THE WAY OF THE AIR
THE WAY
OF THE AIR
A DESCRIPTION OF MODERN AVIATION
BY
EDGAR C. MIDDLETON
(“AN AIR PILOT”)
LATE FLIGHT SUB-LIEUT., R.N.; AUTHOR OF “AIRCRAFT”
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1917, by_
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_All rights reserved including that of translation
into foreign languages_
Dedication
TO THE MEMORY OF FRIENDS
WHO HAVE FALLEN IN THE GREAT FIGHT
Captain ADRIAN LIDDELL, V.C., R.F.C.
Flight Sub-Lieut. R. A. J. WARNEFORD, V.C., R.N.
Flight Lieut. ROSHER, R.N.
Flight Lieut. TALBOT, R.N.
Flight Lieut. GRAHAM, R.N.
Flight Commander BEARD, R.N.
Captain BASIL HALLAM RADFORD, R.F.C.
AND
Second-Lieut. ARTHUR FISHER, R.F.C.
“WHO FOUND GLORY ONLY BECAUSE
GLORY LAY IN THE PLAIN PATH OF DUTY”
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The idea of this little book is to give as clear and graphic a
description of modern aviation as circumstances will permit; of the
new, heroic race of men to which Flying has given birth; of the
conditions under, and the elements in, which their work is carried
out, and the difficulties and dangers they have to encounter. Flying
is essentially a profession for the younger generation. The strain
is too great for men of more mature years. To withstand such strain
requires all the vigor, the recklessness, the iron nerve of youth. It
is a profession that offers an irresistible appeal to healthy-minded,
sport-loving youth, to whom adventure is the nectar of existence.
The writer’s chief endeavor in the opening chapters has been to help
the young man who wishes to adopt “Flying” as a profession. Part II
of the book is composed of a collection of incidents taken from the
diary of an air pilot on Active Service somewhere in the North of
France. They are given in their original form. I also wish to thank
the editors of the _Daily Mail_, _Daily Express_, _Daily Chronicle_,
_Evening News_, and _Boys’ Friend_ for their courtesy in permitting me
to use, in a few instances, material embodied in articles appearing in
their journals.
E. C. M.
_London, 1917._
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
PART I
THE SERVICE AIRMAN IN THE MAKING
AUTHOR’S NOTE vii
INTRODUCTION 3
I. JOINING THE SERVICE 10
II. THE AIRMAN’S FIRST DAYS 17
III. THE INITIAL FLIGHT 23
IV. THE PERILS OF THE AIR 28
V. THE SPIRIT OF THE AIR 34
VI. SEAPLANES 40
VII. A ZEPPELIN CHASE 48
VIII. THE COMPLETE AIRMAN 53
PART II
ON ACTIVE SERVICE
IX. BEHIND THE FIRING LINE 61
X. THE FIRST TRIP ACROSS THE LINE 66
XI. SOME ANECDOTES 74
XII. SPORT EXTRAORDINARY 81
XIII. A BALLOON-TRIP BY NIGHT 85
XIV. THE BATTLE OF THE WOOD 92
XV. A TIGHT CORNER 97
XVI. AN AIR FIGHT WITH A HUN 108
XVII. A GREAT RAID 114
XVIII. A DAY-DREAM 123
XIX. A MID-AIR BATTLE 127
XX. A BATTLE FROM ABOVE 132
XXI. A TRUE STORY OF THE WAR 136
XXII. HEROISM IN THE AIR 144
PART III
OTHER CRAFT AND THE FUTURE
XXIII. THE EVOLUTION OF THE AIRSHIP 151
XXIV. LAWS OF THE AIR 161
XXV. AERIAL COMBAT 166
XXVI. THE AIR--THE WAR--AND THE FUTURE 170
PART I
THE SERVICE AIRMAN IN THE MAKING
INTRODUCTION
In writing of modern aviation it is to be regretted that the sport or
science, call it what you will, was developed more in two years by the
war than would have been possible in twenty-two years under normal
conditions. Prior to 1914 we did not look upon aircraft and aviation
with the degree of interest that their useful qualities warranted.
Instead we were apt to regard them rather in the manner of a sporting
spectacle, in much the same light as a football match, or a boxing
entertainment, or as the _pièce de résistance_ of the showmen; thus
aircraft, the greatest and most potential discovery of all the ages,
had to prove their worth in the maiming of humanity and the destruction
of property.
Quietly and unobtrusively they were introduced into the plans of war;
it must be admitted greatly despised and with a strong feeling of
repugnance. Gradually--so gradually as almost to be unnoticed--they
began to prove their worth.
From the very first days of the war it began to be realized that we
must have aircraft. Our large Navy was in desperate need of seaplanes
to hunt the enemy warships from their lairs and his merchantmen from
the seas. In the same way our tiny Army required aeroplanes, but for a
somewhat different reason: to be prepared against all enemy surprises,
which in those desperate days of early 1914 would have been fatal.
As the war developed, the various belligerents began to settle down,
to restore order from the chaos, and to prepare for a long and arduous
campaign. Then the cry came for aircraft, more and more aircraft. In
England the great engineering shops and factories were peremptorily
ordered by the Government to abandon their work and to construct
aeroplanes as fast as they were able. Meanwhile the enemy, who had
long been prepared, began to obtain an overwhelming mastery of the
air--it will always remain a mystery why he did not use his aircraft
to better effect at Mons and the Marne. After four and six months,
fresh craft came out from England, and it was then the enemy, in
his turn, was driven from the air. For some time we were allowed to
retain that mastery, then the enemy came along with a rush with the
new and powerful Albatross and Aviatik, and again we retired into the
background for a time. Meanwhile, aeroplane factories were springing up
all over the country, and the production of machines was going up by
leaps and bounds;--undeniable proof this of the value such craft were
to the military commanders. Thus the mad race went on. Fast, graceful,
single-seater scouts, slower and larger reconnaissance craft; huge,
powerful-engined battle-planes made their appearance in quantities
hitherto undreamt of, and were dispatched in never-ending stream across
the Channel, there to play their part in the war.
Dipping into the past, it may be said that by 1784 flight by balloon
was well under way, and that year a woman--Madame Thible--made a
trip in the presence of King Gustavus III of Sweden, that lasted
three-quarters of an hour. She reached an altitude of 9000 feet. The
following year the first cross-channel trip was made by Blanchard,
with an American doctor named Jefferies for passenger, together with
a supply of provisions and ballast. This weighed the balloon down to
so great an extent that she almost sank into the sea a few moments
after starting. Ballast was thrown overboard and she rose, only to sink
down again. Hurriedly more ballast was dropped, but it had no effect,
and was followed by everything on which the aeronauts could lay their
hands, including provisions, books and a mass of correspondence. At
last the French coast loomed into view, but the balloon was now sinking
rapidly. The wings were thrown overboard, but that had no effect.
The aeronauts commenced to strip themselves of their clothing. Then
Jefferies proposed to jump over the side into the water, and was about
to do so, when the balloon rose suddenly into the air, and they landed
on the hills behind Calais.
Aircraft played a great part in the Franco-Prussian war, and during the
siege of Paris alone as many as 66 balloons left the stricken city,
carrying 60 pilots, 102 passengers, 409 carrier pigeons, 9 tons of
letters and telegrams, and 6 dogs. Five of the dogs were sent back to
Paris, but were lost and never heard of again, while 57 of the carrier
pigeons carried 100,000 messages. Of the 66 balloons 58 got through, 5
fell into German hands, and 2 into the sea.
