THE START
A large black cat, its tail held high in a comical curve, sauntered by
the transatlantic machine as we stood by it, early in the morning; and
such a cheerful omen made me more than ever anxious to start.
Two other black cats--more intimate if less alive--waited in the
Vickers-Vimy. They were Lucky Jim and Twinkletoe, our mascots, destined
to be the first air passengers across the Atlantic. Lucky Jim wore
an enormous head, an untidy ribbon and a hopeful expression; whereas
Twinkletoe was daintily diminutive, and, from the tip of her upright
tail to the tip of her stuffed nose, expressed surprise and anxiety.
Other gifts that we carried as evidence of our friends' best wishes
were bunches of white heather.
"Strong westerly wind. Conditions otherwise fairly favorable."
Such was the brief summary of the weather conditions given us at 4 A.
M. by the meteorological officer. We had definitely decided to leave on
the fourteenth, if given half a chance; for at all costs we wanted to
avoid a long period of hope deferred while awaiting ideal conditions.
At early dawn we were on the aërodrome, searching the sky for a
sign and asking information of Lieutenant Clements, the Royal Air
Force weather expert. His reports were fairly favorable; but a hefty
cross-wind was blowing from the west in uneven gusts, and everybody
opined that we had better wait a few hours, in the expectation that it
would die down.
Meanwhile, Alcock ran the engines and found them to be in perfect
condition. Neither could any fault be found with the gray-winged
machine, inert but fully loaded, and complete to the last split-pin.
It was of the Standard type of Vickers-Vimy bomber; although, of
course, bombs and bombing gear were not carried, their weight being
usefully replaced by extra storage tanks for gasoline. One of these,
shaped like a boat, could be used as a life-saving raft if some
accident brought about a descent into the sea. This tank was so placed
that it would be the first to be emptied of gasoline. The fittings
allowed of its detachment, ready for floating, while the machine lost
height in a glide. We hoped for and expected the best; but it was as
well to be prepared for the worst.
To make communication and coöperation more easy, the seats for both
pilot and navigator were side by side in what is usually the pilot's
cockpit, the observer's cockpit at the fore-end of the fuselage being
hidden under a stream-lined covering and occupied by a tank.
The tanks had been filled during the night, so that the Vickers-Vimy
contained its full complement of eight hundred and seventy gallons of
gasoline and forty gallons of oil. We now packed our personal luggage,
which consisted only of toilet kit and food--sandwiches, Caley's
chocolate, Horlick's Malted Milk, and two thermos flasks filled with
coffee. A small cupboard, fitted into the tail, contained emergency
rations. These were for use in case of disaster, as the tail of the
aëroplane would remain clear of the waves for a long while after the
nose had submerged. Our mascots, also, were in this cupboard.
The mail-bag had been taken on board a day earlier. It contained three
hundred private letters, for each of which the postal officials at St.
John's had provided a special stamp. For one of these stamps, by the
way, eight hundred and seventy-five dollars was offered and refused on
the Manchester Exchange within two days of the letter's delivery. They
are now sold at about one hundred and twenty-five dollars apiece, I
believe.
We breakfasted, and throughout the morning waited for a weakening of
the wind. As, however, it remained at about the same strength and
showed no signs of better behavior, we made up our minds to leave at
mid-day.
We had planned to get away in an easterly direction, for although we
should thus be moving with the wind instead of into it, the machine
would face down-hill, and owing to the shape of the aërodrome we should
have a better run than if we taxied towards the west. The Vickers-Vimy
was therefore placed in position to suit these arrangements.
But soon we found that the gale was too strong for such a plan, and
that we should have to "take off" into it. The mechanics dragged
the machine to the far end of the aërodrome, so as to prepare for a
westerly run.
This change was responsible for a minor setback. A sudden gust
carried a drag-rope round the undercarriage, tightened one of the
wheels against a petrol supply pipe, and crushed it. The consequent
replacement wasted about an hour.
Still with hopes that the gale would drop during the early afternoon,
we sat under the wing-tips at two o'clock and lunched, while conscious
of an earnest hope that the next square meal would be eaten in Ireland.
The wind remaining obstinately strong during the early afternoon, we
agreed to take things as they were and to lose no more precious time.
At about four o'clock we wriggled into our flying-kit, and climbed into
the machine. We wore electrically heated clothing, Burberry overalls,
and the usual fur gloves and fur-lined helmets.
While Alcock attended to his engines I made certain that my navigation
instruments were in place. The sextant was clipped to the dashboard
facing the pilot, the course and distance calculator was clasped to the
side of the fuselage, the drift-indicator fitted under my seat, and the
Baker navigation machine, with my charts inside it, lay on the floor of
the cockpit. I also carried an electric torch, and kept within easy
reach a Very pistol, with red and white flares, so that if the worst
should happen we could attract the attention of passing ships. The
battery for heating our electric suits was between the two seats.
