The Curtiss Aviation Book
Transcriber's Note
This book was transcribed from scans of the original found at the
Internet Archive. I have rotated some images.
[Copyright, 1910, by The Pictorial News Co.]
CURTISS' HUDSON RIVER FLIGHT OVER THE STATUE OF LIBERTY
THE CURTISS
AVIATION BOOK
BY
GLENN H. CURTISS
AND
AUGUSTUS POST
WITH CHAPTERS BY CAPTAIN PAUL W. BECK, U. S. A.
LIEUTENANT THEODORE G. ELLYSON, U. S. N.
AND HUGH ROBINSON
With Numerous Illustrations from Photographs
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1912, by
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian
October, 1912
TO
MRS. MABEL G. BELL
WHO MADE POSSIBLE THE AERIAL EXPERIMENT ASSOCIATION
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHORS
Table of Contents
- PART I BOYHOOD AND EARLY EXPERIMENTS OF GLENN H. CURTISS by Augustus
Post
- CHAPTER I THE COMING AIRMEN AN INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER
- CHAPTER II BOYHOOD DAYS
- CHAPTER III BUILDING MOTORS AND MOTORCYCLE RACING
- CHAPTER IV BALDWIN'S BALLOON
- PART II MY FIRST FLIGHTS by Glenn H. Curtiss
- CHAPTER I BEGINNING TO FLY
- CHAPTER II FIRST FLIGHTS
- CHAPTER III THE "JUNE BUG" FIRST FLIGHTS FOR THE SCIENTIFIC
AMERICAN TROPHY AND FIRST EXPERIMENTS WITH THE HYDROAEROPLANE
- CHAPTER IV FIRST FLIGHTS IN NEW YORK CITY
- PART III MY CHIEF FLIGHTS AND THE WORK OF TO-DAY by Glenn H. Curtiss
- CHAPTER I THE RHEIMS MEET FIRST INTERNATIONAL AEROPLANE CONTEST
- CHAPTER II HUDSON-FULTON CELEBRATION FIRST AMERICAN
INTERNATIONAL MEET, AT LOS ANGELES
- CHAPTER III FLIGHT DOWN THE HUDSON RIVER FROM ALBANY TO NEW YORK
CITY
- CHAPTER IV THE BEGINNING OF THE HYDROAEROPLANE
- CHAPTER V DEVELOPING THE HYDROAEROPLANE AT SAN DIEGO–THE HYDRO
OF THE SUMMER OF 1912
- PART IV THE REAL FUTURE OF THE AEROPLANE BY GLENN H. CURTISS WITH
CHAPTERS BY CAPTAIN PAUL W. BECK, U. S. A., LIEUTENANT THEODORE G.
ELLYSON, U. S. N., AND AUGUSTUS POST
- CHAPTER I AEROPLANE SPEED OF THE FUTURE
- CHAPTER II FUTURE SURPRISES OF THE AEROPLANE–HUNTING, TRAVEL,
MAIL, WIRELESS, LIFE-SAVING, AND OTHER SPECIAL USES
- CHAPTER III THE FUTURE OF THE HYDRO
- CHAPTER IV FUTURE PROBLEMS OF AVIATION
- CHAPTER V THE AEROPLANE AS APPLIED TO THE ARMY (By Captain
Paul W. Beck, U. S. A.)
- CHAPTER VI THE AEROPLANE FOR THE NAVY (With an Account of the
Training Camp at San Diego. By Lieutenant Theodore G.
Ellyson, U. S. N.)
- CHAPTER VII GLIDING AND CYCLE-SAILING A FUTURE SPORT FOR BOYS,
THE AIRMEN OF TO-MORROW (By Augustus Post.)
- PART V EVERY-DAY FLYING FOR PROFESSIONAL AND AMATEUR BY GLENN H.
CURTISS WITH CHAPTERS BY AUGUSTUS POST AND HUGH ROBINSON
- CHAPTER I TEACHING AVIATORS HOW AN AVIATOR FLIES
- CHAPTER II AVIATION FOR AMATEURS
- CHAPTER III HOW IT FEELS TO FLY (By Augustus Post.)
- CHAPTER IV OPERATING A HYDROAEROPLANE (By Hugh Robinson.)
- PART VI THE CURTISS PUPILS AND A DESCRIPTION OF THE CURTISS
AEROPLANE AND MOTOR BY AUGUSTUS POST
- CHAPTER I PUPILS
- CHAPTER II A DESCRIPTION OF THE CURTISS BIPLANE
- CHAPTER III THE CURTISS MOTOR AND FACTORY
ILLUSTRATIONS
- CURTISS' HUDSON RIVER FLIGHT–OVER THE STATUE OF LIBERTY
- CURTISS THE BOY AND CURTISS THE MAN
- CURTISS WINNING WORLD'S MOTORCYCLE RECORDS
- THE BALDWIN ARMY DIRIGIBLE, WITH EARLY CURTISS MOTOR
- WIND WAGON AND ICE BOAT WITH AERIAL PROPELLER
- THE AERIAL EXPERIMENT ASSOCIATION
- STARTING TO FLY FIRST PUBLIC FLIGHT IN AMERICA; THE "JUNE BUG,"
JUNE, 1908; BALDWIN IN GLIDER
- THE FIRST MACHINES THE "WHITE WING" AND "RED WING"
- CURTISS' FIRST FLIGHT FOR THE SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN TROPHY
- WINNING THE GORDON BENNETT CONTEST IN FRANCE
- PRESIDENT TAFT WATCHING CURTISS FLY, HARVARD MEET, 1910
- THE ALBANY-NEW YORK FLIGHT–START; OVER WEST POINT
- THE HUDSON FLIGHT–OVER STORM KING
- THE HUDSON FLIGHT–STOP AT POUGHKEEPSIE; FINISH, AT
GOVERNOR'S ISLAND
- THE EVOLUTION OF THE HYDRO;–THE FIRST HYDRO IN THE
WORLD; DUAL CONTROL HYDRO OF 1911; LANDING IN
HYDRO AT CEDAR POINT, OHIO
- ELY LANDING ON THE U. S. S. "PENNSYLVANIA"
- CURTISS AND HYDRO HOISTED ON U. S. S. "PENNSYLVANIA";
- ELY LEAVING "PENNSYLVANIA"
- DIAGRAM OF CURTISS FLYING BOAT OF 1912
- THE EVOLUTION OF THE HYDRO–THE FLYING BOAT OF
SUMMER 1912; THE 1911 HYDRO
- HYDRO FLIGHTS–CURTISS OVER LAKE ERIE; WITMER RIDING
THE GROUND SWELLS
- CAPTAIN BECK AND POSTMASTER-GENERAL HITCHCOCK
CARRYING THE MAIL
- STUDENTS OF AERIAL WARFARE–BECK, TOWERS, ELLYSON,
MCCLASKEY; WITH CURTISS AND ST. HENRY
- ELLYSON LAUNCHES HYDRO FROM WIRE CABLE
- HUGH ROBINSON'S FLIGHT DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI
- AUGUSTUS POST FLYING; AEROPLANE SHIPMENT
- CURTISS PUPILS–J. A. D. MCCURDY RACING AN AUTOMOBILE;
- LIEUTENANT ELLYSON; MR. AND MRS. W. B. ATWATER
- CURTISS PUPILS–C. C. WITMER, BECKWITH HAVENS, J. A. D.
MCCURDY, CROMWELL DIXON, CHAS. K. HAMILTON,
CHAS. F. WALSH, CHAS. F. WILLARD
- LINCOLN BEACHEY FLYING IN GORGE AT NIAGARA
- DIAGRAM OF CURTISS AEROPLANE, SHOWING PARTS
- DIAGRAM OF CURTISS MOTOR, SHOWING PARTS
- CURTISS MOTORS, OLD AND NEW
- AT THE AEROPLANE FACTORY, HAMMONDSPORT
PART I BOYHOOD AND EARLY EXPERIMENTS OF GLENN H. CURTISS
by Augustus Post
CHAPTER I THE COMING AIRMEN AN INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER
The time has come when the world is going to need a new type of
men–almost a new race. These are the Flying Men. The great dream of
centuries has come true, and man now has the key to the sky. Every great
invention which affects the habits and customs of a people brings about
changes in the people themselves. How great, then, must be the changes
to be brought about by the flying machine, and how strangely new the
type of man that it carries up into a new world, under absolutely new
conditions!
