ABOARD THE “FATE”
“You’re a lucky kid,” said Felton when they were at mess. There was
more than a suspicion of envy in his tone. “The Balloon Service is a
cinch. You only go up once a week, and then you don’t stay up more’n
ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes!” echoed Jack incredulously.
“Sure; things go wrong by that time,” answered Felton, with a grin,
“and you come floating down on top of something. It’s hard on what you
land on, but you don’t mind it. All you have to do is sit tight in your
little cockpit and admire the view.”
“Sounds all right,” laughed Jack, “but how about the time one of the
dirigibles landed on a building and went plumb through it?”
“Well, no one was hurt――much. Say, if you hear of a chance for me,
put me wise, will you? I like excitement and all that, of course, but
flying around over the Mexican lines being potted at isn’t just my idea
of a perfect pastime!”
“But if the Mex can’t shoot straight――――”
“That’s all right,” replied Felton pathetically, “but suppose there are
two planes and the Mex aims at the other one? Pretty sure to get you
then. When I get bumped off I want to have a gun in my hand and get
action, Sterling!”
Boyd shook hands gravely. “Good luck, kid,” he said. “Hope I’ll see you
again some time, but it ain’t likely, I guess.”
“You talk as if I was headed straight for the morgue,” objected Jack.
“Folks do go up in balloons and come back safe now and then, don’t
they?”
“Yeah, but that’s just trial spins, son. I hear they’re going to send
some of those blimps across the border pretty quick. Still and all, you
may be able to foot it back somehow. If I was you I’d get me a map of
Mexico and carry it next my skin. Know any Spanish?”
“No. Is the map in Spanish?”
“Well, it would be handy to know enough to ask your way, Sterling.
Maybe, though, you’ll land in the Gulf or out in the Pacific, and then
Spanish wouldn’t help you much. Well, I sure wish you the best o’ luck,
kid.”
“Same to you, you old mourner,” laughed Jack.
Over at Headquarters an officer wearing the Balloon Corps insignia on
his sleeve scowled and rummaged his papers and at last sent Jack to
Number 6 Shed. “Report to Lieutenant Commander Weeks, sir,” he said.
“Where’s your stuff?”
“B Barracks.”
“Shift it over here to balloon quarters. And, say, what about
instruction? Been passed?”
“Not yet. They said I’d get through to-day, though.”
“Well, you can’t berth here until you have. You’d better ask about
that. Some one’s slipped a cog, it seems.” He frowned darkly at Jack.
“Better talk to the lieutenant commander. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Most
anything goes these days!” The officer sighed resignedly.
“Number 6 Shed is where the _F 8_ is, isn’t it?” asked Jack eagerly.
“Yes, if that’s any comfort to you,” replied the other pessimistically.
It took Jack rather less than a minute to reach the balloon shed, and
another minute to convince the guard before the great doorway that
he should be allowed inside. He had so frequently stood about on the
outside that the guard recognized him this morning and was at first
incredulous. But he finally got past and made his way exultantly into
the depths of the big building. Things were more quiet around the _F
8_ to-day, although a few riggers and groundmen were still busy. Jack
stopped more than once to look up at the swelling bulk of the airship
well overhead. Viewed from beneath, it was tremendously impressive.
About midway of the envelope hung the gondola, or, as it was generally
called, “boat,” and as Jack approached it he saw that several officers
were grouped near its forward end. A quick survey showed him that none
wore the insignia of a lieutenant commander, and as a short, thick-set
man was the first to note his presence Jack addressed him.
“I was ordered to report to Lieutenant Commander Weeks,” he explained.
“Can you tell me where I can find him?”
“The Commander’s over at the quarters, I think. I say, Gandell, here’s
a gentleman asking for Mr. Weeks.”
“Weeks? Not here.” A junior lieutenant whose deep voice matched his big
frame turned an appraising look on Jack. “I don’t know where you’ll
find him right now. Are you the new radio chap?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine! What’s the name?”
“Sterling.”
“Well, Mr. Sterling, meet Mr. Jordan and Mr. Traine. My name’s Gandell.
Mr. Clode, who you’ll work with, isn’t here just now.”
Jack shook hands. Mr. Jordan, who later proved to be engineer officer,
was the one Jack had first spoken to. He was short of stature, broad
of shoulder and hip, had a round, leather-hued face and seemed a most
good-natured and jovial sort. He held the rank of lieutenant, junior
grade, as did Mr. Gandell. The third of the trio, Lieutenant Traine,
was a small, nervous-mannered man of hardly more than twenty-three
or four. For that matter, only Lieutenant Jordan appeared to be over
that age, and Jack doubted that he had more than reached thirty. They
shook hands heartily and seemed flatteringly delighted to make Jack’s
acquaintance. Indeed, from Lieutenant Gandell’s manner the boy might
have concluded that his assignment to the _F 8_ was the one thing
completing the lieutenant’s happiness!
