almost similar to those of the third. I took-off from the Lambert-St.
Louis Field at 4:20 P.M., made a five minute stop at Springfield,
Ill., an hour later to take on mail, and then headed for Peoria.
Weather reports telephoned to St. Louis earlier in the afternoon gave
flying conditions as entirely passable. About twenty-five miles north
of Springfield darkness was encountered, the ceiling had lowered to
around 400 feet and a light snow was falling. At South Pekin the
forward visibility of ground lights from a 150 ft. altitude was less
than half a mile, and over Pekin the town lights were indistinct from
200 ft. above. After passing Pekin the plane was flown at an altimeter
reading of 600 feet for about five minutes, when the lightness of
the haze below indicated that it was over Peoria. Twice I could see
lights on the ground and I descended to less than 200 feet before they
disappeared from view. I tried to bank around one group of lights, but
was unable to turn quickly enough to keep in sight.
After circling in the vicinity of Peoria for 30 minutes, I decided to
try and find better weather conditions by flying northeast towards
Chicago. I had ferried a ship from Chicago to St. Louis in the early
afternoon, at which time the ceiling and visibility were much better
near Chicago than anywhere else along the route. Enough gasoline for
about an hour and ten minutes’ flying remained in the gas tank, and
20 minutes in the reserve, hardly enough to return to St. Louis even
had I been able to navigate directly to the field by dead reckoning
and flying blind the greater portion of the way. The territory towards
Chicago was much more favorable for a night landing than that around
St. Louis.
For the next half hour the flight northeast was at about 2000 feet
altitude and then at 600 feet. There were now numerous breaks in the
clouds and occasionally ground lights could be seen from over 500 feet.
After passing over the light of a small town a fairly clear space in
the clouds was encountered. I pulled up to about 600 feet, released the
parachute flare, whipped the ship around to get into the wind and under
the flare which lit at once. Instead of floating down slowly, however,
it dropped like a rock. I could see the ground for only an instant and
then there was total darkness. Meantime the ship was in a steep bank,
and being blinded by the intense light I had trouble righting it. An
effort to find the ground with the wing lights was in vain as their
glare was worse than useless in the haze.
When about ten minutes of gas remained in the pressure tank and still
not the faintest outline of any object on the ground could be seen, I
decided to leave the ship rather than attempt to land blindly. I turned
back southwest toward less populated country and started climbing in
an attempt to get over the clouds before jumping. The main tank went
dry at 7:50 P.M. and the reserve twenty minutes later. The altimeter
then registered approximately 14,000 feet, yet the top of the clouds
was apparently several thousand feet higher. Rolling the stabilizer
back, I cut out the switches, pulled the ship up into a stall and was
about to go over the right side of the cockpit when the right wing
began to drop. In this position the plane would gather speed and spiral
to the right, possibly striking the parachute after its first turn. I
returned to the controls, righted the plane and then dove over the left
side of the cockpit while the air speed registered about 70 miles per
hour and the altimeter 13,000 feet. The rip cord was pulled immediately
after clearing the stabilizer. The Irving chute functioned perfectly.
I left the ship head first and was falling in this position when the
risers whipped me around into an upright position and the chute opened.
The last I saw of the DH was as it disappeared into the clouds just
after the chute opened. It was snowing and very cold. For the first
minute or so the parachute descended smoothly and then commenced an
excessive oscillation which continued for about five minutes and which
could not be checked. The first indication of the nearness of the chute
to the ground was a gradual darkening of the space below. The snow
had turned to rain and, although the chute was thoroughly soaked, its
oscillation had greatly decreased. I directed the beam from my 500 ft.
spotlight downward, but the ground appeared so suddenly that I landed
directly on top of a barbed wire fence without seeing it. The fence
helped to break the fall and the barbs did not penetrate my heavy
flying suit. The chute was blown over the fence and was held open for
some time by the gusts of wind before collapsing.