Each year there will be more need of flying men; so that in telling this
story of a pioneer American aviator, his struggles, failures, and
successes, it has been the desire to keep in mind not only the
scientific elders who are interested in angles of incidence, automatic
stability and the like, but also the boys and girls–the air pilots of
the future. It is hoped that there will be in these introductory
chapters–for whose writing, be it understood, Mr. Curtiss is not
responsible a plain unvarnished story of an American boy who worked his
way upward from the making of bicycles to the making of history, an
inspiration for future flights, whether in imagination or aeroplanes,
and that even the youngest reader will gain courage to meet the
obstacles and to overcome the difficulties which Glenn H. Curtiss met
and overcame in his progress to fame.
Here is a man who is a speed marvel who has beat the world at it. First
on land, riding a motorcycle, next in a flying machine, and finally in a
machine that was both water and air craft, which sped over the surface
of the sea faster than man had ever travelled on that element, and which
rose into the air and came back to land with the speed of the fastest
express train; a man who traveled at the rate of one hundred and
thirty-seven miles an hour on land, fifty-eight miles an hour on the
water and who won the first International speed championship in the air.
More than that, they may see what sort of a boy came to be the speed
champion and to know some of the traits that go to make the successful
airman, for it is said of the great aviators, as of the great poets,
they are born flying men, and not developed. The successful flying man
and maker of flying machines, such as Glenn H. Curtiss has shown himself
to be, realises how dangerous is failure, and builds slowly. He builds,
too, on his experience gained from day to day; having infinite patience
and dogged perseverance. And yet a great aviator must be possessed of
such marvelous quickness of thought that he can think faster than the
forces of nature can act, and he must act as fast as he thinks.
He must be so completely in harmony with Nature and her moods that he
can tell just when is the right time to attempt a dangerous experiment,
and so thoroughly in control of himself that he can refuse to make the
experiment when he knows it should not be made, even though urged by all
those around him to go ahead. He must feel that nothing is impossible,
and yet he must not attempt anything until he is sure that he is ready
and every element of danger has been eliminated, so far as lies in human
power. He must realise that he cannot change the forces of nature, but
that he can make them do his work when he understands them. Some of
these qualities must be inbred in the man, but the life-story of Glenn
H. Curtiss shows how far energy, courage, and tireless perseverance will
go toward bringing them out.
It is from among the country boys that the best aviators will be found
to meet the demands of the coming Flying Age. They have been getting
ready for it for a long time long before the days of Darius Green. Does
any one now read "Phaeton Rogers," that story of the inventive boy back
in the eighties, and recall the "wind-wagon" which was one of his many
inventions? There were many like him then, and there are more like him
now; always tinkering at something, trying to make it "go," and go fast.
And there are many of these who are building up, perhaps without knowing
it, the strong body, the steady brain, courage, perseverance, and the
power of quick decision the character of the successful airmen of the
future.
The history of aviation is very brief, expressed in years. In effort it
covers centuries. First come the inventors, a calm, cautious type of
men, holding their ideas so well in trust that they will not risk their
lives for mere display and the applause of the crowd. Then the
exploiters, eager for money and fame; men who develop the possibilities
of the machines, always asking more and getting more in the way of
achievement with each new model built. Though covering a period of less
than a half score of years, aviation already has its second generation
of flyers, pupils trained by the pioneers, young and ambitious, eager to
explore the new element that has been made possible by their mentors.
From the country districts, where the blood is red, the brain steady and
the heart strong, will come many an explorer of the regions of the air.
Just as the city boy in developing the wireless telegraph strings his
antennae on the housetops and the roofs of the giant skyscrapers, so
will the country boy develop his glider or his aeroplane in the pasture
lands and on the steep hillsides of his own particular territory, and we
shall have a race of flying men to carry on the development of the
flying machine until it shall reach that long dreamed-of and sought-for
perfection.
CHAPTER II BOYHOOD DAYS
Glenn Hammond Curtiss was born at Hammondsport, New York, May 21, 1878.
His middle name shows his connection with the pioneer family for which
the town is named. Then Hammondsport was a port for canal boats that
came up Lake Keuka; nowadays it is an airport for the craft of the sky.
It is a quaint little town, lying on the shores of a beautiful lake that
stretches away to Penn Yann, twenty miles to the north. Glenn's old home
was called Castle Hill. It was nearly surrounded by vineyards and fruit
trees. It was once the property of Judge Hammond, who built the first
house in Hammondsport. On this site now stands the Curtiss factories.
All about Hammondsport are the great vineyards that have made the town
famous for its wine, for Hammondsport is in the very heart of the
grape-growing section of New York State. These vineyards give the boys
of Hammondsport a fine opportunity to earn money each year, and Glenn
was always among those who spent the vacation time in tying up grape
vines, and in gathering the fruit on Saturdays and at other odd times.
Some of the neighbours' children picked wintergreen and flowers, and
sold them to the summer excursionists. One time Glenn was invited to go
with them. He sold six bunches for sixty cents. His mother applied the
amount toward a pair of shoes in order to teach him the use and value of
money. He was then three years old and wore a fresh white dress and a
blue sash.
Glenn was afterwards taught how to prune and tie vines and gather fruit
and at harvest time he was often seen with pony and wagon making a fast
run to the station to get the last load of grapes on the train.
With the care of his sister and the work on the home vineyard, life was
not all play, for Glenn was "The Man of the House," after his father's
death, which occurred when he was four years old. At this time, he went
with his mother and sister, to live with his grandmother who lived on
the outskirts of the village.
Hammondsport is divided by the main street, and the boys of the two
sections, like the boys in cities, were always at war. The factional
lines were tightly drawn and many were the combats between the up-town
boys and the low-town boys. The hill boys had a den in the side of a
bank that sloped down from Grandma Curtiss' yard, walled in with stones
of a convenient size. This gave them good ammunition and a great
advantage in time of battle.
Among the members of the up-town gang were, "Fatty" Hastings and "Short"
Wheeler, "Jess" Talmadge and "Cowboy" Wixom and Curtley, as the boys
called Curtiss. He was captain of the band, because he had a sort of
ownership of the den. Thus the war waged until one day they punctured
Craton Wheeler's dog "Pickles," which so infuriated the enemy of the
lower village that they were on the point of storming the fort in the
hillside from above, and would no doubt have done so had they not
chanced to trample upon Grandma Curtiss' flower beds which caused this
indignant lady to issue forth and put the entire gang to rout. The cave
continued to be a safe refuge for the hillside gang until "Fatty"
Hastings grew too big to squeeze through the entrance and sometimes got
stuck just as the gang was ready to sally forth against the enemy, or
blocked the whole crew when they were in retreat.
During the winter months Glenn gave his hand to making skate-sails, and
became very proficient at it, and when summer came and the boys went on
bird-nesting excursions in the woods, he was usually the daring one who
allowed himself to be lowered by a rope over the cliff's edge or climbed
to the topmost limbs of the big hickory trees. At school, mathematics
was young Curtiss's strong point, and when finally he came to pass his
final examinations in the high school, he topped his class in that study
with a perfect score of one hundred, and in Algebra he stood
ninety-nine. It is reassuring, however, to find that in spelling he was
barely able to squeeze through with a percentage of seventy-five. Glenn
sometimes slipped up on the figuring, but the principle was usually
right; he had figured that out beforehand. The boys of Hammondsport used
to say that Glenn would think half an hour to do fifteen minutes' work.
One wonders what they would have said, if they had been told that in
after years he was to think and plan and scheme for a year, and then
when he was all ready, to wait hour after hour, day after day, to
accomplish something requiring a little more than two hours' time; like
his flight from Albany to New York, the first great cross-country flight
made in America.
When Curtiss was twelve years old his family went to live in Rochester,
New York, so that his sister might be able to attend a school for the
deaf at that place. He went on working at Rochester after school hours
and during vacation time, first as a telegraph messenger, then in the
great Eastman Kodak works, assembling cameras. He was one of the very
first boys hired by that establishment to replace men at certain kinds
of work, and while the men had received twelve dollars a week, Glenn
received but four dollars. Before long, however, he had induced his
employers to make his work a piece-work job, and had improved the
process of manufacture and increased the production from two hundred and
fifty to twenty-five hundred a day. He was thus able to earn from twelve
to fifteen dollars a week. It was while employed in the camera works at
Rochester that Curtiss saved the life of a companion who had fallen
through the ice on the Erie canal. When praised for his act of bravery
he simply remarked: "I pulled him out because I was the nearest to him."