The meteorological officer gave me a chart showing the approximate
strength and direction of the Atlantic air currents. It indicated that
the high westerly wind would drop before we were a hundred miles out
to sea, and that the wind velocities for the rest of the journey would
not exceed twenty knots, with clear weather over the greater part of
the ocean. This was responsible for satisfactory hopes at the time
of departure; but later, when we were over mid-Atlantic, the hopes
dissolved in disappointment when the promised "clear weather" never
happened.
The departure was quiet and undramatic. Apart from the mechanics and
a few reporters, few people were present, for the strong wind had
persuaded our day-to-day sightseers from St. John's that we must
postpone a start. When all was ready I shook hands with Lieutenant
Clements, Mr. Maxwell Muller and other friends, accepted their best
wishes for success, and composed myself in the rather crowded cockpit.
The customary signal-word "Contact!" exchanged between pilot and
mechanics, seemed, perhaps, to have a special momentary significance;
but my impatience to take the plunge and be rid of anxiety about the
start shut out all other impressions that might have been different
from those experienced at the beginning of each of the thousand and one
flights I had made before the transatlantic venture.
First one and then the other motors came to life, swelled into a
roar when Alcock ran them up and softened into a subdued murmur when
he throttled back and warmed them up. Finally, everything being
satisfactory, he disconnected the starting magneto and engine switches,
to avoid stoppage due to possible short-circuits, and signaled for the
chocks to be pulled clear. With throttles open and engines "all out,"
the Vickers-Vimy advanced into the westerly wind.
The "take off," up a slight gradient, was very difficult. Gusts up to
forty-five knots were registered, and there was insufficient room to
begin the run dead into the wind. What I feared in particular was that
a sudden eddy might lift the planes on one side and cause the machine
to heel over. Another danger was the rough surface of the aërodrome.
Owing to its heavy load, the machine did not leave the ground until it
had lurched and lumbered, at an ever-increasing speed, over 300 yards.
We were then almost at the end of the ground-tether allowed us.
A line of hills straight ahead was responsible for much "bumpiness" in
the atmosphere, and made climbing very difficult. At times the strong
wind dropped almost to zero, then rose in eddying blasts. Once or twice
our wheels nearly touched the ground again.
Under these conditions we could climb but slowly, allowing for the
danger of sudden upward gusts. Several times I held my breath, from
fear that our undercarriage would hit a roof or a tree-top.
I am convinced that only Alcock's clever piloting saved us from such
an early disaster. When, after a period that seemed far longer than it
actually was, we were well above the buildings and trees, I noticed
that the perspiration of acute anxiety was running down his face.
We wasted no time and fuel in circling round the aërodrome while
attaining a preliminary height, but headed straight into the wind until
we were at about eight hundred feet. Then we turned towards the sea and
continued to rise leisurely, with engines throttled down. As we passed
our aërodrome I leaned over the side of the machine and waved farewell
to the small groups of mechanics and sightseers.
The Vickers-Vimy, although loaded to the extent of about eleven pounds
per square foot, climbed satisfactorily, if slowly. Eight minutes
passed before we had reached the thousand feet level.
As we passed over St. John's and Cabot's Hill towards Concepcion Bay
the air was very bumpy, and not until we reached the coast and were
away from the uneven contours of Newfoundland did it become calmer.
The eddying wind, which was blowing behind us from almost due west,
with a strength of thirty-five knots, made it harder than ever to keep
the machine on a straight course. The twin-engine Vickers-Vimy is not
especially sensitive to atmospheric instability; but under the then
atmospheric conditions it lurched, swayed, and did its best to deviate,
much as if it had been a little single-seater scout.
We crossed the coast at 4:28 P. M. (Greenwich time), our aneroid then
registering about twelve hundred feet. Just before we left the land I
let out the wireless aërial, and tapped out on the transmitter key a
message to Mount Pearl Naval Station: "All well and started."
My mind merely recorded the fact that we were leaving Newfoundland
behind us. Otherwise it was too tense with concentration on the task
ahead to find room for any emotions or thoughts on seeing the last of
the square-patterned roof-mosaic of St. John's, and of the tangled
intricacy of Newfoundland's fields, woods and hills. Behind and below
was America, far ahead and below was Europe, between the two were
nearly two thousand miles of ocean. But at the time I made no such
stirring, if obvious, reflections; for my navigation instruments and
charts, as applied to sun, horizon, sea-surface and time of day,
demanded close and undivided attention.
Withal, I felt a queer but quite definite confidence in our safe
arrival over the Irish coast, based, I suppose, on an assured knowledge
that the machine, the motors, the navigating instruments and the pilot
were all first-class.