After rolling the chute into its pack I started towards the nearest
light. I soon came to a road, walked about a mile to the town of
Covell, Ill., and telephoned a report to St. Louis. The only
information I could obtain in regard to the crashed plane was from
one of a group of farmers in the general store, who stated that his
neighbor had heard the plane crash but could only guess at its general
direction. An hour’s search proved without avail. I left instructions
to place a guard over the mail in case the plane was found before I
returned and went to Chicago for another ship. On arriving over Covell
the next morning I found the wreck with a small crowd gathered around
it, less than 500 feet back of the house where I had left my parachute
the night before. The nose and the wheels had struck the ground at the
same time, and after sliding along for about 75 feet it had piled up in
a pasture beside a hedge fence. One wheel had come off and was standing
inflated against the wall on the inside of a hog house a hundred yards
further on. It had gone through two fences and the wall of the house.
The wings were badly splintered, but the tubular fuselage, although
badly bent in places, had held its general form even in the mail pit.
The parachute from the flare was hanging on the tailskid.
There were three sacks of mail in the plane. One, a full bag from St.
Louis, had been split open and some of the mail oil-soaked but legible.
The other two bags were only partially full and were undamaged.
It was just about at this time, or shortly after, that I first began to
think about a New York-Paris flight. But before discussing the events
leading up to that flight, it might be well to say a few words about
the future possibilities of commercial aviation.
In comparing aviation to other forms of transportation it should be
born in mind that the flying machine has been in existence less than
twenty-five years. The Wright Brothers made their first flight at Kitty
Hawk, North Carolina, in 1903. Yet in 1927 air liners are operating
regularly over long distances and under all conditions.
The first airplane was a frail machine capable of operation only in
good weather. Even with the utmost care, flying in the early days of
aviation was a dangerous profession at best.
Today the properly operated commercial airline compares favorably in
safety with any other means of transportation.
Shipping has reached its present stage after thousands of years
of development. Railroads, less than a century ago, stopped their
trains at night on the grounds that operation in darkness was unsafe.
Automobiles, after nearly forty years of progress, are still dependent
on good roads.
The airplane, in less than quarter of a century, has taken its place
among the most important methods of travel and now, where time is
paramount and territory inaccessible, it stands at the head of its
competition.
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
THE U. S. S. “MEMPHIS,” FLAGSHIP ON WHICH THE AUTHOR RETURNED TO
AMERICA]
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
WASHINGTON. D. C.--COMING DOWN THE GANGPLANK OF THE U. S. S. “MEMPHIS,”
FOLLOWED BY HIS MOTHER]
Development up to the present time has been largely military. The cost
of aeronautical engineering and construction has been so great that
commercial companies have not been able to afford to experiment
with their own designs. While the airplane was still an experiment the
financial returns from aeronautical projects were only too often less
than the cost of operation. Consequently the early development was
largely sponsored by the government, with the result that the planes
were designed for use in warfare rather than for safety and economy of
operation. Extreme safety, in the military machine, must be sacrificed
for maneuverability. Economy of operation was replaced by military
design.
Commercial aviation, in the United States, has been retarded in the
past by lack of government subsidy, but the very lack of that subsidy
will be one of its greatest assets in the future. A subsidized airline
is organized with the subsidy as a very large consideration. The
organization exists on the subsidy and its growth is regulated by the
subsidy. Years will be required before the point of independence is
reached and the receipts become larger than the expenditures.
On the other hand, an airline organized without regard to an external
income is in a position to expand along with the demands for service.
If the traffic becomes great enough to require more or bigger planes, a
larger profit ensues, instead of an increased subsidy being required or
the fare being raised to hold down the demand.
The airplane has now advanced to the stage where the demands of
commerce are sufficient to warrant the building of planes without
regard to military usefulness. And with the advent of the purely
commercial airplane comes an economy of operation which places
operating organizations on a sound financial basis.
Undoubtedly in a few years the United States will be covered with a
network of passenger, mail and express lines.
Trans-Atlantic service is still in the future. Extensive research and
careful study will be required before any regular schedule between
America and Europe can be maintained. Multi-motored flying boats with
stations along the route will eventually make trans-oceanic airlines
practical but their development must be based on a solid foundation of
experience and equipment.