All during the time that Curtiss was working for others for wages, he
continued to tinker making things and then taking them apart. Once he
told some of his companions that he could make, out of a cigar box, a
camera that would take a good picture. Of course they laughed at him and
bet that he couldn't do it. But Glenn did do it, and a picture of his
sister with a book was produced and is still unfaded, and in good
condition, in possession of his family. He constructed a complete
telegraph instrument out of spools, nails, tin, and wire and this so
impressed the lady with whom the Curtisses boarded that she remarked to
one of her friends that "Glenn Curtiss will make his mark in the world
some day; you mark my words." This particular lady tells of the time
that Glenn used to talk of airships, and he was not yet sixteen years
old. Curtiss was fond of all sorts of sports, taking part in the games
the boys would get up after school and on Saturdays. He liked to play
ball, to run, jump, swim, and to ride a bicycle.
His time was too much taken up, however, with more productive efforts,
such as the wiring of dwellings for electric light or telephones, to
permit of much time being given to boyish sports.
He was most original and had a keen sense of humour. He was fond of an
argument, and had one striking characteristic; once he had made up his
mind as to the why and wherefore of a thing, he could never be induced
to change it. To illustrate this trait; one day an argument arose
between Glenn and another boy as to whether or not a whale is a fish,
Glenn holding that it could be nothing but a fish. The other boy finally
reenforced his argument by producing a dictionary to show that a whale
is not a fish, whereupon Curtiss asserted that the dictionary was wrong
and refused to accept it as authority.
Curtiss was always eager for speed–to get from one place to another in
the quickest time with the least amount of effort. He was obsessed with
the idea of travelling fast. One of the first things he remembers, says
Curtiss, was seeing a sled made by one of his father's workmen for his
son beat every other sled that dashed down the steep snow-clad hills
around Hammondsport. He begged his father to let "Gene" make him a sled
that would go faster than Linn's. "Gene" made the sled and Glenn painted
it red, with a picture of a horse on it. Furthermore, he beat every sled
in Hammondsport or thereabouts.
The bicycle became all the rage when Curtiss was growing into his early
teens and nothing was more certain than that he should have one as soon
as he could earn enough money to buy it. And when he got it he made it
serve his purposes in delivering telegrams, newspapers, and such like.
He developed speed and staying powers as a rider, and soon thought
nothing of making the trip from Rochester to Hammondsport to see his
grandmother, who still lived in the old home in that village. The roads
of New York were not as good as they are nowadays, when the automobile
forces improvements of the highways, but Curtiss rode fast nevertheless.
In fact, he managed all his regular work this way. His idea was first,
to find out just how to do it, and then do it. Then he would find out
how fast a certain task could be performed, and get through with it at
top speed. The surplus time he devoted to tinkering with something new.
Grandmother Curtiss finally prevailed upon him to go back to
Hammondsport and live with her. For a time after his return he assisted
a local photographer and his experience in photography gained at this
time has since proved of great value to him, and, incidentally, to the
history of aviation; for in photographing his experiments Curtiss'
pictures have a distinct value, as much for being taken just at the
right instant, as for their pictorial detail. Following his photographic
employment, Curtiss took charge of a bicycle repair shop. It was a
little shop down by the principal hotel in Hammondsport, but Curtiss
foresaw the popularity and later the cheapness of the bicycle, and he
believed the shop would do a good business. James Smellie owned the
shop, but Curtiss' mechanical skill soon asserted itself and he became
the practical boss. This was in 1897. George Lyon, a local jeweler, was
a competitor of Smellie's in the bicycle business, and got up a big race
around the valley, a distance of five miles over the rough country
roads. When Smellie heard of the race he made up his mind that Curtiss
could win it and went about arranging the equipment of his employee.
That race has passed into the real history of the town of Hammondsport.
Everybody in the town and the valley was there, and great was the
excitement when the riders lined up for the start. They started from a
point near the monument in front of the Episcopal church and within a
few moments after the crack of the pistol they were all out of sight,
swallowed up in the dust clouds that marked their progress up the
valley. After a long interval of suspense a solitary rider appeared on
the home stretch, hunched down over his handle-bars and riding for dear
life, without a glance to right or left. It was Curtiss, who probably
has never since felt the same thrill of pride at the shouts of the
crowd. The next man was fully half a mile in the rear when Glenn crossed
the finish-line.
This was Curtiss' first bicycle race, but later he acquired greater
speed and experience and rode in many races at county fairs in the
southern part of New York State. What's more, he won all of his races.
This was good for his bicycle business, which thrived in the summer, but
languished in the winter. During the dull period Curtiss took up
electrical work, wiring houses, putting in electric bells, and doing
similar work of a mechanical nature. An incident is told of his
mechanical skill at this time that illustrates his inquisitive mind. An
acetylene gas generator in one of the stores got out of order one day,
and no one in the store could tell just how to repair it. Curtiss had
never seen a gas generator, but that did not deter him from going at it.
He studied it out in a little while and then put his finger on the
trouble. After that the generator worked better than ever. A little
later he decided to build a gas generator after his own ideas. He
started with two tomato cans and built it.
This was the first appearance of Curtiss' two tomato cans. They played
an important part in his subsequent experimental work, figuring all the
way through from this first gas generator to the carburetor of a
motorcycle, and at last to enlarge the water capacity of Charles K.
Hamilton's engine on his aeroplane so that he might cool his engine
better in making the record flight from New York to Philadelphia and
return in the same day. In this first case the two tomato cans developed
into an acetylene gas plant with several improvements, and his own home
and shop were lighted by it. Later the plant was enlarged so as to
furnish light for several business houses of Hammondsport.
CHAPTER III BUILDING MOTORS AND MOTORCYCLE RACING
In the spring of 1900 Curtiss embarked in the bicycle business for
himself, opening a shop near his old place of employment. This shop soon
came to be known as the "industrial incubator," because experiments of
many kinds were tried there a hatching-place for all sorts of new
machines. The first one developed was destined to open up to Curtiss a
new field of action, one that furnished the opportunity for new speed
records, and enlarged the scope of his activities beyond the limits of
the little town and the valley, and spread before him possibilities as
wide as the boundaries of the continent.
Curtiss had ridden a bicycle in races, and got the utmost speed out of
it; but the bicycle, as a man-propelled vehicle, did not travel fast
enough to suit him. He therefore set about devising means for increasing
its speed possibilities. One day Smellie, his old employer, came into
Curtiss' shop, tired out and perspiring from his efforts in pedaling his
bicycle up the hill. "Glenn," he said, "I'm going to give the blamed
thing up until they get something to push it." That was Curtiss' cue,
and it promptly became his problem–getting something to push it! He
determined to mount a gasoline engine on a bicycle, and at once began to
search for the necessary castings. Finally he secured them and began the
task of building a motor. Unfortunately, the man who sold him the
castings sent no instructions for building a motor, so the problem was
left to Curtiss and to those who interested themselves in his work. They
studied and planned and made experiments, learning something new about
motors all the while. Eventually, with the assistance of local
mechanics, the castings were "machined" and the motor assembled.
Curtiss afterward described it as a remarkable contrivance; but it did
the work. This motor had a two-inch bore and a two-an-a-half-inch
stroke, and drove the bicycle wheel by a friction roller pulley. First,
Curtiss made the pulley of wood, then of leather, and finally of rubber.
It was tried first on the front wheel and then on the rear one, and so
numerous were the changes in and additions to its equipment, that the
bystanders and there was the usual number of these saw only the humorous
side of the thing and declared that it looked like a sort of Happy
Hooligan bicycle with tin cans hung on wherever there was room. The
tomato can again came to the front in Curtiss' experiments, and now
served to fashion a rough and ready sort of carburetor, filled with
gasoline and covered over with a gauze screen, which sucked up the
liquid by capillary attraction. Thus it vaporized and was conducted to
the cylinder by a pipe from the top of the can.
Then came the first demonstration of a bicycle driven by power other
than leg muscles, and it attracted almost as much attention in
Hammondsport as the first bicycle road race which Curtiss had won some
years before. The newfangled machine, which the village oracle declared
could not be made to go unless the rider put his legs to work, did not
promise much of a success on its initial trip. Curtiss started off for
the post-office, but had to pedal all the way there, the motor refusing
to do its part. Coming from the post-office, however, it began popping
and shoved the wheels around at an amazing rate, while Curtiss sat
calmly upright and viewed the excited citizens of Hammondsport as he
sped by.
[Illustration: THE EVOLUTION OF AN AVIATOR]
[Illustration: (A) POST CARD SENT BY CURTISS TO HIS WIFE, JANUARY
24, 1907
(B) CURTISS MAKING WORLD'S MOTORCYCLE RECORD, ORMOND]
That was the beginning of Curtiss' motorcycle; but the ambitious
inventor did not rest with the first success. Work at the "incubator"
went on unceasingly. The young mechanical genius carried on his regular
duties during the days but spent most of the nights in his experiments.
