Derek's First Flight
Derek Daventry had passed through several medical examinations since
his entry as a cadet of the R.A.F. but this one in particular was a
thoroughly strenuous test. Having been put through the usual ordeal
as regards his keenness of vision and hearing, lung capacity, and
heart action only a few weeks previously, it came as a surprise that
he should again be "put through the mill". It was but one example of
the solicitude of the R.A.F. for its budding airmen, and of the
determination to receive the very best material for flying. The
authorities realize that it is easy for a reckless youth to ruin his
constitution in a very short time, and consequently no steps are
spared to keep the quirks in the very pink of condition.
The preliminary examination over, Derek had to undergo special tests
through which every cadet must emerge with credit before being
allowed to "take the air". Blindfolded, he was handed a small cube of
wood on which was a tuning-fork supported by a small disc. The cube
he had to lift vertically up and down three times without upsetting
the equilibrium of the fork. Then came the "walking the plank" test,
which consisted of traversing the length of a narrow plank while in
blindfolded condition. Followed, a variety of seemingly simple but
really intricate tests to prove the lad's capability of undergoing
various experiences that the art of successful flying entails. The
final one consisted of handing Daventry a wineglass brimful of water.
This he was told to hold, without allowing a drop to escape, while
quite unexpectedly a pistol-shot was fired within a few feet of his
left ear.
"Passed," was the M.O.'s crisp verdict; and Derek was curtly bidden
to dress and proceed to the flying instruction-ground.
Outside the cubicle he cannoned into Kaye, who had likewise passed
the ordeal.
"Didn't half give me a twisting, old man," he confided. "How many
more of these stunts are there before we get our wings?"
Together the chums made their way between the busy "shops" until they
reached the flying-ground--a vast expanse of closely-cropped turf,
bounded on three sides by shelters for the various types of 'planes.
Some of these shelters, hurriedly erected in the breathless days of
'14 and '15, were mere canvas "hangars" supported by a maze of rope
shrouds like gigantic tents. Others, prophetic of the permanency of
the infant science of aviation, were massive structures of
ferro-concrete, provided with huge sliding doors, and capable of
withstanding the heaviest gale. At various points long cone-shaped
bags of silk served to indicate the direction of the wind, the
knowledge of which is of paramount importance to the tyro in his
attempts to "take off" and "land" correctly.
Ungainly 'planes--for, like swans, they waddle awkwardly when out of
their natural element--were being hauled out of their hangars.
Others, taxi-ing under their own power, were lurching and rolling
over the grassy sward, each with a pair of panting, perspiring
mechanics hanging on to its long, tapering tail. Others were already
up, practising straightforward flying under the guidance of
experienced instructors, for fancy stunts, permitted only to the
cadets in the advanced courses, were forbidden in the immediate
vicinity of the aerodrome.
Donning leather coats and flying-helmets, and drawing on enormous
sheepskin garments that resembled exaggerated thigh-boots, the two
chums presented themselves at the chief instructor's office. That
worthy's reception of them was brief and to the point.
"Cadet Daventry, you're for K5; Cadet Kaye, G4. Mornin'."
"So we separate for the time being, George," remarked Derek, as the
twain left the building. "Good luck, old man. See you at lunch, I
hope."
The finding of K5, signifying the fifth hangar in K lines, afforded
no difficulty. Already the machine was out, four or five mechanics
being busily engaged in tuning-up the engine and testing the controls
under the observant eye of a young officer, who, apparently bored
stiff with the whole performance, was smoking a cigarette and
fondling a terrier pup--but one of the small army of mascots
maintained by the Averleigh T.D.S.
Lieutenant Rippondene, Derek's instructor, was in appearance an
overgrown schoolboy. As a matter of fact he was just twenty, and had
been flying at the front for more than two years, until a piece of
shrapnel had put a temporary stop to his activities in strafing the
Boche. Until he could prevail upon a normally adamant Medical Board
to allow him to cross the Channel again, he was being employed as
flight-instructor to the quirks of Averleigh Flying School.
He was full-faced, and showed a decided tendency towards corpulence.
In his flying-helmet and leather coat he strongly resembled a jovial
friar, and it would have been difficult to realize that those podgy
hands were capable of keeping a shrapnel-torn "'bus" under absolute
control. On one occasion he had been beset by five Huns, yet,
according to the testimony of his observer, "the old merchant was
grinning from ear to ear during the whole strafe".
"Hop in!" was the Lieutenant's greeting, much in the manner of a
motorist offering a youngster a lift on the road.
Derek obeyed, clambering into the fuselage of the double-seater
"Dromedary" by means of metal-shod niches in the side of the
khaki-painted body.
