Only one car remained on the field. We ran this machine out beside the
strawstack and placed it in a position to show up on one side of the
stack, in addition to throwing most of its light on the field. I was
about to take-off when the headlights on the car became so dim that
they were entirely useless. One of the men had a pocket flashlight and
I took-off while he threw its beam on the strawstack.
It was eleven-forty when I left the ground and eleven-fifty seven when
the last flare had burned out. Our contract had been fulfilled with
three minutes to spare.
I located the field by the flashing of the spotlight and levelled off
and landed by its beam.
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM--WITH CROWN PRINCE LEOPOLD DURING THE OFFICIAL
RECEPTION]
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
LONDON, ENGLAND--WITH H. R. H. THE PRINCE OF WALES AND LORD LONSDALE
(LEFT) IN THE ROYAL BOX AT THE DERBY BALL]
If the position of a light is known and the field is fairly level, it
is not necessary to see the ground, but a plane can be stalled in and
landed on the darkest night. Pilots often bring their ships down
when only the outline of a field is visible. For this reason it is
imperative that no obstructions such as farm machinery, or live stock,
be allowed to remain on a landing field at night.
Locating a strange flying field by its position in relation to an
equally strange golf course, is just one of the many instances in a
pilot’s life where comedy goes hand in hand with the most serious
situations.
In one instance, the story is told of a young pilot who had just
learned to fly. He was taking the owner of his plane for a short flight
and was demonstrating the various maneuvers he had learned. Finally he
put the machine into a spin, but after several turns, discovered that
he was not able to come out, and after trying vainly in every way he
could remember hearing of from his instructor, he leaned forward in
the cockpit and tensely informed his passenger that they were about
to crash. Not realizing the seriousness of the situation, the owner
replied, “What the ---- do you care, it’s not your ship!”
It was usually the case that a person inexperienced in the art of
flying became quite disturbed over some trivial thing that was of
little importance, yet was perfectly at home and enjoying life
tremendously at a time when the pilot was straining every effort to
avoid disaster.
People would argue indefinitely, trying to persuade one of us to
overload the plane past its danger point by carrying more than two
passengers at a time from a small field, and it was of no consequence
to them whether the plane cleared the nearest trees by a safe margin,
or stalled over the uppermost branches by inches. Explanations on our
part were next to useless.
If we refused to overload the ship someone cited an example where
a plane had carried several passengers at one time and it made no
difference what kind of a machine it was, or how large an airport it
was operating from. The fact that it carried more passengers than we
did indicated that it was operated by a better pilot, and that our
plane was not as safe to ride in.
We could struggle along close to the ground trying to get a little
altitude and our passengers would have the time of their lives, waving
at the people below, but let the motor start to miss, although the
plane might be several thousand feet high, with several large fields in
sight, and they would glance nervously back at the pilot wishing that
they had never considered taking a ride in an airplane.
The International Air Races were to be held, that year, at New York
during the first part of October and, since our fair contracts were
over by the last of September, we decided to enter in the “On to New
York” competition, which was for civilian planes only, and was decided
by points given for distance, speed, number of passengers carried, and
the size of the engine used.
We had our motor overhauled at Denver and expected to fly from there to
San Francisco for the start. Some of the repair parts for the engine
were delayed and we were several days late in leaving Denver. Even then
it was only through night work and leaving a number of things undone
that we got away. A fifty-gallon center section gasoline tank had been
installed which, in addition to the regular fuselage tank, gave us a
capacity of one hundred and seven gallons.
We installed the engine one night and idled it for several hours before
daybreak in order to work in the bearings; then we took-off for San
Francisco.
Our first stop was at Rawlins, Wyoming, where the highest field on the
transcontinental air mail route is located. We refilled at Rawlins and
made Evanston that night.