IX
SAN DIEGO--ST. LOUIS--NEW YORK
The trans-Atlantic non-stop flight between New York and Paris was
first brought into public consideration by Raymond Orteig who, in
1919, issued a challenge to the Aeronautical world by offering a prize
of $25,000 to the first successful entrant. Details of the flight
were placed in the hands of the National Aeronautic Association and
a committee was appointed to form and administer the rules of the
undertaking.
I first considered the possibility of the New York-Paris flight while
flying the mail one night in the fall of 1926. Several facts soon
became outstanding. The foremost was that with the modern radial
air-cooled motor, high lift airfoils, and lightened construction, it
would not only be possible to reach Paris but, under normal conditions,
to land with a large reserve of fuel and have a high factor of safety
throughout the entire trip as well.
I found that there were a number of public spirited men in St. Louis
sufficiently interested in aviation to finance such a project, and
in December 1926 I made a trip to New York to obtain information
concerning planes, motors, and other details connected with the
undertaking.
In connection with any important flight there are a number of questions
which must be decided at the start, among the most important of which
are the type of plane and the number of motors to be used. A monoplane,
although just coming into general use in the United States, is much
more efficient than a biplane for certain purposes due to the lack of
interference between wings, and consequently can carry a greater load
per square foot of surface at a higher speed. A single motored plane,
while it is more liable to forced landings than one with three motors,
has much less head resistance and consequently a greater cruising
range. Also there is three times the chance of motor failure with a
tri-motored ship, for the failure of one motor during the first part
of the flight, although it would not cause a forced landing, would at
least necessitate dropping part of the fuel and returning for another
start.
The reliability of the modern air-cooled radial engine is so great that
the chances of an immediate forced landing due to motor failure with a
single motor, would in my opinion, be more than counterbalanced by the
longer cruising range and consequent ability to reach the objective in
the face of unfavorable conditions.
After careful investigation I decided that a single motored monoplane
was, for my purpose, the type most suited to a long distance flight,
and after two more trips to the east coast and several conferences in
St. Louis, an order was placed with the Ryan Airlines of San Diego,
California, on February 28, 1927, for a plane equipped with a Wright
Whirlwind J. 5. C. 200-H.P. radial air-cooled motor and Pioneer
navigating instruments including the Earth Inductor Compass.
I went to San Diego to place the order and remained in California
during the entire construction of the plane.
The personnel of the Ryan Airlines at once caught the spirit of the
undertaking, and during the two months of construction the organization
labored as it never had before. Day and night, seven days a week, the
structure grew from a few lengths of steel tubing to one of the most
efficient planes that has ever taken the air. During this time it was
not unusual for the men to work twenty-four hours without rest, and on
one occasion Donald Hall, the Chief Engineer, was over his drafting
table for thirty-six hours.
I spent the greater part of the construction period working out the
details of navigation and plotting the course, with its headings and
variations, on the maps and charts. After working out the track on the
gnomonic and Mercators charts, I checked over the entire distance from
New York to Paris with the nautical tables. The flight from San Diego
to St. Louis and from St. Louis to New York was comparatively simple,
and I took the courses directly from the state maps.
From New York to Paris I worked out a great circle, changing course
every hundred miles or approximately every hour. I had decided to
replace the weight of a navigator with extra fuel, and this gave me
about three hundred miles additional range. Although the total distance
was 3610 miles, the water gap between Newfoundland and Ireland was only
about 1850 miles, and under normal conditions I could have arrived on
the coast of Europe over three hundred miles off of my course and still
have had enough fuel remaining to reach Paris; or I might have struck
the coastline as far north as Northern Scandinavia, or as far south as
Southern Spain and landed without danger to myself or the plane, even
though I had not reached my destination. With these facts in view, I
believed the additional reserve of fuel to be more important on this
flight than the accuracy of celestial navigation.
For the flight from San Diego to St. Louis and New York I carried
maps of the individual states and one of the United States with the
course plotted on each. For the flight from New York to Paris I had
two hydrographic charts of the North Atlantic Ocean containing the
great circle course and its bearing at intervals of one hundred miles.
In addition to these charts, I had a map of each state, territory and
country passed over. This included maps of Connecticut, Rhode Island,
Massachusetts, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, Ireland, England and France.
Also a map of Europe.