Curtiss would not have said that he worked nights, but that he spent his
evenings in "doping out" the best way to build something. He has never
changed his habits in this respect. He still "dopes out" something for
the next day or the next month while "resting" from his daylight duties;
though the process would now be expressed in somewhat more scientific
terms. In truth, one may say that Curtiss worked all the time. In office
or shop hours, like other persons, he did what he had to do; while at
other times he did what he wanted to do. Curtiss was different only in
that he wanted to do those things which other people would call labor.
Experimental work was recreation to Curtiss, and because of this mental
attitude he was able to stick at a task day and night and keep up
"steam" all the while.
Curtiss seldom planned on paper. Plans seemed to outline themselves in
his active mind, and when, later, he became an employer of a number of
men, he simply outlined his ideas, describing just what he wanted to
accomplish, and left it to their ingenuity. Sometimes one of his
assistants would ask him a question and after standing for minutes as if
he had not heard, Curtiss would suddenly reply and outline a task which
it would require all day to carry out. Once Curtiss had decided that a
certain course of action would bring certain mechanical results, it
usually turned out that way, and because of this and the further fact
that he was as good a workman as he was a designer, the men he had
gathered around him grew to regard his judgment as final and therefore
went ahead with absolute confidence as to the results.
There was a remarkable spirit of cooperation in the "industrial
incubator." This spirit continued through the early years of Curtiss'
first business successes, and it obtains to-day in the big Curtiss
aeroplane and motor factories at Hammondsport. The alertness of the men
around Curtiss, and the atmosphere of cooperation may be due, in some
measure, to the curious interest they always hold as to what he will do
next and there is certain to be something happening out of the ordinary.
Thus, work with Curtiss seldom becomes monotonous and without its
surprises.
To go back to the first motor Curtiss built; it was quickly found to be
too small, and he secured another set of castings, as large as he could
get. With these he constructed a motor with a cylinder three and a half
by five inches, and weighing a hundred and ninety pounds. This machine
proved to be a terror. It is true that it exploded only occasionally,
but when it did it almost tore itself loose from the frame. But it drove
the motorcycle as fast as thirty miles an hour and gained such a
remarkable reputation in Hammondsport that a story is still told in the
town of the time Curtiss made his first trip with it, when it carried
him through the village, up over the steep hills, through North Urbana
and as far as Wayne, where it ran out of gasoline and came to a stop of
its own accord.
Thus Curtiss went ahead with his work to construct and improve his
motors, and improvement came with each successive one. The third motor
was better suited to the needs of the bicycle and furnished better
results. Meantime, Curtiss began to receive inquiries and even some
orders, and business took a decidedly favorable turn. Judge Monroe
Wheeler took a great liking to the young man, who used to come over to
his office to get the judge's stenographer to typewrite his letters, and
helped him to establish credit at the local bank, and in other ways.
Half a dozen fellow-townsmen became interested enough in Curtiss'
motorcycle experiments to put money into the business, and within a
short time a little factory was built on the hill back of Grandma
Curtiss' house. It was an inconvenient place to put up a factory, and
all the heavy material was hauled up to it with some difficulty, but the
light, finished product, which in this case could go under its own
power, rolled down the steep grade without trouble. In spite of these
little obstacles; in spite of the fact that Hammondsport is located at
the end of a little branch railroad which seems to the visitor to run
only as the spirit moves the engineer in spite of every handicap, the
business grew rapidly.
Curtiss was, by this time, happily married and Mrs. Curtiss helped with
the office work at the factory, which stood then, as it does to-day, at
the very back door of the old Curtiss homestead on the hillside. Curtiss
used to take out his best motorcycle in these days and go off alone to
all the motorcycle races held in that section of the State.
Incidentally, he scooped in all the prizes, for he had the fastest
machine, and he was a finished rider. On Memorial Day in 1903, Curtiss
ventured far afield for an event that brought him his first notices in
the big newspapers of New York City. He entered and won a hill-climbing
contest at New York City, on Riverside Drive, and immediately afterward
mounted his wheel, rode up the Hudson to another race, at Empire City
Track, and won that also. This gave him the American championship.
Later, at Providence, R. I., he established a world's record for a
single-cylinder motorcycle, covering a mile in fifty-six and two-fifths
seconds. While this was phenomenal speed, it was as nothing in
comparison with the record he was soon to establish. He built a
two-cylinder motor and on January 28, 1904, at Ormond Beach, Florida, he
rode ten miles in eight minutes fifty-four and two-fifth seconds, and
established a world's record that stood for more than seven years.
Curtiss was not content even with this. He wanted to travel faster than
man had ever traveled before. He had built a forty horse-power,
eight-cylinder motor for a customer who wanted it to put in a flying
machine which he was building, and in order to try out the motor Curtiss
built an especially strong motorcycle, using an automobile tire on the
rear wheel and a motorcycle tire on the front wheel. On a strong frame
the big forty horsepower motor was mounted. It was not given a thorough
try out at Hammondsport, for it was winter and snow lay deep on the
roads. With the aid of some of his shopmen, Curtiss took the freak
machine out on the snow-covered roads, merely for the purpose of seeing
if it could be started as it was geared in the machine. It proved that
it would start all right, and so it was hurriedly boxed and rushed to
the train, which was actually kept waiting several minutes. Curtiss was
going South to make new records, and even the railroad men on the little
branch road from Hammondsport to Bath, felt an interest in his
undertaking. This, by the way, is typical of the way things are done at
Hammondsport. When there is need for rushing matters, the men work night
and day without complaint. These last-moment rushes are often due to the
giving of much thought to the details before commencing to build, and
sometimes because, in building, improvements which must be incorporated
suggest themselves. Curtiss' rule, as he expresses it, is: "What is the
need of racing unless you think you are going to win; and if you are
beaten before you start, why take a chance?" But there are other
considerations for the builder of racing machines to take into account.
If your competitors know what you are doing, and they will know,
somehow, if you give them a little time, they will go you one better.
Therefore, this belated activity at the Curtiss factory is not always
without its motive. Take, for instance, the first big International race
for the Gordon Bennett aviation trophy, which Curtiss won at Rheims,
France, in 1909. In spite of the fact that Curtiss' motor was built in a
great hurry, barely giving the necessary time to finish it and reach
Rheims for the race, Bleriot, the chief French builder of the monoplane
type, changed his motor as soon as he had read a description of the one
Curtiss was to use.
The motorcycle which Curtiss had built and mounted with the
eight-cylinder motor proved to be a world-beater the fastest vehicle
ever built to carry a man. It was taken to Ormond Beach, Florida, where
it was tried out on the smooth sandy shore, which stretches for miles,
as level as a billiard table and almost as hard as asphalt. Here, on
January 24, 1907, Curtiss mounted the heavy, ungainly vehicle and
traveled a mile in twenty-six and two-fifth seconds, at the rate of one
hundred and thirty-seven miles an hour! This stands to-day as the speed
record for man and machine. Curtiss, without goggles and with no special
precautions in the matter of costume, simply mounted the seat, took a
two-mile running start before crossing the line, and was off. Bending so
low over the handle-bars that he almost seemed to be lying flat and
merged into a part of the machine itself, he flashed over the mile
course in less time than it takes to read these dozen lines. This speed
trial was the culmination of weeks of study, work, and experiment. Day
after day, and even at night, Curtiss had schemed and worked; now to get
the weight properly placed and balanced; here to strengthen the frame
and overcome the danger from the torque, and the tendency to turn the
machine over, and finally to obtain the right sort of tires and to put
them on securely. Ordinary tires, on wheels revolving at such an amazing
speed, would have been cast off the rims like a belt off a pulley, by
the centrifugal force.
These and a thousand other details were worked out so thoroughly that
the machine, when ready, required very little testing out. In describing
the trial Curtiss said that he could see nothing but a streak of grey
beach in front of him, a blur of hills on one side, and the white ribbon
of foaming surf on the other. The great crowd that watched the smoking,
whirring thing that flashed by as if fired from a great gun, caught but
a fleeting glimpse of Curtiss.
The record could not be accepted as official, because the motor was too
big and powerful to be classed as a motorcycle engine. It therefore
stands as an absolutely unique performance, unequalled, and not even
approached as regards speed, until three years later, when Barney
Oldfield, driving a two hundred horse-power Benz automobile, covered a
mile over the same course in twenty-seven and thirty-three hundredths
seconds.
Curtiss had developed, improved, and exhausted the motorcycle as far as
speed possibilities were concerned, and was soon to give it up for
something of far greater potential possibilities–the aeroplane.