At Evanston we were starting the engine preparatory to taxi-ing over
and tying down for the night, when our carburetor caught fire. In the
haste to get started we had neither put a fire screen on the intake,
nor a drain pipe down from the bowl. The engine was covered with oil
and the gasoline overflowing from the bowl carried the flames down
around it. Soon the entire nose of the ship was ablaze and although we
shovelled earth over the motor, it appeared that the wings would soon
catch fire. If the fabric began to burn, the ship was gone. I had just
finished removing all loose equipment from the cockpit when a small
hand extinguisher arrived and with its aid the fire was soon put out.
All of the ignition wire insulation was burned off but otherwise very
little damage had been done.
We were delayed twenty-four hours rewiring the engine and cleaning out
the dirt shovelled on in the attempt to put out the fire.
After Rawlins we stopped at Salt Lake City, and from there we flew over
the Great Salt Lake Desert to Battle Mountain, Nevada, where we spent
the night.
We took off from Battle Mountain with full gas tanks and after
following the passes until part of the fuel was consumed, and the load
correspondingly lightened, we passed over the Sierra Nevada Range at
eight thousand five hundred feet, and landed at Oakland, California.
The same evening, without refilling, we flew over San Francisco Bay to
Crissey Field.
The following day we took-off from Crissey Field on the start of our
race to New York. One of the rules of the contest was that each plane
should carry a log with the starting point and number of passengers
carried attested to by two witnesses. By the time we had made out the
log and serviced our plane, it was afternoon and darkness overtook us
at Lovelocks, Nevada.
The next night was spent in Rawlins, Wyoming, after a stop at Salt Lake
City for fuel.
We arrived in Rawlins with a valve blowing badly and were delayed a day
in pulling the bank and grinding in another valve.
We were far behind our schedule due to the late start from Denver; the
delay at Evanston, and again at Rawlins; but without further trouble
we would still be able to reach New York on time. Another valve began
blowing, however, soon after leaving Rawlins, and when we took-off
from our next stop at Sidney, Nebraska, the motor had lost a number of
revolutions.
We flew to Lincoln from Sidney and after taking the short remaining
time into consideration, we decided to abandon the race and start
barnstorming.
We overhauled the engine at Lincoln and worked over towards St. Louis,
where we arrived about the end of October.
At St. Louis we decided to tie up for the winter and I began
instructing students for the Robertson Aircraft Corporation on OX-5
Standards. The Corporation had been awarded the air mail contract but
actual operation was not to start until the next spring, so during the
winter months I spent my time instructing and test flying in their
commercial service.
For the first time in my flying career I was to be in one plane longer
than a few months, so in November, 1925, I enlisted in the 110th
Observation Squadron of the 35th Division Missouri National Guard, and
was commissioned a First Lieutenant soon afterward.
The squadron was stationed on Lambert Field. Every Sunday was spent in
flying. We had a number of J.N. training planes and one T.W.-3 which
was the commanding officer’s personal ship.
The organization was composed mainly of pilots who had flown during the
war, but after the Armistice had gone back to civilian life. Their only
method of keeping in training was by flying National Guard planes in
their spare moments and attending camp two weeks each year.
Two nights and one day each week were devoted to military service by
these officers and the enlisted men under them. Their pay was small
and most of them lost more from neglect of their business than they
received for their military services. The remuneration was hardly
considered. However they joined the Guard for two reasons: first,
because of the opportunity it offered to keep in flying training, and
second, because they considered it a patriotic duty to keep fit for
immediate service in case of National emergency.
Appropriations were not large and often insufficient but, although at
times it required part of the squadron’s pay checks, the ships were
kept in the air.
The National Guard squadrons offer an excellent opportunity for
young men to get a start in aviation. Instruction is given each
week, covering practically every branch of military aeronautics, and
practical flying experience is obtained both in the air and on the
ground under actual operating conditions. Each year a few members of
the squadron are sent to the army schools at San Antonio for flying
training, and upon returning these men take their places in the
commissioned personnel of the organization.