I expected to be able to locate my position approximately on the coast
of Europe by the terrain. Ireland is somewhat mountainous; England
rather hilly on the southern end; France is a lowland along the coast;
Spain is mountainous. Therefore the coastline should indicate the
country, and my accurate position could be obtained by the contours of
that coastline and by the position of towns, rivers and railroads.
During the time of construction it was necessary to arrange for
all equipment to be carried on the flight; including equipment for
emergency use in a forced landing. After the first few hours there
would be enough air in the fuel tanks to keep the ship afloat for some
time. I also carried an air raft which could be inflated in several
minutes and which could weather a fairly rough sea.
In addition to food for the actual flight, I carried five tins of
concentrated Army rations each of which contained one day’s food and
which could be made to last much longer if necessary. I carried two
canteens of water; one containing a quart for use during the actual
flight and the other containing a gallon for emergency. In addition
to this water, I had an Armburst cup which is a device for condensing
the moisture from human breath into drinking water. The cup is cloth
covered and contains a series of baffle plates through which the breath
is blown. The cup is immersed in water and then removed and blown
through. The evaporation of the water on the outside cools the cup
walls and baffle plates on which the breath moisture collects and runs
down to the bottom of the cup.
The following is a list of the equipment carried on the flight:
2 Flashlights
1 Ball of string
1 Ball of cord
1 Hunting Knife
4 Red flares sealed in rubber tubes
1 Match safe with matches
1 larger needle
1 Canteen--4 qts.
1 “ --1 qt.
1 Armburst Cup
1 Air Raft with pump and repair kit
5 Cans of Army emergency rations
2 Air cushions
1 Hack saw blade
Near the end of April the factory work was completed and early one
morning, the 46 ft. wing was taken out of the second floor of the
factory onto the top of a freight car and then lowered to a waiting
truck by means of a gasoline crane. A few days later the plane was
completely assembled in its hangar, and on April 28th, or sixty days
after the order had been placed, I gave “The Spirit of St. Louis” her
test flight. The actual performance was above the theoretical. The
plane was off the ground in six and one-eighth seconds, or in 165 feet,
and was carrying over 400 lbs. in extra gas tanks and equipment. The
high speed was 130 M.P.H. and the climb excellent.
The load tests were made from the old Camp Kearney parade-grounds
near San Diego. At daybreak, one foggy morning, I took-off from the
field at Dutch Flats and headed for the Army’s three kilometer speed
course along Coronado Strand. The visibility became extremely bad over
San Diego harbor and I was forced to land at Rockwell Field, North
Island, and wait for the fog to lift before running the speed tests.
The sun soon dispelled the fog and I took the plane four times over the
speed course at an average of 128 M.P.H. in a slight cross wind. I was
carrying about 25 gals. of gasoline and over 400 lbs. of extra tanks
and equipment. On the way to Camp Kearney I ran a number of tests on
the relation of motor R.P.M. to air speed, and by the time I reached
the old parade-grounds’ field I had collected quite a bit of valuable
test data.
I decided to run one more test before landing and had it about half-way
completed when I allowed the data board to come too close to the window
where a gust of air carried it out of the cockpit. I was flying over
mesquite, over five miles from Camp Kearney, at about a 1200-foot
altitude at the time, and could only spiral around and watch the
board flutter down into the top of a mesquite bush. There was a small
clearing about 200 yards from the bush, in which it was possible to
land a slow ship. I landed at Camp Kearney and sent for one of the
cabin Hisso Standards used by the Ryan Airlines for their passenger
service between San Diego and Los Angeles. When the Standard arrived
I flew over and landed in the clearing near the lost board which was
clearly visible from the air; but, after a fifteen minute search, I was
unable to locate it from the ground in the thick mesquite. So I took
off my coat and spread it over the top of another bush, then took the
air again with the Standard to locate the board in relation to the coat.
I had no difficulty in locating them both and found them to be about
fifty yards apart. I landed again but could not locate the board, so
moved my coat to the spot where I thought it should be and took-off
again. This time I had placed the coat within twenty feet of the data
board, but it required several minutes’ search in the thick mesquite to
finally locate it.