Among the more historical trips is that of Gaston Tissandier, who went
over the German lines, and dropped 10,000 copies of a proclamation
addressed to the soldiers, asking for peace, yet declaring that France
would fight to the bitter end.
In South Africa an observation balloon was in use at Ladysmith for
twenty-nine days, doing extremely useful work in spotting the Boer
artillery. The pilot of an observation balloon reported the enemy’s
position on Spionkop to be impregnable, and, at Paardeberg, another
disclosed the precise position of Cronje’s force and directed our
artillery fire thereon.
Of all the Great Powers, Italy is more responsible, perhaps, than any
other for the evolution of aircraft. From the sixteenth century the
most accomplished Italian scientists have given their attention to the
solving of the riddle of the air. Such names as Leonardo da Vinci and
Fausto Varanzio stand out prominently in the history of aviation; and
to-day the Italian rigid airships are the best in the world. It was,
however, mainly due to the efforts of two Frenchmen that prominence
was first given to aircraft. Joseph and Stephen Montgolfier were the
sons of a rich paper-maker of Annoney, and the story goes that, while
rowing, Stephen’s silk coat fell overboard into the water. When drying
the coat it was noticed that the hot air tended to make it rise, and
the upshot of the affair was the Montgolfier balloon. Since those
days France has devoted herself almost entirely to the development of
aeroplanes, which are second only to those of German manufacture. To
the latter power honor, however unwilling, must be given as regards
aircraft. On the outbreak of war her aeroplanes were the finest in
the world, and her Zeppelins were beyond comparison. Great Britain
possessed an advantageous lead in the matter of aeroplanes.
The development of aviation in this country was mainly due to the
untiring efforts of the Royal Aero Club affiliated to the Fédération
Aéronique International; and the splendid encouragement of the
proprietors of the _Daily Mail_, who generously put aside an aggregate
sum of £37,000 towards prize-money for aeronautical events. The
Fédération Aéronique had already branches in America, Argentine,
Austria, Belgium, Britain, Denmark, France, Germany, Holland, Hungary,
Italy, Norway, Portugal, Russia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland. In England
the R.A.C. controlled every matter connected with aviation, such as
the arranging and governing of competitions, the granting of pilots’
certificates, and the ruling of the air. Up to August, 1914, they had
already granted 926 certificates, of which 863 were aeroplane, 24
airship and 39 aeronaut (balloon). The first of their competitions for
the Britannia Challenge Trophy was carried off by Captain C. A. N.
Longcroft, R.F.C., in 1913 with a flight from Montrose to Farnborough
via Portsmouth, a distance in a direct line of 445 miles. It was the
R.A.C. that arranged the _Daily Mail_ competitions, several of which
have yet to be carried out, including the £10,000 Cross-Atlantic (by
aeroplane). The _Daily Mail_ International Cross-country flight for
£1,000 was won by Louis Blériot, July 25, 1909: it is needless to
remark that this flight has now become an everyday occurrence. The
£10,000 London to Manchester flight was awarded to Louis Paulhan
(France). The second £10,000 circuit of Britain of 1010 miles was
carried off by André Beaumont; and J. T. C. Brabazon was successful
in the National _Daily Mail_ £1000 for a flight of one mile in an All
British machine.
The highest altitude that had been reached in Great Britain was 14,920
feet; the greatest distance flown 287 miles; and the longest duration 8
hours 23 minutes.
Whether we were prepared for the war is a matter for too extensive a
discussion for this little book, but the fact remains that the number
of firms engaged in the manufacturing of aeroplanes could be counted on
both hands, and that we were without a useful and reliable engine of
British construction.
CHAPTER I
JOINING THE SERVICE
The Air Service is young, very young; it is like an overgrown
schoolboy, strong, healthy and full of life, but lacking just that
sense of proportion that distinguishes the schoolboy from the man. It
is wise, for it is endowed with the wisdom of initiative, courage and
resource. Turned loose into an entirely novel and little understood
element, it has had to create its own methods of procedure, its own
ideals, its own traditions. Reference to the policies and the formulas
of past generations are impossible, for there are none!
The main principles of aerial warfare are entirely new; in every
combat, and in every raid, some precedent is established, some new
form or theory of attack is set up. To the airman every day is alike.
In times of peace he risks his neck as much as he does in time of war,
save that engaged in the latter he has the additional unpleasantness
of shell fire. He willingly gives all, but asks for nothing. He is the
knight-errant of the twentieth century.
In days of the past, it was the cavalryman, wounded and galloping
across country, with a hundred foemen hard at his heels, who first
brought news of the enemy to the general in command. His was a pleasant
occupation, that smacked largely of daring and romance. He stood an
excellent chance of getting a bullet through his lungs, or of being
clapped into an enemy prison. To-day there comes flying across the
heavens a resolute young hero, in a few feet of wood and fabric,
throwing defiance to shot and shell alike, suspended thousands of feet
up between heaven and earth, peering from that swaying aeroplane at the
panorama of the earth beneath.
This is the age of science and invention. War on and over the earth, on
and under the sea. For many years we have steadily been putting behind
us the barbarities of our forbears, we have become more civilized, and,
though more civilized, more barbarous. This is no paradox; science has
made great and wonderful strides, but science has been more devilishly
ingenious than any torture of Spanish Inquisition days.
The airmen who pilot their frail craft over hill and valley, sea and
land, across cloud and through fog and mist, are the privateers of
modern times; but for them there can be no capture, no quarter: only
victory or a thousand feet drop to the cruel earth below. Through their
young veins must flow the blood of a Drake, of a Philip Sidney, of a
Nelson. Theirs must be the courage of a conqueror, the heart of a lion,
the nerve of a colossus.
No bounded ocean is their sea, but the infinity of space. The ship’s
compass is their best friend; for they maneuver their craft like a ship
at sea. Wind and weather affect them as they would a mariner. For rock,
shoal, sandbank and channel there are the high hills, the tall factory
stack, the church steeple, and the deep valley. Landmarks there are,
but always below, not on either side. Railways, roads, rivers, fields,
woods and hills form the color scheme of the surface of the earth, by
which the air pilot steers a course.
This, the youngest and most important Service, is essentially one _for_
the young man and _of_ the young man: a Service the future of which is
being steadily built up by the “muddied oafs and flanneled fools” of
the playing-fields of the public schools of Great Britain.
Immediately after leaving school is the most perplexing period in a
boy’s life. Not only for the boy himself, but for his parents, for then
has to be considered his future career. What is the boy capable of?
What are his own personal wishes? What profession is he best adapted
for physically? It is indeed a momentous question.
It is worse than useless for the boy fond of good, wholesome,
out-of-door exercises and games to be put into an office or to study
for the Bar, or to mope his young life away pen-driving. And, on
the other hand, it is a positive torture for the youth with distinct
literary taste, or love of things scholastic, to take up a Commission
in one of the Services, or to go in for farming or a similar profession.
Taking everything into consideration, at least eighty per cent. of
boys may be grouped into the former class--that is to say, they wish
to adopt a healthy, open-air profession; and for this type of youth
nothing can be better, and nothing can offer greater inducements, than
the profession of the airman. It is a calling that appeals irresistibly
to a boy’s heart.