The inauguration of our Air Mail service was to take place on
April fifteenth, and as spring drew near we were kept busy making
preliminary preparations. The De Havilands were to be completed and
tested; a ground organization built up; the terminal airports decided
upon and facilities for taking on and discharging the mail arranged
for; in addition to the untold detail arrangements which go to make up
the organization of a successful airline.
Contract air mail routes are located by the Post Office Department and
are so arranged that the mail service can be improved by use of air
transportation over other means of communication.
The route is opened for bid and the contract awarded to the lowest
bidder who is responsible and in a position successfully to carry on
operations.
The contractor can bid any amount up to three dollars per pound of mail
and is paid by the pound for the actual amount carried over his route.
Our route, between St. Louis and Chicago was operated on a schedule
which saved one business day over train service to New York. A letter
mailed in St. Louis before three-thirty P.M. was rushed to Lambert
Field by a fast mail truck, transferred to the plane which was waiting
with engine turning over, landed on the Air Mail field at Maywood,
Illinois at seven-fifteen, transferred to one of the Chicago-New York
overnight planes, retransferred at Cleveland, Ohio, and was in the Post
Office in New York in time for the first morning delivery.
An answer could be mailed at New York in the evening and be delivered
in St. Louis before noon on the following day. If sent through the
ordinary mail it would not arrive until one day later.
The advantages of air transportation are most apparent over long
distances. The air mail flies from New York to San Francisco in
thirty-six hours, whereas a train requires nearly four days to make the
same trip.
The United States, through the efforts of the Post Office and the
Department of Commerce, is being covered with a network of air mail
routes, and it is only a matter of the public using this service before
nearly every city in the country will be served by airlines.
VIII
TWO EMERGENCY JUMPS
By the first of April our organization was well under way and about a
week before the inauguration day we took two planes over the route to
make any final arrangements necessary.
On April fifteenth at 5:50 A.M. I took-off from the Air Mail Field at
Maywood on the first southbound flight, and that afternoon we sent two
ships north with the inauguration mail from St. Louis, Springfield and
Peoria.
During the summer months most of our route was covered during daylight,
but as winter approached the hours of night flying increased until
darkness set in a few minutes after we left the field at St. Louis.
With night flying and bad weather our troubles began. Our route was
not lighted at first and the intermediate airports were small and
often in poor condition. Our weather reports were unreliable and we
developed the policy of taking off with the mail whenever local weather
conditions permitted. We went as far as we could and if the visibility
became too bad we landed and entrained the mail.
One of the worst conditions we met with was in flying from daylight
into darkness. It was not difficult to fly along with a hundred foot
ceiling in the daytime, but to do so at night was an entirely different
matter, and after the night set in, if the weather became worse, it was
not possible to turn around and return to daylight.
With all of our difficulties, however, the mail went through with
surprising regularity. During the first five months of operation we
made connections on over ninety-eight per cent of our trips.
There are only two conditions which delay the air mail: fog and sleet.
If the fog is light or local, and the sleet not too heavy, the planes
continue even then. But when the ground becomes invisible and the fog
covers the terminal fields, or when sleet freezes thickly on wings and
wires, the planes cannot continue. In such cases the mail is entrained
and usually reaches its destination at least as soon as it would have
if sent by train in the first place.
Almost every day, in some section of the United States, mail pilots
are flying over fog and through storms and rain to bring their ships
through on schedule time. The mail plane is seldom delayed and then
only by impossible weather conditions. In the future these delays will
become fewer as radio navigation and instruments for blind flying
improve, until it will be possible for the pilots to keep to their
schedules under the worst conditions and in comparative safety.
Another hazard, during certain times of year, is the formation of ice.
This will gather on all parts of the plane but mainly on the wires,
propeller, and entering edge of the wings. If it forms slowly from a
fog or light rain, a plane may be able to continue on its course for
some time, but if a heavy sleet storm is encountered the ice may form
so rapidly that a ship cannot stay in the air over five minutes before
it is so loaded down that the pilot will be unable to keep from losing
altitude even with his motor wide open.