CHAPTER IV BALDWIN'S BALLOON
Thomas Scott Baldwin was engaged in building a dirigible balloon in
California when he chanced to see a new motorcycle, the motor of which
seemed to be exactly what he wanted to propel his new airship. He
learned that it was the design and product of a man named Curtiss, at
Hammondsport, N. Y., with whom he entered into correspondence. The
result was that Captain Baldwin went to Hammondsport for a personal
interview with the man who had turned out the motor.
Baldwin expected to find, as he afterward said, a big, important-looking
manufacturer, and great was his surprise to find a quiet, unassuming
young man, scarcely more than a youth. The jovial Baldwin and the
unobtrusive Curtiss became great friends at once. They discussed motors
of all sorts, but particularly motors suitable for dirigible balloons,
then in the first stage of development. When Baldwin asked Curtiss the
price of one of the type then used in the Curtiss motorcycle, he was
surprised at its cheapness, and ordered one on the spot. This was built
at once and proved successful. Later several other motors were built at
the Curtiss factory for Baldwin, each one showing some improvement, and
some of them designed to meet the increasing demand for a more powerful
motor of light weight for use in dirigible balloons. As a natural
consequence of Baldwin's success with the use of the Curtiss motor, it
was but a short time until it came to be the best known motor in America
for aeronautic work. At the St. Louis World's Fair, in 1904, Captain
Baldwin's "California Arrow," the only successful airship out of all
those which were brought from Europe and every part of America to
contest for big prizes, was equipped with one of Curtiss' motors.
Baldwin's success at St. Louis was a triumph for Curtiss, and soon all
dirigible balloons operating in this country were driven by Curtiss
motors.
Hammondsport was now to have a new sensation and to witness an
experiment which eventually led to momentous developments. In order to
test the power of the motors he was building for Captain Baldwin, and
for the purpose of determining the efficiency of his aerial propeller,
Curtiss constructed a "wind-wagon," a three-wheel vehicle with the motor
and propeller mounted in the rear of the driver. When he took this queer
contrivance out on the road for its first trial, the town of
Hammondsport turned out to witness the fun. Consternation among the
usually mild-eyed work horses spread throughout the little valley as the
"wind-wagon" went scooting up and down the dusty roads, creating a
fearful racket. Before the start was made an automobile was sent ahead
to clear the way and to warn the drivers of other vehicles. The
automobile, however, was quickly overhauled, passed, and left far in the
rear by the whirring, spluttering, three-wheeled embryonic flying
machine.
[Illustration: THE BALDWIN ARMY DIRIGIBLE–CURTISS MOTOR]
Curtiss at front, at motor; Captain Thomas S. Baldwin at rear
[Illustration: NEARLY UP IN THE AIR]
(A) The wind wagon Curtiss in 1904.
(B) Ice boat with aerial propeller
Protests by farmers, business-men and others quickly followed this
experiment. They argued that it frightened the horses, made travel on
the roads unsafe, and was "bad for business generally." As the machine
had served its purpose with Curtiss, and had given Hammondsport its
little diversion, the famous "wind-wagon" passed into history, and, like
so many other of Curtiss' experiments, remains only in the memories of
those who were directly interested or those who watched in idle
curiosity.
Other airships were built by Baldwin and Curtiss from time to time, and
these were used successfully in giving exhibitions throughout the United
States. The work of these two pioneers of the air had attracted the
attention of the United States Government, in the meantime, and great
was the elation at Hammondsport when an order came from the War
Department at Washington for a big dirigible balloon for the use of the
Signal Corps. Baldwin was commissioned to build the balloon and Curtiss
the motor to propel it. This was an important undertaking, and both
Baldwin and Curtiss appreciated the fact. It marked the beginning of
Governmental and military interest in aeronautics in this country, the
possibilities of which were already engaging the attention of the
military authorities of Europe. The success of this airship meant much
to both men, and Baldwin and Curtiss worked all through the winter of
1904-05 to make it so, Baldwin, meanwhile, having moved to Hammondsport
in order to be in touch with the Curtiss factory, where all the
mechanical parts of his airships were being made.
In order to meet the specifications drawn up by the War Department, the
big airship was required to make a continuous flight of two hours under
the power of the motor, and be capable of manoeuvring in any direction.
Curtiss realised that in order to fill these requirements a new type
motor would be needed. He designed and set about building, therefore, a
water-cooled motor, something which had not been attempted at the
Curtiss factory up to this time, and the success of which marked a long
step in advance. Although Baldwin had built thirteen dirigibles, all of
which had been equipped with motors built by Curtiss, and all of which
had been operated successfully in exhibitions, the Government contract
was his most ambitious undertaking. About the balloon itself, there was
never any doubt; the thing that clung constantly in the minds of these
men who were bending every effort to the conquest of the air, was: "Will
the motor do its work in a two-hours' endurance test, and will it
furnish the necessary power to drive the big airship at a speed of
twenty miles an hour?" The conditions under which the trial was to be
made were entirely unique. The motor had to be suspended on a light but
substantial framework beneath the great gas-bag, and from this framework
the pilot and the engineer had to do their work.
The Army dirigible was completed on time and its test took place at
Washington in the summer of 1905. Captain Baldwin acted as pilot and
Curtiss as engineer. The airship met every specification and was
accepted by the Government. A flight of two hours' duration was made
over the wooded hills of Virginia, and this stands to-day as the longest
continuous flight ever made by a dirigible airship in this country.
PART II MY FIRST FLIGHTS by Glenn H. Curtiss
CHAPTER I BEGINNING TO FLY
In 1905, while in New York City, I first met Dr. Alexander Graham Bell,
the inventor of the telephone. Dr. Bell had learned of our light-weight
motors, used with success on the Baldwin dirigibles, and wanted to
secure one for use in his experiments with kites. We had a very
interesting talk on these experiments, and he asked me to visit him at
Bienn Bhreagh, his summer home near Baddeck, Nova Scotia. Dr. Bell had
developed some wonderfully light and strong tetrahedral kites which
possessed great inherent stability, and he wanted a motor to install in
one of them for purposes of experimentation. This kite was a very large
one. The Doctor called it an "aerodrome." The surfaces not being planes,
it could not properly be described as an aeroplane. He believed that the
time would come when the framework of the aeroplane would have to be so
large in proportion to its surface that it would be too heavy to fly.
Consequently, he evolved the tetrahedral or cellular form of structure,
which would allow of the size being increased indefinitely, while the
weight would be increased only in the same ratio.
Dr. Bell had invited two young Canadian engineers, F. W. Baldwin and J.
A. D. McCurdy, to assist him, and they were at Baddeck when I first
visited there in the summer of 1907. Lieutenant Thomas Selfridge, of the
United States Army, was also there. Naturally, there was a wide
discussion on the subject of aeronautics, and so numerous were the
suggestions made and so many theories advanced, that Mrs. Bell suggested
the formation of a scientific organisation, to be known as the "Aerial
Experiment Association." This met with a prompt and hearty agreement and
the association was created very much in the same manner as Dr. Bell had
previously formed the "Volta Association" at Washington for developing
the phonograph. Mrs. Bell, who was most enthusiastic and helpful,
generously offered to furnish the necessary funds for experimental work,
and the object of the Association was officially set forth as "to build
a practical aeroplane which will carry a man and be driven through the
air by its own power."
[Illustration: THE AERIAL EXPERIMENT ASSOCIATION]
Left to right: F.W. Baldwin, Lieutenant Thomas Selfridge, Glenn Curtiss,
Alexander Graham Bell, J.A.D. McCurdy, Augustus Post
[Illustration: STARTING TO FLY]
(A) F. W. Baldwin makes first public flight In America.
(B) The "June Bug," June, 1908.
(C) Baldwin in Aerial Association's Glider
Dr. Alexander Graham Bell was made chairman; F. W. Baldwin, chief
engineer; J. A. D. McCurdy, assistant engineer and treasurer; and Lieut.
Thomas Selfridge, secretary; while I was honored with the title of
Director of Experiments and Chief Executive Officer. Both Baldwin and
McCurdy were fresh from Toronto University, where they had graduated as
mechanical engineers, and Baldwin later earned the distinction of making
the first public flight in a motor-driven, heavier-than-air machine.
This was accomplished at Hammondsport, N. Y., March 12, 1908, over the
ice on Lake Keuka. The machine used was Number One, built by the Aerial
Experiment Association, designed by Lieutenant Selfridge, and known as
"The Red Wing." The experiments carried on at Baddeck during the summer
and fall of 1907 covered a wide range. There were trials and tests with
Dr. Bell's tetrahedral kites, with motors, and with aerial propellers
mounted on boats. Finally, at the suggestion of Lieutenant Selfridge, it
was decided to move the scene of further experiments to Hammondsport, N.