The best possible training for the pilot of the air are outdoor sports
and games. Football, which teaches the boy to keep his head in all
emergencies, to keep his feelings always well under control, and to
learn to obey implicitly the discipline of the referee’s whistle will
prove invaluable to him when learning to fly, when he will be subject
to every kind and manner of unexpected and sudden mishap and accident.
Cricket will teach him patience, judgment--so invaluable when landing
an aeroplane (which, incidentally, is by far the most difficult feat to
accomplish in flying)--and a steady eye.
Swimming and running will develop those muscles of the back and thigh
which are used extensively in the pilotage of the aeroplanes.
Again, the sensation of a horse jumping a hedge is exactly similar to
that of an aeroplane just getting off from the ground. With ski-ing,
on the other hand, there is the feeling--and, in fact, the action--of
plunging desperately into what, at the first attempt, appears to be an
interminable and awful space. This is exactly the feeling experienced
by the novice in his first trip up aloft. There is a strong similarity
to ski-ing at the moment that the nose of the machine is suddenly put
down, and she commences to sink rapidly towards the earth.
The next matter to be taken into consideration is that of physical
peculiarities. The would-be pilot must be neither too tall nor too
short. This is essentially a matter to do with the steering of the
aeroplane. If he is too tall, he will find himself very cramped in the
confined space between the pilot-seat and the rudder-bar. If he is too
short he will discover that his legs will not be long enough to reach
that all-important adjunct.
Again with regard to weight, for preference he should be on the light
side. There is not very much room in an aeroplane, and, for reasons
with which we will deal, the machine is only capable of lifting up to a
certain weight.
Take into consideration that an aeroplane is often required to take
up two passengers, not to mention bombs, grenades, spare petrol and a
machine-gun; every extra pound of weight is of the utmost importance.
His stomach must be strong, for with a weak stomach he will be liable
to air-sickness.
Further, he must be possessed of good health. He must not suffer from
heart trouble. It has been proved by several very eminent doctors
that the rise and the descent through the various altitudes of the
atmosphere effect the heart greatly.
Again, he must have good eyesight. This is imperative, for the best
part of his work will take place at an altitude of ten thousand feet
above the earth. The best age for an air pilot is between nineteen and
twenty-four.
The life of a pilot--that is to say, his flying life--varies from three
to five years; I may say eighteen months under war conditions. Never
more. The great strain on the nerves, although not felt at the time,
begins to make itself apparent after two years of flying; then the
pilot discovers that he is no longer so keen on going up as he was,
that he gets “cold feet” more frequently than he was wont to do in the
early days, that he has no longer the nerve to do the little tricks,
upon the performance of which he formerly prided himself.
A good air-pilot must be born so, he cannot be made. After years of
experience a man may become expert in trick flying, landing, getting
off, etc.; but, however long and however diligently he may strive, he
can never become the equal of the natural pilot.
Before applying for a Commission in either Service the aspirant to
flying honors must first decide which of the two branches he wishes to
take up. The two branches, by the way, are pilotage and observation.
The difference between the two I will here briefly endeavor to explain.
The pilot is concerned with the flying of the machine, the care of the
engine, spare parts, etc., and is responsible for the general condition
of the craft; also to see that it is properly tested before each flight.
On the other hand, the observer has a great many subjects to learn. He
must be at one and the same time wireless expert, gunner, rifle-shot,
artist, photographer and map-maker. He must know something about heavy
artillery.
The observer in the Royal Flying Corps is given equal rank to the
pilot, but can only wear a half-wing on his tunic where the pilot has
full wings.
In the Royal Naval Air Service observers are permitted to wear the bird
on their sleeve immediately on joining. However, they are of different
rank from the pilot, being either lieutenants or sub-lieutenants, Royal
Naval Volunteer Reserve.
CHAPTER II
THE AIRMAN’S FIRST DAYS
The appointment to a commission in one of the flying services can be
either temporary or permanent. The former holds good until the end
of the war, the latter for as long as the would-be airman wishes to
retain it. For a period of from four to six months he must undergo a
probationary course; if after that time he has served satisfactorily he
will be confirmed in his rank.
Upon first joining up he will receive a uniform allowance of £20, and
at the confirmation a further £20. These amounts should easily cover
his requirements and enable him to buy a complete flying outfit. During
the probationary period he will receive 14_s._ a day in pay; when he
is confirmed in rank, 18_s._ a day in the Royal Naval Air Service, and
20_s._ per day in the Royal Flying Corps.
Service etiquette plays a prominent part in the matter of uniform. In
the military wing he will be expected to wear the button-over tunic
and forage cap of the Flying Corps, with breeches and long brown
field-boots.
In the R.N.A.S. the matter of dress is a more difficult and more
delicate one. In the first place, with regard to the cap, there are
four entirely separate badges in the Naval Service: they are (1) the
big silver anchor and the gold crown of the regular Navy; (2) the
smaller replica of the Royal Naval Reserve; and of the Royal Naval
Volunteer Reserve, to which latter branch the aeroplane observer always
belongs; and lastly the silver bird of the R.N.A.S., worn only by
pilots.
In hosiery the naval flying man must confine his taste to plain white
shirts with collars to match; black ties, and socks of the plain black
variety. His shoes must be unadorned of toecap, and it is a cardinal
sin to leave the buttons of his jacket undone, if he reveal as much as
a button of the waistcoat beneath.
There is an amusing story told concerning a famous English airman who
has since resigned from the R.N.A.S. On the occasion of his appointment
to the Service he had to visit a certain big man at the Admiralty, and
arrived there in the brass hat of a full-blown naval commander, with
a black-and-white striped tie, in which there coyly reposed a large
diamond pin.
When the interview was over the big man called him back.
“You’ve forgotten something.”
“What is it, sir?” the airman inquired.
“Your pink shirt and your purple socks,” was the reply.
Another new hand--an Australian--presented himself to the astonished
and apoplectic commanding officer of his first station wearing a blue
monkey-jacket, white flannel trousers, green socks, and brown shoes.
Luckily he was a good-tempered youth, or he would never have been able
to live down the subsequent ragging he got from all the other members
of his mess.
Flying-clothes must be the warmest procurable: a black or brown leather
coat lined with lamb’s wool, with trousers to match. Good flying-coats
cost from three to five guineas, and the trousers range from a guinea
to thirty shillings in price.
A khaki balaclava helmet, a wool-lined aviation cap fitting closely
round the skull, and costing approximately half-a-guinea. A pair of
triplex glass goggles, price 12_s._ 6_d._--cheaper ones of ordinary
glass can be obtained as cheap as 3_s._ 6_d._--but it is always
advisable to get triplex, as in the event of a smash-up ordinary glass
would splinter, fly into the eyes and possibly blind one for life.
A good pair of leather gauntlets, large enough in size to permit the
wearing of a warmer pair of woolen gloves beneath, and a gray sweater
to wear underneath the leather coat are all that are required, bringing
the total cost to about £6.
As in other professions and walks in life, a certain slang has sprung
into being in flying circles, and this the new hand will discover will
take him a considerable time to pick up--at least, with any degree of
satisfaction or success.
First he will discover that a “quirk” or a “hun” is no less a person
than a youngster who aspires to flying honors, and who has not yet
taken his ticket. Even the aeroplanes themselves have nicknames, as the
“Bristol Bullet,” so called because of its peculiar shape.
Airships and balloons are always referred to--and somewhat
contemptuously, it must be admitted--by aeroplane pilots as “gasbags.”