“Been aboard the _Fate_ yet?” asked the latter.
“The――Oh, the _F 8_. No, I’ve never been on any sort of a dirigible.”
“Trained with the planes, eh? Well, you’ll soon pick up balloon stuff.”
“I haven’t had any air experience at all,” owned Jack ruefully.
“You haven’t? Well, what do you know about that? Get it, Sam?”
“Yes,” answered Lieutenant Jordan. “What’s the diff, though? He doesn’t
have to fly the thing. I hear they’re sending a lot of chaps over from
Pensacola who don’t know a wing strut from a drift indicator, begging
your pardon, Mr. Sterling. As long as you know radio――――”
“Sure,” interrupted Lieutenant Traine. “Every man to his trade, what?
Dare say Mr. Sterling knows more about electricity than you do about
engines, Sam.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t had experience,” said Jack apologetically. “I
suppose flying’s sort of strange at first.”
“Don’t let it bother you, old man,” replied Lieutenant Gandell. “This
old girl’s as steady as a parlor floor and you won’t know you’re up
till you look over the side. Here’s Mr. Clode now. You tie up to him
and get him to show you the ropes. By the way, we’re going up this
afternoon for an engine test if the wind doesn’t object. Mr. Clode,
here’s your new mate. Shake hands with Mr. Sterling.”
“We’ve met before, Mr. Gandell. How are you, Sterling? Glad to see you
here. Will it be all right to show him around, Mr. Traine?”
“Yes, yes, surely. Says he’s never been up yet. Better give him an
idea of things, what?”
“How’s the weather outside, Clode?” asked Lieutenant Jordan.
“Not a breath. Looks like we’ll make it, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, if they get that plane fixed up. Hope we can float by three. I’ll
see how they’re getting on back there.”
“Come on, Sterling,” said the ensign. “Meet the jolly old _Fate_!
There’s a ladder on the starboard side. Mind the new paint. The Old
Man’s mighty particular about his paint. I’ll go ahead and show the
way.”
A rough ladder made of joists and pieces of wood leaned against the
gondola, and up this the ensign climbed and Jack followed. In shape the
“boat” followed closely the lines of the big bag that loomed sixteen
feet above them. It was pointed at stem and stern and with its rounded
hull was not unlike a huge cigar in a gray wrapping. It was slightly
under fifty feet in length and was divided into four compartments, or
cockpits, connected with each other by a narrow fore-and-aft passage.
Standing in the engine cockpit, amidship, and looking ahead and astern
the likeness to a boat was at once apparent, although as a boat the
turtle-back construction would have suggested something novel and
freakish in the speed launch line. When, however, one viewed the
outboard engines, on platforms hung well away from the hull on each
side, the similarity to a boat was destroyed.
“Those are the new Enscott engines, vertical type,” explained
Ensign Clode knowingly. “Six cylinders, one-forty horsepower. Got a
contraption that takes the surplus hydrogen, mixes it with the right
amount of air and puts it back in the cylinders, saving gas. We made
sixty-two miles an hour the other day. Those are some engines, all
right!”
“They must be,” agreed Jack. “What are they stuck out there for,
though?”
“They’re air-cooled. Saves the weight of water, you see. Every pound
counts on a dirigible.”
The ensign explained the various controls in the cockpit, showing a
surprising familiarity with gas engines, at which Jack marveled. “I
understood from one of the officers that you were a radio man,” he said
laughingly, “but you talk as if you were the engineer.”
“Well, I’d like to be. I’ve always had a fondness for machinery and
engines and so on. I made Jordan tell me everything he knew the other
day. He’s the engineer officer, you know. I believe I could come pretty
close to running this thing if I had to. Poke your way up forward now.”
The bow cockpit was a diminutive place in the very nose of the hull.
Here, in what was known as the cockswain’s seat, was the post of the
directional pilot, Mr. Gandell, faced by a rounded and abruptly sloping
celluloid windshield and with instruments and controls disputing the
tiny space with him. It was his duty to keep the dirigible on its
path and to steer in a horizontal plane. The next cockpit, owing to
the widening of the “boat,” was more spacious. Here were seats for
commander and pilot. More instruments, an aërial sextant, compasses,
a drift indicator, and several other fascinating contrivances,
were arranged about them, while lockers for charts, books, flares,
binoculars and various other things took advantage of every inch of
space. This was the navigating station and from here, by means of
the different controls, the ship’s elevation was changed. The engine
cockpit came next, and abaft it were the big tanks of gasoline with a
total capacity of nearly six hundred gallons.