The actual weight of ice is not as important as the loss in efficiency
of the wing, due to the changed airfoil caused by ice gathering on the
entering edge.
Still more loss is caused from the ice forming on the propeller itself.
The blades take on a thick coating which continues to increase in depth
until the ice from one of the blades is thrown off by centrifugal
force. When this happens an excessive vibration sets in and continues
until the opposite blade has thrown off its coating.
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
LONDON, ENGLAND--CROWDS PRESSING AROUND “THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS” AS
THE PLANE LANDED. SOME OF THE SOUVENIR-HUNTERS MANAGED TO TEAR AWAY
BITS OF THE WING]
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
LONDON, ENGLAND--“AT CROYDEN FIELD I ESCAPED TO THE TOP OF THE
OBSERVATION TOWER OVERLOOKING THE CROWD”]
One of the dangers which a mail pilot faces in flying at night through
bad weather and low visibility is in suddenly losing track of the
ground due to a fog bank lower than the rest. If he has been flying
very close to the ground it is not advisable to go lower, and often the
only alternative is to climb up through the fog and attempt to find a
hole somewhere to spiral down through.
Being caught in a fog at night was the cause of two of my forced jumps,
the official reports of which follow:
“I took-off from Lambert-St. Louis Field at 4:25 P.M., September 16,
1926, and after an uneventful trip arrived at Springfield, Ill., at
5:10 P.M., and Peoria, Ill., at 5:55 P.M.
“I left the Peoria Field at 6:10 P.M. There was a light ground haze,
but the sky was practically clear with but scattered cumulus clouds.
Darkness was encountered about 25 miles northeast of Peoria, and I took
up a compass course, checking on the lights of the towns below until a
low fog rolled in under me a few miles northeast of Marseilles and the
Illinois River.
“The fog extended from the ground up to about 600 feet, and, as I was
unable to fly under it, I turned back and attempted to drop a flare
and land. The flare did not function and I again headed for Maywood
(Chicago’s air mail port) hoping to find a break in the fog over the
field. Examination disclosed that the cause of the flare failure was
the short length of the release lever and that the flare might still be
used by pulling out the release cable.
“I continued on a compass course of 50 degrees until 7:15 P.M. when I
saw a dull glow on top of the fog, indicating a town below. There were
several of these light patches on the fog, visible only when looking
away from the moon, and I knew them to be towns bordering Maywood. At
no time, however, was I able to locate the exact position of the field,
although I understand that the searchlights were directed upward and
two barrels of gasoline burned in an endeavor to attract my attention.
Several times I descended to the top of the fog, which was 800 to 900
feet high, according to my altimeter. The sky above was clear with the
exception of scattered clouds, and the moon and stars were shining
brightly. After circling around for 35 minutes I headed west to be sure
of clearing Lake Michigan, and in an attempt to pick up one of the
lights on the Transcontinental.
“After flying west for fifteen minutes and seeing no break I turned
southwest hoping to strike the edge of the fog south of the Illinois
River. My engine stopped at 8:20 P.M., and I cut in the reserve. I was
at that time only 1,500 feet high, and as the engine did not pick up as
soon as I expected I shoved the flashlight in my belt and was about to
release the parachute flare and jump when the engine finally took hold
again. A second trial showed the main tank to be dry, and accordingly a
maximum of twenty minutes’ flying time left.
“There were no openings in the fog and I decided to leave the ship as
soon as the reserve tank was exhausted. I tried to get the mail pit
open with the idea of throwing out the mail sacks, and then jumping,
but was unable to open the front buckle. I knew that the risk of fire
with no gasoline in the tanks was very slight and began to climb for
altitude when I saw a light on the ground for several seconds. This was
the first light I had seen for nearly two hours, and as almost enough
gasoline for fifteen minutes’ flying remained in the reserve, I glided
down to 1,200 feet and pulled out the flare release cable as nearly as
I could judge over the spot where the light had appeared. This time the
flare functioned but only to illuminate the top of a solid bank of fog,
into which it soon disappeared without showing any trace of the ground.
