavy clouds, and flew blind, except for compass and clock. Scotty had something of a homing pigeon in his makeup, and we made it in.