The small, silver-colored airships that are to be seen occasionally
floating over a certain western suburb of London are known in the
Service as “Babies,” on account of their diminutive size; on the other
hand as “Blimps,” and again as “S.S.’s”--submarine seekers--that being
their principal duty when on active service.
Various parts of the machine have their own particular nickname, as the
“fuselage,” or body which contains the engine, pilot and observer’s
seats, and the petrol tanks. That wonderful control lever which is
placed immediately before the pilot’s seat in the fuselage, and which
maneuvers the machine both upwards and downwards, and to the left
and to the right, or, in the terms used by R.N.A.S., to port and to
starboard, is known as the “joy-stick.” No self-respecting pilot will
ever refer to a trip in the air as such, but rather as a “joy-ride.” A
bomb-dropping expedition or a raid he speaks of as a “stunt.”
To “nose-dive” is for the front portion of the machine to plunge
suddenly downwards at an angle of approximately ninety degrees with
the earth. To “pancake,” the aeroplane must fall flat to the earth. It
is possible sometimes to recover from a “nose-dive,” but never from
a “pancake.” Sometimes in banking--turning in mid-air--a pilot will
overdo the angle at which he turns; the result is that the machine
commences to rotate, and whirls round like a humming-top; this, again,
invariably develops into a “nose-dive,” and is known as a “spin.”
The majority of pilots, when first starting off, run their machines
some distance across the aerodrome, then rise gradually at an angle of
about fifteen degrees with the earth; others, on the other hand, prefer
to run their machine a considerably greater distance across the ground,
and, thus attaining a much greater speed, to rise almost vertically
for about two hundred feet, then to flatten out and bring the machine
level: this trick is known as “zumming.”
To “switchback” is to fly up and down, up and down, as the name implies.
Immediately after leaving the ground the aeroplane invariably commences
to plunge and to dive like a ship in a stormy sea--this is when it
enters a patch of rarefied air known as a “bump”; this latter often
causes the machine to drop suddenly, and drops of as much as two
hundred feet at a time have been recorded.
No airman is capable of talking through his hat--at least, not
literally, for he does not possess such a thing, that article of his
attire always being referred to as a “gadget.”
To have “cold feet” in the air is to have a bad attack of nerves or
funk. One day at Hendon, before the war, a well-meaning but somewhat
dense journalist attached to a big London daily was told Hamel was
suffering from “cold feet.”
Imagining that “cold feet” meant some ailment of the feet, like
chilblains, and solicitous for his welfare, this enterprising
individual approached the famous airman immediately after his descent
from a trip up above.
“Excuse me asking, but is it true that you suffer from cold feet, Mr.
Hamel?” he asked.
Hamel’s reply is not recorded.
CHAPTER III
THE INITIAL FLIGHT
Once in the Service, the R.N.A.S. man may be selected for one of three
branches of flying, namely, seaplane, aeroplane--which, incidentally,
is far preferable to any other branch, and holds forth more opportunities
of active service--and kite balloon, probably the safest and most
comfortable job of the war, but dull--deadly dull.
For the sake of those of my readers who do not know of the captive
kite-balloon, I will here briefly explain. It is a queer sausage-shaped
craft, that is tethered to a steam-winch on the ground somewhere
beneath it by means of a stout steel cable. Usually situated some five
or six miles behind the firing-line, the basket of the balloon will
only hold two observers at one time. It is connected to the big guns by
telephone, and is useful for the direction of artillery fire, which it
does by telling the men at the guns whether their shells are falling
over, under, or to the left or right of the target that they are aiming
at.
The first day in the life of the “new hand” at the Service school is
not always the pleasantest of memories. He discovers that, from a man
of parts, he has suddenly been converted into a very junior sub, and is
at the beck and call of every member of the mess, with as much or more
gold braid on the sleeve of their uniform.
For the first few days he is allowed to wander round at his own sweet
will, in order to get the hang of things. To him the matter of greatest
importance are the machines, for very often he has never even seen an
aeroplane at close quarters, and should he be foolish enough to ask
absurd questions, he will always find some one ready with a fitting
answer.
He will be told wondrous stories of the time the machines will remain
in the air, the breakneck speed at which they will travel, and of the
enormous height to which they will climb.
The next most important thing to the actual flying is a thorough
knowledge of wireless telegraphy, for without a wireless instrument
on board an aeroplane is little better than useless to the army in
the field; and, having got the wireless set on board, the pilot or
the observer--whosesoever duty it is--must be able to send messages,
clearly and distinctly, on the Morse key.
A good tip to the youngster thinking of taking up flying for a
profession is to buy a copy of the Morse code, and learn it off by
heart. Then to get a “buzzer” or a Morse key (both of which can be
obtained for the sum of 5_s._ 6_d._), and to teach himself to read by
sound.
In Service circles the dot and the dash of the Morse code are known
as “iddy” and “umpty,” respectively. It is a simple matter to learn
to send and to receive wireless signals; but to know how to erect and
dismantle a wireless set, and to have a sound knowledge of the theory
and the working of the thing, and to be able to take to pieces or to
repair at a moment’s notice, any portion of the instrument that may get
out of order, is a more difficult matter.
That requires several months to acquire, but the “Quirk” will be given
a useful, though somewhat “short,” course under an expert wireless
operator before he is expected to know these things.
At last the great day arrives when he goes for his first trip up aloft.
After donning a leather coat, and trousers to match, a skull cap and
goggles, he is ready for the fray, and sits himself gingerly beside
what at the first seems to him to be a particularly violent and a
particularly ill-disposed individual with a simple wonderful flow of
language, an instructor in a “box-kite.” Then the engine is set going.
The instructor bawls some remark into his ear, which, for the life
of him, he cannot catch. A long and rapid journey across the bumpy
ground, a weird sensation of rising into space and he is up in the air
at last. Then the machine gets into the “bumps”; she dips, and drops,
and sways, first to one side and then to the other, until the poor
unfortunate individual begins to wonder if he will ever get safely to
the ground again.
There is a pandemonium of noise. The wind rushes by his face at an
alarming rate. He feels himself perspiring all over, and particularly
in the palms of his hands. He grips the nearest available object, as a
drowning man would clutch at a straw. With every fresh plunge and dip
he increases that grip.
The instructor shouts at him at the top of his voice, but he hears
nothing; only the racing engine and the whistle of the wind. And then
for the first time he ventures to look over the side. Could that
curiously-scattered collection of pigmy buildings, long, ribbon-like
roads, and distant, narrow, gleaming line of railway line be the earth?
He decides that it is, and is at last beginning to feel comfortable,
when the machine begins to heel over violently; it is the worst shock
that he has yet had. He grips with both hands as tight as he is able,
shuts his eyes, and waits for the worst. By the time his eyes are open
again the machine--by what seems to him to have been a miracle--has
righted itself and is flying smoothly through the air. Never before
has the world appeared so beautiful nor so diminutive in size.
For another five minutes or so the instructor flies to and fro above
the aerodrome, then down goes the machine, much to the astonishment and
alarm of the bewildered “quirk,” who suddenly finds the earth rushing
up to meet him. How he fears that moment when a landing must be made,
and how relieved he feels when he realizes there is nothing in it in
the least degree terrifying.
Very gently the aeroplane skims on to the landing-ground, like a
seagull lighting in the crest of a wave, and all is over; he is safe
back again on Mother Earth. Silent and subdued, he clambers out of the
aeroplane. How did he enjoy it? “Very much indeed,” he answers in a
husky whisper, and the instructor turns his head away and smiles. He
has taken “quirks” up before.