“Seven minutes’ gasoline remained in the gravity tank. Seeing the glow
of a town through the fog I turned towards open country and nosed the
plane up. At 5,000 feet the engine sputtered and died. I stepped up on
the cowling and out over the right side of the cockpit, pulling the
rip cord after about a 100-foot fall. The parachute, an Irving seat
service type, functioned perfectly; I was falling head downward when
the risers jerked me into an upright position and the chute opened.
This time I saved the rip cord. I pulled the flashlight from my belt
and was playing it down towards the top of the fog when I heard the
plane’s engine pick up. When I jumped it had practically stopped dead
and I had neglected to cut the switches. Apparently when the ship
nosed down an additional supply of gasoline drained to the carburetor.
Soon she came into sight, about a quarter mile away and headed in the
general direction of my parachute. I put the flashlight in a pocket of
my flying suit preparatory to slipping the parachute out of the way if
necessary. The plane was making a left spiral of about a mile diameter,
and passed approximately 300 yards away from my chute, leaving me on
the outside of the circle. I was undecided as to whether the plane
or I was descending the more rapidly and glided my chute away from
the spiral path of the ship as rapidly as I could. The ship passed
completely out of sight, but reappeared in a few seconds, its rate of
descent being about the same as that of the parachute. I counted the
five spirals, each one a little further away than the last, before
reaching the top of the fog bank.
“When I settled into the fog I knew that the ground was within 1,000
feet and reached for the flashlight, but found it to be missing.
I could see neither earth nor stars and had no idea what kind of
territory was below. I crossed my legs to keep from straddling a branch
or wire, guarded my face with my hands and waited. Presently I saw
the outline of the ground and a moment later was down in a cornfield.
The corn was over my head and the chute was lying on top of the corn
stalks. I hurriedly packed it and started down a corn row. The ground
visibility was about 100 yards. In a few minutes I came to a stubble
field and some wagon tracks which I followed to a farmyard a quarter
mile away. After reaching the farmyard I noticed auto headlights
playing over the roadside. Thinking that someone might have located
the wreck of the plane I walked over to the car. The occupants asked
whether I had heard an airplane crash and it required some time to
explain to them that I had been piloting the plane, and yet was
searching for it myself. I had to display the parachute as evidence
before they were thoroughly convinced. The farmer was sure, as were
most others in a 3-mile radius, that the ship had just missed his house
and crashed nearby. In fact, he could locate within a few rods the
spot where he heard it hit the ground, and we spent an unsuccessful
quarter hour hunting for the wreck in that vicinity before going to the
farmhouse to arrange for a searching party and telephone St. Louis and
Chicago.
“I had just put in the long distance calls when the phone rang and we
were notified that the plane had been found in a cornfield over two
miles away. It took several minutes to reach the site of the crash,
due to the necessity of slow driving through the fog, and a small
crowd had already assembled when we arrived. The plane was wound up
in a ball-shaped mass. It had narrowly missed one farmhouse and had
hooked its left wing in a grain shock a quarter mile beyond. The ship
had landed on the left wing and wheel and skidded along the ground for
80 yards, going through one fence before coming to rest in the edge
of a cornfield about 100 yards short of a barn. The mail pit was laid
open and one sack of mail was on the ground. The mail, however, was
uninjured.
“The sheriff from Ottawa arrived, and we took the mail to the Ottawa
Post Office to be entrained at 3:30 A.M. for Chicago.”
When the wreck was inspected a few days later it was discovered that a
mechanic had removed the 110 gallon gasoline tank to repair a leak and
had replaced it with an 85 gallon tank without notifying anyone of the
change. Consequently instead of being able to return to our field at
Peoria, Ill., and clear visibility, I ran out of fuel while still over
the fog bank.