Y., where my factory is located, and there to build a glider. I had
preceded the other members of the Association from Baddeck to
Hammondsport in order to prepare for the continuance of our work. A few
days after my return I was in my office, talking to Mr. Augustus Post,
then the Secretary of the Aero Club of America, when a telegram came
from Dr. Bell, saying: "Start building. The boys will be down next
week." As no plans had been outlined, and nothing definite settled upon
in the way of immediate experiments, I was somewhat undecided as to just
what to build. We then discussed the subject of gliders for some time
and I finally decided that the thing to do was to build a glider at the
factory and to take advantage of the very abrupt and convenient hills at
Hammondsport to try it out. We therefore built a double-surface glider
of the Chanute type.
As almost every schoolboy knows in this day of advanced information on
aviation, a glider is, roughly speaking, an aeroplane without a motor.
Usually it has practically the same surfaces as a modern aeroplane, and
may be made to support a passenger by launching it from the top of a
hill in order to give it sufficient impetus to sustain its own weight
and that of a rider. If the hill is steep the glider will descend at a
smaller angle than the slope of the hill, and thus glides of a
considerable distance may be made with ease and comparative safety.
Our first trials of the glider, which we built on the arrival of the
members of the Experiment Association, were made in the dead of winter,
when the snow lay deep over the hillsides. This made very hard work for
everybody. It was a case of trudging laboriously up the steep hillsides
and hauling or carrying the glider to the top by slow stages. It was
easy enough going down, but slow work going up; but we continued our
trials with varied success until we considered ourselves skilful enough
to undertake a motor-driven machine, which we mounted on runners.
CHAPTER II FIRST FLIGHTS
It was my desire to build a machine and install a motor at once, and
thus take advantage of the opportunity furnished by the thick, smooth
ice over Lake Keuka at that season of the year. But Lieutenant
Selfridge, who had read a great deal about gliders and who had studied
them from every angle, believed we should continue experimenting with
the glider. However, we decided to build a machine which we believed
would fly, and in due time a motor was installed and it was taken down
on Lake Keuka to be tried out. We called it the "Red Wing," and to
Lieutenant Selfridge belongs the honour of designing it, though all the
members of the Aerial Experiment Association had some hand in its
construction. We all had our own ideas about the design of this first
machine, but to Lieutenant Selfridge was left the privilege of accepting
or rejecting the many suggestions made from time to time, in order that
greater progress might be made. A number of our suggestions were
accepted, and while the machine as completed cannot properly be
described as the result of one man's ideas, the honour of being the
final arbiter of all the problems of its design certainly belongs to
Lieutenant Selfridge.
Now that the machine was completed and the motor installed, we waited
for favourable weather to make the first trial. Winter weather around
Lake Keuka is a very uncertain element, and we had a long, tiresome wait
until the wintry gales that blew out of the north gave way to an
intensely cold spell. Our opportunity came on March 12, 1908. There was
scarcely a bit of wind, but it was bitterly cold. Unfortunately,
Lieutenant Selfridge was absent, having left Hammondsport on business,
and "Casey" Baldwin was selected to make the first trial. We were all on
edge with eagerness to see what the machine would do. Same of us were
confident, others sceptical.
Baldwin climbed into the seat, took the control in hand, and we cranked
the motor. When we released our hold of the machine, it sped over the
ice like a scared rabbit for two or three hundred feet, and then, much
to our joy, it jumped into the air. This was what we had worked for
through many long months, and naturally we watched the brief and
uncertain course of Baldwin with a good deal of emotion. Rising to a
height of six or eight feet, Baldwin flew the unheard-of distance of
three hundred and eighteen feet, eleven inches! Then he came down
ingloriously on one wing. As we learned afterward, the frail framework
of the tail had bent and the machine had flopped over on its side and
dropped on the wing, which gave way and caused the machine to turn
completely around.
But it had been a successful flight and we took no toll of the damage to
the machine or the cost. We had succeeded! that was the main thing. We
had actually flown the "Red Wing" three hundred and eighteen feet and
eleven inches! We knew now we could build a machine that would fly
longer and come down at the direction of the operator with safety to
both.
It had taken just seven weeks to build the machine and to get it ready
for the trial; it had taken just about twenty seconds to smash it.
But a great thing had been accomplished. We had achieved the first
public flight of a heavier-than-air machine in America!
As our original plans provided for the building of one machine designed
by each member of the Association, with the assistance of all the
others, the building of the next one fell to Mr. Baldwin, and it was
called the "White Wing." The design of the "Red Wing" was followed in
many details, but several things were added which we believed would give
increased stability and greater flying power. The construction of the
"White Wing" was begun at once, but before we could complete it the ice
on the lake had yielded to the spring winds and we were therefore
obliged to transfer our future trials to land. This required wheels for
starting and alighting in the place of the ice runners used on the "Red
Wing." An old half-mile race track a short distance up the valley from
the Lake was rented and put in shape for flights. The place was called
"Stony Brook Farm," and it was for a long time afterward the scene of
our flying exploits at Hammondsport.
It would be tiresome to the reader to be told of all the discouragements
we met with; of the disheartening smashes we suffered; how almost every
time we managed to get the new machine off the ground for brief but
encouraging flights, it would come down so hard that something would
give way and we would have to set about the task of building it up
again. We soon learned that it was comparatively easy to get the machine
up in the air, but it was most difficult to get it back to earth without
smashing something. The fact was, we had not learned the art of landing
an aeroplane with ease and safety–an absolutely necessary art for every
successful aviator to know. It seemed one day that the limit of hard
luck had been reached, when, after a brief flight and a somewhat rough
landing, the machine folded up and sank down on its side, like a wounded
bird, just as we were feeling pretty good over a successful landing
without breakage.
Changes in the details of the machine were many and frequent, and after
each change there was a flight or an attempted flight. Sometimes we
managed to make quite a flight, and others and more numerous merely
short "jumps" that would land the machine in a potato patch or a
cornfield, where, in the yielding ground, the wheels would crumple up
and let the whole thing down. Up to this time we had always used silk to
cover the planes, but this proved very expensive and we decided to try a
substitute. An entirely new set of planes were made and the new covering
put on them. They looked very pretty and white as we took the rebuilt
machine out with every expectation that it would fly. Great was our
surprise, however, when it refused absolutely to make even an
encouraging jump. For a time we were at a loss to understand it. Then
the reason became as plain as day; we had used cotton to cover the
planes, and, being porous, it would not furnish the sustaining power in
flight. This was quickly remedied by coating the cotton covering with
varnish, rendering it impervious to the air. After that it flew all
right. I believe this was the first instance of the use of a liquid
filler to coat the surface cloth. It is now used widely, both in this
country and in Europe.
We had a great many minor misfortunes with the "White Wing," but each
one taught us a lesson. We gradually learned where the stresses and
strains lay, and overcame them. Thus, little by little, the machine was
reduced in weight, simplified in detail, and finally took on some
semblance to the standard Curtiss aeroplane of today.
All the members of the Aerial Experiment Association were in
Hammondsport at this time, including Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. We had
established an office in the annex which had been built on the Curtiss
homestead, and here took place nightly discussions on the work of the
day past and the plans for the day to follow. Some of the boys named the
office the "thinkorium." Every night the minutes of the previous meeting
would be read and discussed. These minutes, by the way, were religiously
kept by Lieutenant Selfridge and later published in the form of a
bulletin and sent to each member. Marvellous in range were the subjects
brought up and talked over at these meetings! Dr. Bell was the source of
the most unusual suggestions for discussion. Usually these were things
he had given a great deal of thought and time to, and, therefore, his
opinions on any of his hobbies were most interesting. For instance, he
had collected a great deal of information on the genealogy of the Hyde
family, comprising some seven thousand individuals. These he had
arranged in his card index system, in order to determine the proportion
of male and female individuals, their relative length of life, and other
characteristics. Or, perhaps, the Doctor would talk about his scheme to
influence the sex of sheep by a certain method of feeding; his early
experiences with the telephone, the phonograph, the harmonic telegraph,
and multiple telegraphy. At other times we would do a jig-saw puzzle
with pictures of aeroplanes, or listen to lectures on physical culture
by Dr. Alden, of the village. Then, for a change, we would discuss, with
great interest and sincerity, the various methods of making sounds to
accompany the action of a picture, behind the curtain of the
moving-picture show, which we all had attended. Motorcycle construction
and operation were studied at the factory and on the roads around
Hammondsport. McCurdy used to give us daily demonstrations of how to
fall off a motorcycle scientifically. He fell off so often, in fact,
that we feared he would never make an aviator. In this opinion, of
course, we were very much in error, as he became one of the first, and
also one of the best aviators in the country. Atmospheric pressure, the
vacuum motor, Dr. Bell's tetrahedral construction, and even astronomical
subjects all found a place in the nightly discussions at the
"thinkorium."