The instructor, throwing aside quite two-thirds of the original
length of the cigarette, followed, and, dropping into his seat like a
crab retiring to its lair, drew on a pair of gauntlets.
"Right-o!" he continued. "Tell 'em to swing her."
"Contact, sir--contact off," was the continued slogan of the air
mechanic, as he strove to swing the large two-bladed propeller, or
"prop." as it is invariably termed in the R.A.F.
Nothing of the desired nature resulting, Derek turned and looked
enquiringly at his instructor. Rippondene's face was wreathed in
smiles, for his pupil had forgotten an elementary task.
"You're doing the job, George--not I," he remarked. "Carry on, and
make a move."
At the next swing of the propeller the engine fired. Only the skids
under the landing prevented the Dromedary from rolling forward over
the ground. Now was the time for Derek to put weeks of theoretical
instruction to the test. A touch of the throttle and the powerful
engine roared "all out", the vast and seemingly slender fabric of the
'bus quivering under the strain, while the tyro pilot was almost
beaten backwards against the coaming of the seat by the terrific
blast from the rapidly-revolving prop.
The cadet waved his hand over the side of the fuselage--the
recognized signal for the mechanics to remove the skids. Slowly at
first, then gradually gaining speed, the Dromedary ambled across the
ground, the propeller raising enormous clouds of dust, while small
spurts of warm castor oil were ejected from the engine and blown back
by the wind into the goggled face of the young pilot. Unable to gauge
the biplane's speed, Derek held on until the instructor bellowed
plaintively into his ear:
"Get a move on, my lad; you're in a 'bus, not trundling a hoop along
a road."
Thus stimulated Daventry actuated the elevating-lever. Submissively
the huge machine parted company with mother earth, so gently and
evenly that it was only the change of vibration that told Derek of
the fact.
"By Jove!" muttered the lad. "I'm up now. Wonder how I'll get down
again." Ahead, owing to the tilt of the blunt nose of the machine, he
could see nothing but sky and fleecy clouds. It was only when he
glanced over the side that he saw the hangars already dwarfed to the
size of dolls' houses.
The ecstacy of it all! To find himself controlling a swift aerial
steed, to handle the responsive joystick, and to make the machine
turn obediently to a slight pressure on the rudder-bar. Anxiety was
cast to the winds. The sheer lust of flight in the exhilarating
atmosphere gripped the cadet in its entirety.
Again Derek leant over and surveyed the now distant earth from a
height of three thousand feet, as shown by the altimeter. But for the
furious rush of wind there was little sensation of speed, nor was he
in any degree affected by the height above the ground. Without the
faintest inconvenience he could watch the vast panorama beneath him,
and distinguish white ribands as dusty roads, and the variegated
patches of green denoting cultivated fields, meadows, and clumps of
trees. Although previously warned of the fact, he was nevertheless
surprised at the aspect of the ground, which presented the appearance
of a flat plain. Hills--and there were plenty in the vicinity of
Averleigh--had visually ceased to exist.
Suddenly the pleasing prospect was interrupted by a disconcerting
movement of the hitherto docile biplane. Akin to the sensation of
being in a lift that is unexpectedly put in motion, Derek found
himself dropping, while at the same time the clinometer, an
instrument for indicating the heel of the aerial craft, showed a dip
of thirty-five degrees. Instinctively Derek sought to regain a state
of stability, but the joy-stick seemed powerless to essay the task.
For a brief instant Daventry wondered what was happening. It seemed
to him that, notwithstanding his efforts, the 'bus was dropping
earthwards, and that the tractive powers of the prop. were futile.
Then, with a series of sharp jerks, the 'plane regained its normal
state of progression.
"Pocket," explained Rippondene, speaking into the voice-tube that
formed a means of communication between instructor and pupil. "You'll
soon get used to them; carry on--up to four thousand."
It was Derek's first "bump"--a vertical fall through fifty or a
hundred feet, owing to the machine encountering a patch of thin air,
or what is known to airmen as a pocket.
"Look ahead!" came the warning. "There's another 'bus."
Approaching each other at an aggregate speed of a hundred and fifty
miles an hour the two biplanes swerved discreetly, for both were
steered by quirks who took no risks. There are certain hard-and-fast
rules of the air which have to be obeyed with as much precision as
the mariner has to conform to the rule of the road at sea.
They passed a good two hundred yards apart, but almost immediately
Derek's 'bus started rocking and rolling in a disconcerting fashion
as it encountered the backwash of air from the now rapidly receding
biplane.
Revelling in the novel situation, Derek held on, occasionally turning
his machine in a wide circle and resisting any great inclination to
bank. He felt as if he could carry on indefinitely, so exhilarating
was the rush through the air, until the voice of his mentor sounded
in his ear.