The Vickers-Vimy shook itself free from the atmospheric disturbances
over the land, and settled into an even stride through the calmer
spaces above the ocean. The westerly wind behind us, added to the power
developed by the motors, gave us a speed along our course (as opposed
to "air-speed") of nearly one hundred and forty knots.
Visibility was fairly good during the first hour of the flight. Above,
at a height of something between two and three thousand feet, a wide
ceiling of clouds was made jagged at fairly frequent intervals by
holes through which the blue sky could be glimpsed. Below, the sea was
blue-gray, dull for the most part but bright in occasional patches,
where the sunlight streamed on it through some cloud-gap. Icebergs
stood out prominently from the surface, in splashes of glaring white.
I was using all my faculties in setting and keeping to the prescribed
course. The Baker navigating machine, with the chart, was on my knees.
Not knowing what kind of weather was before us, I knelt on my seat and
made haste to take observations on the sea, the horizon, and the sun,
through intervals in the covering of clouds.
The navigation of aircraft, in its present stage, is distinctly more
difficult than the navigation of seacraft. The speed at which they
travel and the influence of the wind introduce problems which are not
easily solved.
A ship's navigator knows to a small fraction of a mile the set of any
ocean current, and from the known speed of his vessel he can keep
"dead reckoning" with an accuracy that is nearly absolute. In fact,
navigators have taken their craft across the Atlantic without once
having seen the sun or stars, and yet, at the end of the journey,
been within five miles of the desired destination. But in the air the
currents either cannot be, or have not yet been, charted, and his
allowance for the drift resulting from them must be obtained by direct
observation on the surface of the ocean.
By the same means his actual speed over the ocean may be calculated. He
finds the position of his craft by measuring the angle which either the
sun or a selected star makes with the horizon, and noting the Greenwich
mean time at which the observation is made. If the bearings of two
distinct wireless stations can be taken, it is also possible to find
his definite position by means of directional wireless telegraphy.
When making my plans for the transatlantic flight I considered very
carefully all the possibilities, and decided to rely solely upon
observations of the sun and stars and upon "dead reckoning," in
preference to using directional wireless, as I was uncertain at that
time whether or not the directional wireless system was sufficiently
reliable.
My sextant was of the ordinary marine type, but it had a more heavily
engraved scale than is usual, so as to make easier the reading of it
amid the vibration of the aëroplane. My main chart was on the Mercator
projection, and I had a special transparent chart which could be moved
above it, and upon which were drawn the Sumner circles for all times
of the day. I carried a similar special chart for use at night, giving
the Sumner circles for six chosen stars. To measure the drift I had
a six-inch Drift-Bearing plate, which also permitted me to measure
the ground speed, with the help of a stopwatch. In addition, I had an
Appleyard Course and Distance Calculator, and Traverse tables for the
calculation of "dead reckoning."
[Illustration: IT WAS HARD TO FIND AN AËRODROME WITH SUFFICIENT "TAKE
OFF"]
[Illustration: SIGHTSEERS, IF LEFT TO THEMSELVES, WOULD HAVE WRECKED
THE MACHINE]
As the horizon is often obscured by clouds or mist, making impossible
the measurement of its angle with the heavenly bodies, I had a special
type of spirit level, on which the horizon was replaced by a bubble.
This, of course, was less reliable than a true horizon since the bubble
was affected by variations of speed; but it was at least a safeguard.
Taking into account the general obscurity of the atmosphere during most
of the flight, it was fortunate that I took such a precaution, for I
seldom caught sight of a clearly defined horizon.
I could legitimately congratulate myself on having collected as many
early observations as possible while the conditions were good; for
soon we ran into an immense bank of fog, which shut off completely the
surface of the ocean. The blue of the sea merged into a hazy purple,
and then into the dullest kind of gray.
The cloud screen above us, also, grew much thicker, and there were no
more gaps in it. The occasional sun-glints on wing-tips and struts no
longer appeared.
Thus I could obtain neither observations on the sun, nor calculations
of drift from the seas. Assuming that my first observations were
satisfactory, I therefore carried on by "dead reckoning," and hoped
for the best. From time to time I varied the course slightly, so as to
allow for the different variations of the compass.
Meantime, while we flew through the wide layer of air sandwiched
between fog and cloud, I began to jot down remarks for the log of the
journey. At 5:20 I noted that we were at fifteen hundred feet and still
climbing slowly, while the haze was becoming ever thicker and heavier.
I leaned towards the wireless transmitter, and began to send a message;
but the small propeller on it snapped, and broke away from the
generator. Careful examination, both at the time and after we landed,
showed no defect; and I am still unable to account for the fracture.
Although I was too occupied with calculations to pay much attention to
moods or passing thoughts, I remember feeling that this cutting off of
all means of communication with the life below and behind us gave a
certain sense of finality to the adventure.
We continued eastward, with the rhythmic drone of the motors unnoted in
supreme concentration on the tense hours that were to come.