CHAPTER IV
THE PERILS OF THE AIR
For the first few trips up aloft the beginner is always accompanied
by an instructor. First he is taken up as a passenger, and his
only duty is to sit in the observer’s seat and do nothing. Then
gradually he is allowed to fly the machine himself. This he does in a
double-control--that is to say, an aeroplane with two sets of controls,
one of which the instructor makes use of and the other is in his own
hands.
He is taught that every movement of the control must be slow and gentle,
otherwise the machine is sure to lose its stability--balance--and go
crashing to the ground below; that an inch too much with the rudder-bar
will invariably mean a “spin,” or a too jerky movement on the
control-bar a “pancake” or a “nose-dive.”
Getting off from the ground is a comparatively simple matter; but the
moment of first entering the air is the most dangerous and trying of
all. Should the engine fail, the chances are a hundred to one that the
machine will crash into a hedge, or a tree, or land in a valley. The
“bumps” are most frequent over houses and buildings, and particularly
so on a dull morning, when the sun is breaking through the clouds,
which send the craft plunging and tossing in all directions. This is
the test that will show if a man is a good pilot or no.
Once clear of the “bumps,” the first thing to be done is to get
“height.” With a ship at sea the safest sailing is in mid-ocean, far
from the land. In a similar manner, the greater the altitude the safer
is the flying.
When near the ground, the air-pilot has very little choice in
landing-places and very little time to prepare for a landing. The
higher up he is, the greater range of country he has to choose from,
and the more time he has to regain control of his machine.
At a rough estimate, one may say that at a height of 500 feet he has
only an area of a square half-mile to land in; at 1000 a mile; 2000
two miles; 5000 five miles; 10,000 ten miles, and so forth. Some few
months ago a pilot at Brooklands flew up to a height of about 15,000
feet, shut his engine dead off, and glided down into Hendon aerodrome a
distance of just over twenty miles.
Having got clear of the “bumps,” the next danger is the clouds, which
have a very strange effect on the stability of the craft. They should
always be avoided when possible. Fog is a very terrible element to
encounter in mid-air, and the sensation of being fog-bound is the worst
that the human brain can conceive. Nothing in sight, with the blinding
fog on either side, and not knowing any moment that he will not be
colliding with some high points of the earth, the air-pilot positively
dreads the fog.
The writer remembers well the case of an airman fog-bound last winter
at an aerodrome near London. For two hours he was flying up and down,
up and down, over the aerodrome, without being able to find it. The
spectators on the ground could hear the hum of his engine distinctly,
but could not see him, and neither could he see them. Eventually, with
the aid of landing-flares and Verey’s lights, he was able to land; but
for weeks afterwards was a nervous wreck, and could not fly again for
nearly a month.
After several trips with the instructor, and having satisfied that
individual that he has gained sufficient knowledge of flying, the
“quirk” is allowed to take up a machine by himself.
At first he flies it up and down, over the aerodrome, then gradually
gets on to left and right hand turns, and then to landing the machine.
Now, landing is the most difficult feat of all in flying; it requires
both good judgment and good nerves. Before landing the pilot must
discover the direction of the prevailing wind. This he can do by
watching the smoke of a high chimney, or of the locomotive of a railway
train. Having discovered the direction of the wind, he must land dead
against it, otherwise the machine will be caught in a sudden gust and
toppled over.
For a day or two he will be kept on “landing” practice, and then he
will be allowed to try for the Royal Aero Club aeroplane certificate.
The tests and conditions for this are as follows: The candidate must
be over eighteen years of age, and of British nationality; he must
accomplish the three following tests, each being a separate flight--
_A and B._--Two distance flights, consisting of at least five
kilometres (three miles, 185 yards) each in a closed circuit.
_C._--One altitude flight, during which a height of at least 100 metres
(328 feet) above the point of departure must be attained, the descent
to be made from that height with the motor cut off. The landing must
be made in view of the observers, without re-starting the motor. The
candidate must be alone in the aircraft during the three tests.
Starting from and alighting on the water is only permitted in one of
the tests, A and B. The course on which the aviator accomplishes tests
A and B must be marked out by two posts or buoys, situated not more
than 500 metres (547 yards) apart. The turns round the posts or buoys
must be made alternately to the right and to the left, so that the
flight will consist of an uninterrupted series of figures of 8.
The distance flown shall be reckoned as if in a straight line between
the two posts or buoys. The alighting after the two distance flights
in tests A and B shall be made (_a_) by stopping the motor at or
before the moment of touching the ground or water; (_b_) by bringing
the aircraft to rest not more than 50 metres (164 feet) from a point
indicated previously by the candidate.
The decision of the committee of the Royal Aero Club in all matters
connected with the test is final, and without appeal.
The certificate itself, which is a handsome, leather-bound affair,
in the shape of a pocket-book, can be obtained by sending along the
certificate of the flights accomplished, together with £1 1_s._, a
photograph of the applicant, particulars as to birth, etc., to the
Secretary, Royal Aero Club, 166 Piccadilly, London, W.
His “ticket” having been obtained, the “quirk”--who, incidentally, is
now a “quirk” no longer--is given a little more practice in flying slow
machines, in order to gain confidence, and is then sent on to his first
war station to learn to fly the faster battle-planes and war machines,
and at the same time is confirmed in his rank.
Even now his flying education is by no means finished. After learning
to fly the faster machines, he will be put through a course of
bomb-dropping. After that a spell of cross-country work will occupy his
time; learning to fly from above by the position of landmarks, roads,
rivers, railways, etc.
After this he learns to steer a course by compass, gets practice in
machine-gun firing and dissembling while in mid-air, and then he is
ready at last for the great adventure across the water. One fine
morning he will set out on a brand-new war-machine for somewhere in the
north of France.
CHAPTER V
THE SPIRIT OF THE AIR
The great war has brought in its trail horrors innumerable, but, as if
in compensation, has brought to light all that is best in our men.
The heroism and courage of the airmen were without precedent, but
none the less admirable. Those stripling pilots of the air that flew
undaunted over shell-fire in all weathers and at all times have opened
up a chapter in our history that nothing can rival.
Who can define the psychology of these young men who can meet death as
an old acquaintance and pass him, mocking, by--who laugh at fear, and
make a jest of danger? Is it that they are without nerve entirely, or
is it rather a pose, a lovable bravado that hides their true feelings?
Is it that they are rather less devoid of fear than their brothers
in the trenches? Hardly. We have known them, you and I, reader, in
the last few years, but under a different guise--as happy, laughing
schoolboys, as young men plunging into life, the “flanneled fools and
muddied oafs” of Britain, and suddenly they have become men, ready
and eager to share a man’s burdens and responsibilities, yet no whit
altered; but deadly in earnest when there is work to be done on the
other side.
Undoubtedly the air does affect a man to a degree, and endows him with
that strange malady, flying temperament, that makes him reckless, and,
to a certain extent, headstrong; occasionally to get out of hand, and
to find rules and discipline chafing and irksome. But then the air
has a call of its own that few can resist; that runs through a man’s
veins like flame, and whispers courage and defiance into his ear, that
invites his sympathy, his love, his esteem. But the air is a fickle
mistress, and woe betide he who dares to slight her or make free at her
expense; he must pay the penalty, and that penalty is--death.