After I returned to Camp Kearney with the Standard, we made
preparations for the weight tests of the Spirit of St. Louis.
The tests were to be made starting with a light load and increasing the
weight carried by about fifty gallons of fuel for each test up to three
hundred gallons, which was to be the maximum load tested. The plane
passed its tests easily and took-off with three hundred gallons in
twenty seconds or 1026 feet, and made a maximum speed of 124 miles per
hour. The tests were made in a quartering wind varying from two to nine
miles per hour and at an elevation of about six hundred feet above sea
level.
The final flight ended at dusk and the plane was left under guard on
the field over night. The next morning, after most of the gasoline had
been drained, I flew it back to Dutch Flats where final preparations
were made for the flight to St. Louis.
I was delayed four days at San Diego by a general storm area over
the United States that would greatly jeopardize the success of an
overnight non-stop flight to St. Louis. From this flight I expected to
obtain some very important data for use on the final hop from New York.
On the afternoon of May 9th, Dean Blake, Chief of the San Diego Weather
Bureau, predicted favorable flying conditions for the succeeding day.
The next morning I took the plane to Rockwell Field and at 3:55 P.M.
Pacific time, I took-off from North Island with 250 gallons of gasoline
for the flight to St. Louis, escorted by two Army observation planes
and one of the Ryan monoplanes. We circled North Island and San Diego,
then headed on a compass course for St. Louis.
The ship passed over the first ridge of mountains, about 4,000 feet,
very easily with reduced throttle. The escorting planes turned back at
the mountains and I passed on over the desert and the Salton Sea alone.
And at sunset I was over the deserts and mountains of Western Arizona.
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
WASHINGTON, D. C.--CHARLES EVANS HUGHES CONFERS THE CROSS OF HONOR FROM
THE UNITED STATES FLAG ASSOCIATION]
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
WASHINGTON, D. C.--AT THE TOMB OF “THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER” AT ARLINGTON
CEMETERY]
The moon was well above the horizon and with the exception of a
short period before dawn I was able to distinguish the contour of the
country the entire night. I flew a compass course, passing alternately
over snow-capped ridges, deserts, and fertile valleys. One of the
mountain ranges was over 12,000 feet high and completely snow covered.
I cleared this range by about 500 feet and went on over the plains
beyond.
The mountains passed quickly and long before daybreak I was flying over
the prairies of Western Kansas. At dawn I located my position about
twenty miles south of the course, just east of Wichita, Kansas. At 8:00
A.M. Central Standard time, I passed over Lambert Field and landed
at 8:20 A.M., May 11th, fourteen hours and twenty-five minutes after
leaving the Pacific Coast.
The weather during the entire distance had been exactly as Dean Blake
had predicted.
At 8:13 the next morning (May 12th) I took off from Lambert Field for
New York. The wind was west and the weather clear for the greater part
of the distance. Over the Alleghanys, however, the sky was overcast and
some of the mountain tops were in low hanging clouds and I followed the
passes.
At 5:33 P.M. New York Daylight Saving time, I landed at Curtiss Field,
Long Island.
X
NEW YORK TO PARIS
At New York we checked over the plane, engine and instruments, which
required several short flights over the field.
When the plane was completely inspected and ready for the
trans-Atlantic flight, there were dense fogs reported along the coast
and over Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, in addition to a storm area over
the North Atlantic.
On the morning of May 19th, a light rain was falling and the sky was
overcast. Weather reports from land stations and ships along the great
circle course were unfavorable and there was apparently no prospect
of taking off for Paris for several days at least. In the morning I
visited the Wright plant at Paterson, New Jersey, and had planned to
attend a theatre performance in New York that evening. But at about
six o’clock I received a special report from the New York Weather
Bureau. A high pressure area was over the entire North Atlantic and the
low pressure over Nova Scotia and Newfoundland was receding. It was
apparent that the prospects of the fog clearing up were as good as I
might expect for some time to come. The North Atlantic should be clear
with only local storms on the coast of Europe. The moon had just passed
full and the percentage of days with fog over Newfoundland and the
Grand Banks was increasing so that there seemed to be no advantage in
waiting longer.