Of course there were many important things that took up our attention,
but we could not always be grave and dignified. I recall one evening
somebody started a discussion on the idea of elevating Trinity Church,
in New York City, on the top of a skyscraper, and using the revenue from
the ground rental to convert the heathen. This gave a decided shock to a
ministerial visitor who happened to be present.
When summer came on there were frequent motorcycle trips when the
weather did not permit of flying, or when the shop was at work repairing
one of our frequent smashes. "Casey" Baldwin and McCurdy furnished a
surprise one day by a rather unusual long-distance trip on motorcycles.
"Let's go up to Hamilton, Ontario," said Baldwin, probably choosing
Hamilton as the destination because he was charged with having a
sweetheart there.
"All right," answered McCurdy.
Without a moment's hesitation the two mounted their wheels, not even
stopping to get their caps, and rode through to Hamilton, a hundred and
fifty miles distant, buying everything they required along the way. They
were gone a week and came back by the same route.
A favourite subject of talk at the "thinkorium," at least between
McCurdy and Selfridge, was on some of the effects of the "torque" of a
propeller and whenever this arose we would expect the argument to keep
up until one or the other would fall asleep.
After the nightly formal sessions of the members of the Association the
courtesy of the floor was extended to any one who might be present for
the discussion of anything he might see fit to bring up. Later we would
adjourn to Dr. Bell's room, where he would put himself into a
comfortable position, light his inevitable pipe, and produce his note
books. In these note books Dr. Bell would write down everything his
thoughts on every subject imaginable, his ideas about many things,
sketches, computations. All these he would sign, date, and have
witnessed. It was Dr. Bell's custom to work at night when there were no
distracting noises, though there were few of these at Hammondsport even
during the daylight hours; at night it is quiet enough for the most
exacting victim of insomnia. Dr. Bell often sat up until long after
midnight, but he made up for the lost time by sleeping until noon. No
one was allowed to wake him for any reason. The rest of us were up early
in order to take advantage of the favourable flying conditions during
the early morning hours. Dr. Bell had a strong aversion to the ringing
of the telephone bell the great invention for which he is responsible. I
occasionally went into his room and found the bell stuffed with paper,
or wound around with towels.
"Little did I think when I invented this thing," said Dr. Bell, one day
when he had been awakened by the jingling of the bell, "that it would
rise up to mock and annoy me."
While the Doctor enjoyed his morning sleep we were out on "Stony Brook
Farm" trying to fly. We had put up a tent against the side of an old
sheep barn, and out of this we would haul the machine while the grass
was still wet with dew. One never knew what to expect of it. Sometimes a
short flight would be made; at others, something would break. Or, maybe,
the wind would come up and this would force us to abandon all further
trials for the day. Then it was back to the shop to work on some new
device, or to repair damages until the wind died out with the setting of
the sun. Early in the morning and late in the evening were the best
periods of the day for our experimental work because of the absence of
wind.
On May 22, 1908, our second machine, the "White Wing," was brought to
such a state of perfection that I flew it a distance of one thousand and
seventeen feet in nineteen seconds, and landed without damage in a
ploughed field outside the old race track. It was regarded as a
remarkable flight at that time, and naturally, I felt very much elated.
CHAPTER III THE "JUNE BUG" FIRST FLIGHTS FOR THE SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN
TROPHY AND FIRST EXPERIMENTS WITH THE HYDROAEROPLANE
Following the success of the "White Wing" we started in to build another
machine, embodying all that we had learned from our experience with the
two previous ones. Following our custom of giving each machine a name to
distinguish it from the preceding one, we called this third aeroplane
the "June Bug." The name was aptly chosen, for it was a success from the
very beginning. Indeed, it flew so well that we soon decided it was good
enough to win the trophy which had been offered by The Scientific
American for the first public flight of one kilometer, or five-eights of
a mile, straightaway. This trophy, by the way, was the first to be
offered in this country for an aeroplane flight, and the conditions
specified that it should become the property of the person winning it
three years in succession. The "June Bug" was given a thorough try-out
before we made arrangements to fly for the trophy, and we were confident
it would fulfill the requirements.
The Fourth of July, 1908, was the day set for the trial. A large
delegation of aero-club members came on from New York and Washington,
among whom were Stanley Y. Beach, Allan E. Hawley, Augustus Post, David
Fairchild, Chas. M. Manley, Christopher J. Lake, A. M. Herring, George
H. Guy, E. L. Jones, Wilbur E. Kimball, Captain Thomas S. Baldwin and
many other personal friends. The excitement among the citizens of
Hammondsport in general was little less than that existing among the
members of the Aerial Experiment Association, and seldom had the Fourth
of July been awaited with greater impatience.
[Illustration: THE FIRST MACHINES]
(A) "The White Wing," Baldwin driving, 1908.
(B) Selfridge's "Red Wing" on the ice, Lake Keuka
[Illustration: CURTISS' FIRST FLIGHT FOR THE SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN TROPHY]
(July 4, 1908)
When Independence Day finally dawned it did not look auspicious for the
first official aeroplane flight for a trophy. Clouds boded rain and
there was some wind. This did not deter the entire population of
Hammondsport from gathering on the heights around the flying field,
under the trees in the valley and, in fact, at every point of vantage.
Some were on the scene as early as five o'clock in the morning, and many
brought along baskets of food and made a picnic of it. The rain came
along toward noon, but the crowd hoisted its umbrellas or sought shelter
under the trees and stayed on. Late in the afternoon the sky cleared and
it began to look as if we were to have the chance to fly after all. The
"June Bug" was brought out of its tent and the motor given a try-out. It
worked all right. The course was measured and a flag put up to mark the
end. Everything was ready and about seven o'clock in the evening the
motor was started and I climbed into the seat. When I gave the word to
"let go" the "June Bug" skimmed along over the old race track for
perhaps two hundred feet and then rose gracefully into the air. The
crowd set up a hearty cheer, as I was told later for I could hear
nothing but the roar of the motor and I saw nothing except the course
and the flag marking a distance of one kilometer. The flag was quickly
reached and passed and still I kept the aeroplane up, flying as far as
the open fields would permit, and finally coming down safely in a
meadow, fully a mile from the starting place. I had thus exceeded the
requirements and had won the Scientific American Trophy for the first
time. I might have gone a great deal farther, as the motor was working
beautifully and I had the machine under perfect control, but to have
prolonged the flight would have meant a turn in the air or passing over
a number of large trees. The speed of this first official flight was
closely computed at thirty-nine miles an hour.
Dr. Bell had gone to Nova Scotia, unfortunately, and, therefore, did not
witness the Fourth of July flight of the "June Bug." The other members,
however, were all present. It was a great day for all of us and we were
more confident than ever that we had evolved, out of our long and costly
experiments, a machine that would fly successfully and with safety to
the operator. Lieutenant Selfridge was particularly enthusiastic, and I
recall when Mr. Holcomb, special agent for a life insurance company,
visited the field one day and heard Selfridge talk about flying.
"You must be careful, Selfridge," said Mr. Holcomb, "or we will need a
bed for you in the hospital of which I am a trustee."
"Oh, I am careful, all right," replied Selfridge, but it was only a few
days later when he left Hammondsport for Washington, and was killed
while flying as a passenger with Orville Wright at Fort Meyer.
In Selfridge we lost not only one of the best-posted men in the field of
aeronautics, a student and a man of practical ideas, but one of our
best-loved companions and co-workers, as well.
Three machines had thus far been built and flown, first the "Red Wing,"
designed by Lieutenant Selfridge; next the "White Wing," by Baldwin, and
last the "June Bug," by me. It was now McCurdy's turn and he designed a
machine which he named the "Silver Dart." While this was building we
decided to take the "June Bug" down to the lake, equip it with a set of
pontoons, or a boat, and attempt to fly from the water. It was my idea
that if we could design a float that would sustain the aeroplane on an
even keel and at the same time furnish a minimum of resistance, we would
be able to get up enough speed to rise from the water. Besides, the lake
would afford an ideal flying place, and, what was more important still,
a fall or a bad landing would not be nearly so likely to result in
injury to the aviator.
Accordingly, we mounted the "June Bug" on two floats, built something
like a catamaran, and re-named it the "Loon." It required some time to
construct light and strong floats and it was not until the beginning of
November, 1908, that we were ready for the first attempt to fly from the
water ever made in this or any other country. The "Loon" was hauled down
to the lake from the aerodrome on a two-wheeled cart, there being no
wheels for rolling it over the ground. I remember we had to build a
platform on the cart and to strengthen the wheels to carry the weight of
nearly one thousand pounds which the added equipment had brought the
total weight up to.