Every known sensation is experienced in flying: joy--the joy of youth
astride the dull old world, accomplishing what previous generations
dared not to attempt; excitement, to feel the cool air brushing one’s
cheek, and whistling past one’s ears; fear, danger, hope and despair;
all are crowded into this one brief hour of life.
Day after day, in all kinds of weather, the airman must go up, for the
battle seldom slackens and never pauses on the earth beneath. One day
reconnoitering--that is, making a long flight over the enemy’s country
under a continual bombardment from the Hun anti-aircraft guns, noting
any fresh movements of enemy troops, gun emplacements, headquarters,
supply depots, ammunition columns, or any unusual activity on his roads
or railways. Another day taking part in a bombing raid on some distant
military center, or perhaps out fighting enemy aircraft; but always
taking his life in his hands, and never knowing each morning as he sets
out whether he will return again.
It is the proud and honest boast of the British Air Services that they
never advertise; and what we lack in that respect, our enemy make up
for. We have our Immelmanns and our Boelkes, but their identities are
hidden under the simple pseudonyms of Lieutenant X---- and Lieutenant
Y----. They perform their daring feats, not for their own vainglory,
not for the sake of decorations, but from keen sense of duty, love of
their work, and for the further honor of the famous corps of which they
are units. It is this policy of eternal silence that has so completely
shattered the moral of the German airmen in Flanders, and driven them
almost entirely from the air.
In many ways the air is own cousin to the sea, for there is a chivalry
of the sea which has been a tradition for tens of centuries: a
freemasonry of good feeling and sportsmanship among those who have
their business in great waters.
The chivalry of the air is none the less real because it has no
traditions to fall back upon. Nature herself has made the man of the
sea and the man of the air sportsmen alike; has given them an instinct
for “doing the right thing.”
The Air Service has, in addition, a quality exclusively its own; I
mean its youth. It is just like a healthy schoolboy, intensely alive,
active, happy-go-lucky, yet ingenious enough where matters of technic
are concerned, and always eager to be out for adventure.
But it is just these tremendous dangers which are the breath of life to
this splendid schoolboy (even in age he is often little more). There
is a sporting touch in this ceaseless duel with fate, in this juggling
with life and death. That touch is transmitted to the less figurative
duels when there is a tussle in mid-air with a flying Hun, when it is
his life or yours.
On second thought I withdraw that word Hun in relation to the German
airman; I continue to apply it with all the vehemence I can muster to
the crews of a baby-killer Zeppelin, but one’s adversary in Albatross
or Halberstadt is an adversary worthy of the name. Here, almost alone
in all phases of modern warfare, remains the personal touch. Up there
in the awful solitude of space two human beings pit their brains and
courage one against the other, with death each moment before the eyes
of both. It is a strange turn of things that the latest development of
modern science has brought about a revival of medieval chivalry, the
single combat.
I have mentioned the freemasonry of the air. Any airman who has seen
any fighting could give you countless instances of it. Your German
airman treats you as an honorable foe, and you treat him as one. That
constantly recurring phrase, “An aeroplane was forced to descend and
its two occupants taken prisoners,” means that those prisoners, whether
Germans or English, were treated honorably, even ceremoniously. A
wounded aviator landing in the enemy’s lines is lifted from his seat
with every care, and is almost invariably saluted. I have known on
five separate occasions airmen fly over the enemy simply to drop the
personal belongings and effects of the men whom, in a terrific mid-air
struggle, they have succeeded in sending crashing to earth and death.
German airmen have done the same, and seen to it that his comrades
should receive the cigarette case or bundle of personal papers of a
fallen foe.
One of the most dramatic incidents of this drab war was the dropping
of a wreath from an English aeroplane in honor of the dead hero of the
German Air Service, Immelmann.
An airman likes an opponent worthy of his mettle; he likes even chances
and the prospect of a good fight. I shall always remember the disgust
at a certain war aerodrome recently. The approach of a Zepp had been
reported, and all was excitement. Aeroplanes were dragged from their
hangars, and off they went at lightning speed. Soon the return. Disgust
was on every one’s face. “We thought there was going to be some real
fun,” was the general grumble. “Zepp? Not a bit of it; only a sausage
balloon.”
Danger the airman shares with the soldier in the trenches. Many a tale
could be told of the awful deaths, of roasting when the machine catches
fire, of hours of agony with a shattered leg or arm when, at all costs,
the machine must be piloted to safety and a life (that of the observer)
saved. But such things are the lot of most men who fight. It is the
cheery sportsmanship, the good fellowship, the national instinct to
fight and behave like a gentleman, that have become characteristics of
airmen of all nations, which I have tried to emphasize.
Such is “playing the game” in the Air Service. Often it is a cheery
life, but it is always a trying one.
CHAPTER VI
SEAPLANES
The seaplane, as its name implies, is used solely for flying over
tracts of water. It is identical in shape with the aeroplane, but with
minor variations. It is considerably heavier than the aeroplane in
weight, and is more of the formation of the boat, though following the
same “streamline” principles as the aeroplane.
The engine-power varies from 70 to 150 horse-power, but the machine
is much slower in transit and in climbing even than several of the
lesser horse-power land machines. The fuselage, or body, is like
a flat-bottomed boat, in the bows of which are the engine and the
propeller. Immediately in the rear of the engine are the pilot’s and
observer’s seats, side by side, and not, as in the aeroplane, the one
behind the other. Again, in place of the wheels of the landing chassis
of the aeroplane are two boat-shaped floats; these are hollow in
formation, very heavy, and extremely fragile. When landing the seaplane
on a rough sea, the part of the machine most liable to break up is the
float.
With regard to the actual flying of the craft, where a mere touch of
the control is capable of maneuvering the aeroplane up from the ground,
it requires the grip of a Sandow’s developer to lift a heavy seaplane
off the surface of the sea. Similarly, while maneuvering in the air,
the movements must always be of the gentlest nature, considerable
muscular force is required to bank (turn) and climb the seaplane.
Landing is the most difficult and delicate maneuver in flying; it
is a tricky performance to land an aeroplane, but it is doubly so
to land a seaplane. Should the surface of the sea be the least bit
choppy or rough, there is a grave risk of the floats breaking open,
and the machine turning turtle, or diving down through the sea and
precipitating the pilot to a watery grave.
WORK OF THE SEAPLANE
The work of the seaplane may be placed in two categories: first, work
from the shore, when a landing-station, bordering on the sea, is used
as a base; and, secondly, flying at sea, when the craft is taken out
on board a parent vessel, and flights are commenced from the middle
of the ocean. With regard to the former, the work is for the most
part of a defensive nature, as that of driving off invading enemy
craft, and patroling the coasts for enemy submarines. The work at sea
is principally scouting for fleets, for a seaplane observer, at an
altitude of 5000 feet, has a range of view ten times greater than the
look-out man of any battleship or cruiser.
In this latter case, flights are usually terminated and commenced from
the sea surface, alongside the parent ship; and when the craft are no
longer in use they are lifted on board by means of a large crane and
stowed away on a specially constructed deck.
From the point of view of interest, aeroplane work is preferable to
that of the seaplane. Nothing more boring and dreary can be imagined
than a long flight over an interminable stretch of blue water; the
aeroplane pilot does, at least, have an everchanging contour of hills
and valleys, rivers and woods, towns and villages beneath him, whereas
the seaplane man’s view is confined to sea, sky and horizon, with
perhaps an occasional passing ship.