Jack learned that the _F 8_, speeded up to sixty miles an hour, had a
radius of approximately 2400 miles, and more with favoring winds; and
that under ideal conditions, alternating the engines at a thirty-mile
speed, she could stay aloft a hundred and ten hours.
Well toward the stern was the radio station, a roomy cockpit fitted
with both telegraph and telephone installations. Jack was acquainted
with each by this time, but the fact that this little space was to be
his post when on duty lent a new interest to the familiar instruments.
The “T” Antenna on the _F 8_ was stretched fore and aft inside the big
envelope overhead. The transmitter had a range of 600 miles and the
receiver of about 1100 miles. The radio telephone was, as the ensign
explained, good for four miles. The capacity ground wire was stretched
from the gondola to the rudder tail.
Back of the radio station a small companionway led downward into a
space some four feet high occupying most of the hull beneath the
cockpit floors. Here were four bunks for the use of the crew when off
duty, and here were the food supplies, drinking water tanks, cylinder
oil tanks and storage for extra parts, tools and so on. Two windows on
each side, covered with celluloid, admitted light and could be swung
open when desired. But, since they had to bend themselves almost double
to get around in the “hole,” the two didn’t remain there long.
Back in the radio cockpit, the ensign answered as best he could the
many questions that Jack’s mind had accumulated during the inspection.
The _F 8_ was one of twelve similar airships already constructed or in
course of construction. They were known as scout dirigibles, designed
for sustained flight at moderate speed and with low fuel consumption.
The construction was what was known as semi-rigid, the envelope being
distended by a skeleton framework of aluminum alloy. Inside the
envelope, distributed in pairs, were fourteen balloonets, or bags, of
goldbeater’s skin, having a total capacity of 120,000 cubic feet. These
held the helium gas that supplied the ship’s buoyancy.
“Great stuff, helium,” the ensign explained. “It’s non-inflammable,
you know. A couple of years ago, when these things were filled with
hydrogen, you had heart disease every time you ran into a thunder
storm, they say. If lightning happened to hit the bag, you――well,
you just got out and walked! Or you stuck around and got burned to a
cinder. You took your choice. And there was always danger from sparks
from the engine exhaust and from expansion from sun rays and a dozen
other things. But helium pays no attention to all that. You can walk
right up to a helium tank and flick a match at it and it won’t bite
you. Won’t even growl! The discovery of helium, or, anyway, of the
possibility of producing it in quantity, was one of the big things this
country did in the late war. And it was some little contribution to the
cause of Peace, believe me! It made balloons safe against gunfire, and
if the war had kept up a while longer we’d have shown the Huns a few
new tricks in plain and fancy Zeppelining that would have opened their
eyes!”
The envelope was 236 feet in length from nose to tail, with a greatest
diameter of 33 feet. The fabric, rubberized silk, was laid in three
layers and painted outside with a composition designed to prevent
disintegration by actinic rays. It was this paint that gave the silvery
appearance to the balloon.
Various devices which had escaped Jack’s notice at first now became
evident: the complete lighting system, including a good-sized
searchlight which, hung outboard, could be deflected straight downward
when desired, with running lights as aboard ship; red and green on
the sides and a red light at the tail; the ingenious contrivance
for cooking by means of the engine exhaust heat, as well as by an
electric stove; the sand-bags hanging along the side of the navigating
station; the provision at the bow for mounting a rapid-fire rifle; the
bomb-dropping device; the elaborate system of speaking tubes connecting
all parts of the boat; the controls from hull to envelope that governed
the valves of the gas bags; the long cables stretching back to rudder
and planes; the big two-blade propeller. His wonder and admiration grew
constantly, and the young ensign, already in love with the _Fate_, and
as proud of her as though he had built every inch of her himself, noted
it approvingly.
“Isn’t she some ship?” he asked.
“She’s a wonder!” declared Jack. “She’s so――so complete, too! Why, I
had no idea a dirigible was like this. I thought it was just a big
gas bag and a――a sort of place to stand in; I mean before I came down
here. But you can sleep and eat and cook and everything in this thing!
Wouldn’t I like to command one!”
“So would I,” agreed Clode. “Maybe some day――――” He broke off to stare
thoughtfully at the sunlit picture framed by the open end of the big
hangar. After a long moment he added, almost apologetically: “Ever
since I first climbed aboard the old girl I’ve had a sort of hunch
that――oh, well, that’s just piffle, I guess.” He laughed lightly. “Had
enough for now? Let’s get out, then.”
Later, the ensign’s words seemed to them to have been strangely
prophetic.