"How about it?" it enquired brusquely. "I want my lunch even if you
don't. Back you go, my festive."
Derek swung the machine round until the needle of the compass showed
that the Dromedary was flying in the reverse direction, but very soon
the disconcerting truth became apparent. In his wild joy-ride he had
neglected to take bearings and allow for the side-drift of the wind.
He was lost.
"Won't do to admit that," he soliloquized. "I'll bluff the old
buffer, and trust to luck."
For nearly ten minutes he flew by compass course, the while studying
the expanse of ground three thousand feet below. Away to the
south'ard he could discern the coast-line, quite forty miles distant.
Evidently under the action of the south-westerly breeze the biplane
had side-drifted more than thirty miles.
Flecks of whitish vapour glided rapidly beneath the aeroplane. The
sky was beginning to become overcast. Viewed from the ground those
clouds would probably appear dark and semi-opaque. Viewed from above,
and bathed in the brilliant sunshine, they were white as driven snow.
Setting a compass course to counteract the current, Daventry flew
steadily for twenty minutes. By the end of this time the ground was
invisible. Reluctantly he resolved to dive through the clouds in
order to verify his position. It seemed a thousand pities to plunge
out of the sunshine, but his instructor was becoming impatient. The
novelty of joy-riding in the air had long since worn off as far as
Rippondene was concerned, whereas the pangs of hunger are not easily
to be denied.
A slight touch of the aileron actuating-gear and the descent began.
Cutting out the engine, Derek let the machine vol-plane. It was a
delicious, exciting, nerve-tingling sensation. In silence, save for
the rush of the air past the struts and tension-wires, the huge
fabric glided with great rapidity, momentarily nearing the extensive
bank of snow-white clouds.
Instinctively Derek shut his eyes as the dazzling mantle of vapour
appeared to rise and envelop him. The next moment the biplane was
plunging through the mist, in which the light gradually diminished
until it was like being in a room in the twilight.
No longer was the needle of the compass visible. Even the luminous
point failed to show so much as a faint glow. Sense of stability,
too, was lost. Whether the machine was banking steeply or volplaning
naturally was a matter for conjecture. All Derek knew was that the
'bus was moving rapidly, not under its own volition, but solely under
the unseen and unfelt force of gravity. Then, like an express train
emerging from a tunnel, the old 'bus, rocking and plunging, shot out
of the cloud-bank. Shaking the moisture from his goggles, Derek
restarted his engine, and then looked somewhat anxiously over the
side. Almost the first object that met his gaze was the Averleigh
aerodrome at a distance of about two miles.
"In sight of home," soliloquized the lad grimly; "but now comes the
hardest part--landing. Hope I don't pancake or try to land below the
ground."
"Pancaking", it must be explained, consists in getting as much way
off the machine as possible, and dropping practically vertically.
Unless the correct height and drop be gauged normally about three
feet--the machine is almost sure to "crash". Pancaking is only
deliberately resorted to when one is forced to land in standing corn,
stubble, or flooded ground.
"Landing below the ground" is a term applied to an underestimation of
the vertical distance when pancaking. Although of comparatively rare
occurrence, its results are even more disastrous than overestimating
the fall, and the crash almost invariably wrecks the machine
completely and costs the pilot his life.
Turning, so as to fly into the wind, Daventry made the plunge. Intent
upon his task, he completely forgot the presence of his mentor, who,
ready at an instant's notice to operate the "dual-control" mechanism,
was silently yet critically watching his pupil.
The ground appeared to be rising to greet the descending
aeroplane--slowly at first, then with disconcerting acceleration.
There was no time to stop and think; what had to be done must be done
promptly, almost automatically. An error of judgment would certainly
result in a crash of more or less seriousness.
"Now!" exclaimed Derek aloud, although he knew not why. The nose of
the machine rose slightly; there was a perceptible jar, another, and
then a series of bumps that decreased in force although they
increased in duration. Mechanically the young pilot cut off his
engine, and after travelling a few yards the 'plane came to a
standstill.
"By Jove! I've landed," he soliloquized. "Wonder how I did it?"
Rippondene clambered out, sliding to the ground, and began to swing
his arms to restore the circulation.
"Hurry up, old bird!" he exclaimed pleasantly. "We're the last down,
and lunch will be over if we don't look sharp. Yes, we'll make a good
airman of you yet. You've got it in you. Matter of fact I only had to
touch the joy-stick once, and that was when you tried to loop the
loop in that cloud. Didn't know you did, eh? I'm not surprised. We've
all been in the same boat."