One seaplane pilot of my acquaintance, in order to relieve the
monotony, always took his dog, a staid and wise-looking Scotch terrier,
with him. That dog can lay claim to holding the record among dogs of
the world, for he has now flown considerably over 2000 miles. His
method of aviation is peculiarly his own, for, once the machine has
started and got under way, he curls himself up in the body of the
fuselage and goes into a sound sleep, from which he does not wake until
the engine stops again.
Seaplane flying in these days is beset with dangers of many kinds.
As an example, I will attempt to portray the average day’s work of a
seaplane pilot on active service, somewhere in the North Sea.
A scene of unusual activity is revealed by the breaking dawn, lat. “X,”
long. “Y.” The sea is calm, the rising sun giving it that peculiar
grayish-green tint, over which the early morning mist hangs like a
pall. Through the mist can be seen the hazy, blurred outlines of the
Fleet: squat, lumpy monitors, slim and graceful cruisers, sharp-nosed
destroyers, submarines that hang, as it were, on to the surface of the
water. Great towering battleships, dignified and stately, look down
upon the smaller fry with apparent disdain. Far in the rear there is
what at first appears to be an ordinary smug-funneled tramp steamer;
but a glimpse of the huge crane and queer, elongated shapes along her
decks reveals the seaplane carrier.
Four o’clock in the morning. Though it is summer, the weather is cold
and raw, the chilly breeze bites knife-like through one’s clothes,
fingers are all thumbs--rather a disillusion of the joys of flying.
The engine stops, and coughs and splutters as if in protest at this
extraordinary behavior. Compass, maps, instruments are missing; the
petrol tanks are unfilled, or the oil has been forgotten.
At last, creaking and groaning, the crane is lowered, and fixed to the
craft. A few hoarse commands, and she is swung off the deck and dropped
gently on to the sea, and off she goes, bound on a reconnaissance trip
or target-registering. First taxi-ing far across the open sea, clear of
the Fleet. What a delightful sensation this is, skimming the water like
a seagull, dipping and bowing gracefully; but it is quite another story
when the sea is rough, and the swell threatens every moment to break up
the floats and submerge the craft. At last up into the air, 200, 300,
500, 1000 feet, circling round the now, seemingly, stationary Fleet;
how still and quiet they appear down below there!
The seaplane is usually a much slower craft to climb than the
aeroplane, and some time elapses before a decent altitude is reached.
The observer busies himself plotting out the course, testing the
wireless gear, and preparing his report.
Scouting is the object of the flight, and scouting implies, for the
most part, keeping a weather eye open for suspicious craft, enemy
battleships, cruisers, destroyers and enemy submarines, the latter
more easily distinguishable from a height, when the bed of the sea in
the more shallow portions can be read like an open book, sandbanks
standing out most prominently from the surrounding azure blue.
Target-registering, on the other hand, consists of following, or rather
attempting to follow, a damnably perverse raft, on which a large target
is lashed, at which the heavy guns of the Fleet are firing from a
distance of from fifteen to twenty miles, and the observer wirelessing
back the results of their attempts, also entering the same in his
report.
To the uninitiated this report would at first sight appear slightly
less understandable than a Chinese love letter or a Greek play. It
is divided into columns; first there is the time of the entry, next
the height at which the machine was flying, the approximate position,
and, last, the nature of the observation. For example: 11.55 a.m. 6000
feet. Lat. 90, long. 70:6. Large two-funneled steamers, apparently
merchantmen, observed proceeding in a south-westerly direction.
If the matter is of an urgent nature it is sent back to the Fleet
immediately by wireless, surely the most valuable asset to aviation
that exists, and without which aerial scouting and reconnaissance work
would be almost useless. The apparatus is light and extremely compact,
consisting of one or two Morse keys and an aerial. The range of
action--that is to say, the distance that a message can be either sent
or received--is not very great, but such as it is, is invaluable. In a
word, wireless in the Navy is as near perfection as it is possible for
a new science to be.
The observer makes a sudden movement with his hand in a south-westerly
direction. Far down on the distant horizon is the long black
sleuth-like form of an enemy destroyer. The wireless is soon busy
ticking the gladsome news to the Fleet, now far in the rear. More and
yet more black shapes appear, and then our own destroyers come up,
dashing through the sea, at well over thirty knots an hour, leaving
a line of churning white foam in their track. The enemy catch sight
of them and then turn north at full pelt, our own in hot pursuit,
until for fear of floating mines--it is a favorite trick of the Hun
sportsman, when pursued to drop mines behind him, in the hope that they
will strike the enemy ships--our own destroyers come back crestfallen
and downhearted.
_En passant_ it may be said that a seaplane battle is very similar
to a fight between two aeroplanes, though usually more slowly fought
out, and hence longer in duration. Such feats as “looping” or sudden
nose-dives are generally impossible.
The morning’s work is now completed, the recall signal is received via
the wireless, and the great bird turns for home, not, however, without
sighting several merchantmen and something which appears to be the
periscope of a German submarine, but which, however, proves on closer
inspection to be floating wreckage.
The British Fleet comes nearer into view, first the different shapes
and sizes of the varying craft, then the funnels, then the masts, the
rigging and the crew aboard. Throttling down his engine, the pilot
sinks gradually lower and lower, and lands on the smooth surface of
the water--strange to say a more difficult and more tricky feat than
to come down on the solid earth for reasons too numerous to mention in
this short chapter.
Another long “taxi” across the water to the side of the seaplane
carrier, the creaking crane comes sliding out again, is fixed to the
craft, which is hauled aboard, and stowed away until further required.
CHAPTER VII
A ZEPPELIN CHASE
“X or Y airships participated in the attack on Great Britain last
night; Z raiders were brought down.” Hard official words these, that,
read in the cold black and white of print, fail entirely to bring to
the reader’s mind a true sense of the danger and the nerve-racking
conditions under which this novel form of warfare is fought out.
Let us imagine, if we can, the difficulties the aeroplane pilot
has to face. It is dark--pitch dark--sky and earth are alike
indistinguishable. Flying at the best of times contains a more than
comfortable element of danger, and in the darkness this danger is
accentuated. The darkness deprives the air pilot of all sense of
direction and of locality, greatly hampers him in the maneuvering of
his craft, and renders unpleasantly possible a collision with another
aeroplane on similar errand bent.
Starting out, there are a hundred and one small details to be attended
to, as the testing of the engine, the trying of elevators and ailerons,
and the examination of the petrol and oil tanks, in order to ascertain
if there is a sufficiency of both to last a two or three hour trip.
All this to be performed in the dark, with the engine screeching
loud, so that a man may not hear a word, and the attendant mechanics
indistinguishable in the gloom.
Fortunately for the pilot, a small dry-cell electric lighting set is
installed in the body of every machine, and by this means the pilot is
able to distinguish his instruments--a most necessary adjunct to safe
flying--the altimeter, which records the height, “revmeter,” which
indicates the speed of the engine and the compass, more necessary than
any other instrument for night flying.
Getting off from the ground is by no means a pleasant sensation. There
are hangars, high roofs, and chimney-stacks waiting to be collided
with, patches of thin and rarefied air, which will bump the machine
down as much as thirty feet at a time; the ever present danger of
engine failure, necessitating a descent to the darkened earth beneath,
always so full of death-traps for the airman and his craft.
Clear of the earth, at about 1000 feet, there are, here and there,
faint patches of light of dark gray and the subdued reddish glow of
the distant metropolis; the locomotive of a passing passenger train,
bright as a searchlight for a brief moment, then passing away into
the outer darkness. Higher and yet higher; and the sensation! The
mind of a Jules Verne or of an H. G. Wells could not imagine a feeling
more eerie, more strange than this. Noise and darkness, the incessant
deafening purr of the engine, the pitch blackness on all sides,
relieved by the one tiny light inside the fuselage, as welcome and
cheery to the airman as a distant lighthouse to a sailor in a storm.
Then the searchlights begin to blaze, creeping up across the sky in
ribbons of shining brightness. One plays for a moment on the machine,
the pilot is almost blinded before it passes on its strange search
across the heavens. But a stringent search reveals--nothing! For
an encounter with the raiding airship is not at all probable at an
altitude of below 6000 ft., and from that height up to 15,000 ft.; the
only likely encounter is with the observation car of a Zepp. This car
is usually suspended hundreds of feet beneath the mother-craft by means
of a stout aluminum cable or cables, is about 7 ft. by 5 ft., composed
entirely of aluminum, and contains sufficient space for one observer,
who is in telephonic communication with the commander.
At last the pilot of the aeroplane has an instinctive feeling that a
Zeppelin is somewhere near him. He cannot hear because of the noise
of his own engine, and he cannot see because of the intensity of the
darkness all around him.
The combat between the aeroplane and the Zeppelin might be compared
to that between the British destroyers and the German Dreadnoughts in
the recent Jutland battle. Dashing in with great rapidity and skill,
the tiny one-gunned aeroplane fires its broadside, then makes off as
fast as possible to get out of range of the comparatively heavy-armed
airship. From thence onwards it develops into a fight for the upper
position, for once above the Zeppelin the aeroplane pilot can use his
bombs, which are considerably more effective than a machine-gun, and
the broad back of the gasbag offers a target which can hardly be missed.
In maneuvering, the aeroplane has the great advantage of being
remarkably quick, both in turning, climbing, and coming down, whereas
the Zeppelin again is a slow and clumsy beast at the best of times. The
Zeppelin is very susceptible to flame and explosion of any kind; the
gas in the envelope, a mixture of hydrogen and air, forms an extremely
explosive mixture. The aeroplane, owing to the fabric of which it is
composed, and the petrol needed for propulsion, is to a certain degree
inflammable, but not nearly to the same extent as the airship. On the
other hand, the airship possesses a distinct advantage in that it is
able to shut off its engines, and to hover, which it is impossible for
an aeroplane to do.
Again, in the matter of speed in a forward direction, and, for that
matter, backwards also--for the Zeppelin engines are reversible--the
aeroplane holds the palm with an average speed of sixty miles per hour,
while that of the airship is only fifty.
The combat finished, the aeroplane pilot has yet to make a landing,
surely the most dangerous and tricky maneuver of the whole flight.
The difficulties and dangers thus encountered are too obvious to need
explanation further than to say that the landing has to be effected in
the dark, with only a blinding, dazzling, electric ground-light for
guidance.
CHAPTER VIII
THE COMPLETE AIRMAN
The British Air Service is now a great army, 80 per cent. of whom,
before the war, had never even seen an aeroplane, much less been up
in one,--bank clerks, young merchants, undergrads, doctors, lawyers,
journalists, all endowed with two sterling qualities required by the
pilot of the air, courage and level-headedness. And how has this great
miracle been accomplished? August 1914, found us lamentably short of
both _personnel_ and material, but what little there was of the very
best. The already experienced pilots set to work with a will upon
the more than generous quantity of raw material that came to hand.
Within a few months their influence made itself felt. They taught the
“quirk”--the airman’s pet name for the novice--in their own simple and
undemonstrative manner, that the air is to be respected, but never
feared, the aeroplane treated as a being of life and animation, with
quaint humors peculiarly its own, and not as a lifeless mass of metal
and woodwork. Within six months the number of fully trained British
pilots had trebled itself; within one year the number had grown beyond
all proportion, and still it goes on.
The usual method of training a new hand is to get him used to the
air, which, though apparently harmless and void, is as tricky and
treacherous as the sea. The beginner is taken up for several flights
as a passenger. In the initial flight the pilot will perform the most
daring maneuvers and precipitate turns, watching his passenger closely
the whole time for any signs of nervousness or fear. It is a most
trying ordeal that first trip up aloft, and the bravest hearts have
been known to quail.
FIRST FLIGHT ORDEALS
Recently there was a case at a large school of a Major of marines,
concerning whose courage there could be not the slightest doubt, and
who possessed, among other decorations, the much coveted D.S.O. After
a first trip above, the Major remained in his seat of the landed
aeroplane for fully a quarter of an hour, ashen of countenance, and
too terrified to speak. It was not cowardice, but simply that he was
temperamentally unsuited. At length, when he had composed himself
sufficiently to clamber out, he vowed that never again would he go up
in an aeroplane.
Following the first flights there are numerous trips in dual-control
machines, that is to say, with the ordinary pilot’s control-stick
and steering-bar duplicated, and both couples working under the same
control. Thus, gradually, the “quirk” becomes used to the handling
of the craft and accustomed to the sudden drop in an air bank, or
to an outward slip in a gust of wind, until eventually, without his
knowledge, the instructor allows him to fly the machine himself.
Sufficient progress made, he is allowed to make flights alone, and
when he has learnt to bank left and right, and land the machine in a
safe and seemly manner, permission is given him to attempt the Royal
Aero Club’s certificate; for which an altitude flight, a distance
flight, and a landing on a given spot are the only tests that are
necessary. This, let it be said, is but the starting-point of the
flying education. Flying fast machines, wireless operating, machine-gun
firing, bomb-dropping, navigation and map-reading are still to be
mastered. Only one who has been in the air and seen that queer panorama
of jumbled green, gray and blue, stretching away for miles on either
hand behind him, can appreciate the difficulties of an air pilot
endeavoring to make a true course from a mist-bound earth; or when
one’s hands are frozen to the bone, and the ice-cold wind whistles by
one’s ears, the extreme difficulty of maneuvering the control-stick
and working the machine-gun at one and the same time.
RECONNAISSANCE AND NIGHT FLYING
This much for daylight flying, but what of the night when sky and earth
are alike indistinguishable? Truly night flying is a science unto
itself which needs more than the average amount of courage. However,
nightwork is given to only the most experienced pilots.
With active service flying again, we enter into a new phase of which
reconnaissance work occupies at least eighty per cent. of the time.
Simply put, reconnaissance means flying over the other fellow’s lines
to see what he is about, if he is massing troops at a certain point, or
digging in new gun emplacements, or if there is any unusual activity on
the highways and railways immediately behind his firing line. It is a
difficult matter to differentiate between infantry and cavalry on the
march; to distinguish a cleverly hidden gun emplacement, or to tell the
difference between an ammunition and a supply depot.
Bomb-dropping is a practice that requires the patience of a Job, good
judgment, and a calm day--that is, if it is required to attain any
degree of accuracy. Last, but not least, there is the matter of aerial
combat, which, however, covers too wide a field for discussion in this
short chapter.
Thus, in the complete air-pilot, we have a blend of gunner, wireless
expert, map-reader, amateur detective, and aviator.
PART II
ON ACTIVE SERVICE
(Part II contains a series of incidents and adventures taken from the
note-book of a British air pilot, stationed somewhere in the north of
France, and are given in their original diary form.)