This first experimental hydroaeroplane was a crude affair as compared
with the machine in which I made the first successful flight from and
landing upon the water, more than three years later at San Diego, Cal.
The cleaner lines, the neat, light-weight boat and the other details of
the Curtiss hydroaeroplane offer as striking a contrast to the "Loon" as
the modern locomotive offers to the crude, clumsy affairs that now exist
only in the museums. So great is the difference that one is inclined to
marvel that we had any success whatever with the first design.
We made many attempts to rise from the water in the "Loon," but owing to
the great weight were unable to make any real flights, although the
observers on shore were sure that the pontoons were sometimes clear of
the water. By the end of November our experiments had convinced every
one of us that we needed more power and more time than we had at our
disposal just then. The best motor we had at our command was able to
deliver only enough power to drive the "Loon" at twenty-five miles an
hour on the water. This was not enough to get the machine into the air,
unless assisted by a strong head wind, and we were not anxious to try
flying in a strong wind.
In the meantime McCurdy's machine, the "Silver Dart," had been completed
and mounted on wheels. The first flight was made by McCurdy on December
12, 1908, over the "Stony Brook" flying field. The "Silver Dart" was
practically the same as the "June Bug." Shortly after this it was
shipped to Dr. Bell's place at Baddeck, Nova Scotia, where McCurdy and
"Casey" Baldwin used it all through the winter in practice, making
flights from the ice and covering all the country thereabouts. McCurdy
estimates that in his some two hundred flights in the "Silver Dart," he
covered more than a thousand miles.
CHAPTER IV FIRST FLIGHTS IN NEW YORK CITY
As a result of the winning of the Scientific American Trophy, the
Aeronautical Society of New York City placed an order in the winter of
1908-09 for an aeroplane to be demonstrated at Morris Park Track, New
York City, in the spring.
Plans were outlined for enlarging the Hammondsport factory and work
commenced on the machine ordered by the Aeronautical Society. It was the
plan of this Society to purchase the aeroplane and have one or more of
its members taught to fly it. The machine was finished in due time,
thoroughly tried out at Hammondsport before it was shipped to New York,
and finally sent to the old Morris Park Race Track, where the
Aeronautical Society had arranged for the first public exhibition ever
held in the history of aviation. There, on June 26, 1909, I had the
honour of making the first aeroplane flights in New York City, in the
machine bought by the Aeronautical Society.
The Society intended to make Morris Park the scene of aviation meets and
of experiments with gliders, but the grounds proved too small and I
recommended a change to some other place in the vicinity of New York
City, where there was plenty of open country and where the danger from
unexpected landings would be minimized. I looked over all the suitable
places around New York City and finally decided upon Mineola, on Long
Island. The Hempstead Plains, a large, level tract lying just outside
Mineola, offered an ideal place for flying and the Aeronautical Society
machine was brought down there from Morris Park.
There was such a fine field for flying at Mineola that I decided to make
another try for the Scientific American trophy, which I had won on the
previous Fourth of July at Hammondsport with the "June Bug." I wanted
that trophy very much, but in order to become possessed of it I had to
win it three years in succession, the conditions being changed from year
to year to keep pace with the progress and development of aviation. The
second year's conditions required a continuous flight of more than
twenty-five kilometers (about sixteen miles) in order to have the flight
taken into account in awarding the prize, which was to go to the person
making the longest official flight during the year.
I believed I could make a fine showing at Hempstead Plains and
preparations were made for the attempt. The aeroplane was put together
near Peter MeLaughlin's hotel and a triangular course of one and a third
miles was measured off. After I had made a number of trial flights over
the course I sent formal notice to the Aero Club of America that all was
ready for the official flight, and the Club sent Mr. Charles M. Manley
down as official representative to observe the trial for the Scientific
American trophy.
On July 17th, 1909, a little more than a year from the first official
flight of the "June Bug" at Hammondsport, we got out on the field at
Mineola at sunrise, before the heavy dew was off the grass, and made
ready. It was a memorable day for the residents of that particular
section of Long Island, who had never seen a flying machine prior to my
brief trial flights there a few days before. They turned out in large
numbers, even at that early hour, and there was a big delegation of
newspapermen from the New York dailies on hand. Flying was such a
novelty at that time that nine-tenths of the people who came to watch
the preparations were sceptical while others declared that "that thing
won't fly, so what's the use of waiting 'round." There was much
excitement, therefore, when, at a quarter after five o'clock, on the
morning of July 17, I made my first flight. This was for the Cortlandt
Field Bishop prize of two hundred and fifty dollars, offered by the Aero
Club of America to the first four persons who should fly one kilometer.
It took just two and a half minutes to win this prize and immediately
afterward I started for the Scientific American trophy.
The weather was perfect and everything worked smoothly. I made twelve
circuits of the course, which completed the twenty-five kilometers, in
thirty-two minutes. The motor was working so nicely and the weather man
was so favourable, that I decided to keep right on flying, until finally
I had circled the course nineteen times and covered a distance of
twenty-four and seven-tenths miles before landing. The average speed was
probably about thirty-five miles an hour, although no official record of
the speed was made.
Great was the enthusiasm of the crowd when the flight ended. I confess
that I, too, was enthusiastic over the way the motor had worked and the
ease with which the machine could be handled in flight. Best of all, I
had the sense of satisfaction that the confidence imposed in me by my
friends had been justified.
As the machine built for the Aeronautical Society had thus met every
requirement, I agreed to teach two members to fly at Hempstead Plains.
Mr. Charles F. Willard and Mr. Williams were the two chosen to take up
instruction, and the work began at once. Mr. Willard proved an apt pupil
and after a few lessons mastered the machine and flew with confidence
and success, circling about the country around Mineola.
These flights at Mineola gave that place a start as the headquarters for
aviators, and it soon became the popular resort for everyone interested
in aviation in and near the city of New York.
[Illustration: SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN TROPHY]
PART III MY CHIEF FLIGHTS AND THE WORK OF TO-DAY by Glenn H. Curtiss
CHAPTER I THE RHEIMS MEET FIRST INTERNATIONAL AEROPLANE CONTEST
Prior to the first flights in New York City I had formulated plans for
an improved machine, designed for greater speed and equipped with a more
powerful motor. I wanted to take part in the first contest for the
Gordon Bennett Aviation cup at Rheims, France, August 22 to 29, 1909.
This was the first International Aviation Meet held, and much was
expected of the French machines of the monoplane type. Great was my
gratification, therefore, when I received word from the Aero Club of
America, through Mr. Cortlandt Field Bishop, who was then president,
that I had been chosen to represent America at Rheims.[1]
Without allowing my plans to become known to the public I began at once
to build an eight-cylinder, V-shaped, fifty horse-power motor. This was
practically double the horse-power I had been using. Work on the motor
was pushed day and night at Hammondsport, as I had not an hour to spare.
I had kept pretty close watch on everything that had been printed about
the preparations of the Frenchmen for the Gordon Bennett race and
although it was reported that Bleriot, in his own monoplane, and Hubert
Latham, in an Antoinette monoplane, had flown as fast as sixty miles an
hour, I still felt confident. The speed of aeroplanes is so often
exaggerated in press accounts that I did not believe all I read about
Bleriot's and Latham's trial flights.
The motor was finished, but there was no time to put it in the new
machine and try it out before sailing. It was, therefore, given a short
run on the block, or testing-frame, hurriedly packed, and the entire
equipment rushed to New York barely in time to catch the steamer for
France.
The time was so short between the arrival of our steamer and the opening
of the meet that in order to get to Rheims in time to qualify, we had to
take the aeroplane with us on the train as personal baggage. Thanks to
the kindness of the French railway officials, who realised our
situation, and evidently had imbibed some of the prevailing aviation
enthusiasm, we arrived at Rheims in quick time. In those early days of
aviation there was not the keen partisanship for monoplane or biplane
that one finds everywhere to-day; nor was there the strong popular
feeling in France in favor of the monoplane that exists today. An
aeroplane was simply an aeroplane at that time, and interesting as such,
but naturally all Frenchmen favored their compatriots who were entered
in the race, particularly Bleriot, who had just earned world-wide fame
by his flight across the English channel. The Frenchmen, as well as
Europeans in general, fully expected Bleriot to win with his fast
monoplane.
My own personal hopes lay in my motor. Judge of my surprise, therefore,
upon arriving at Rheims, to learn that Bleriot, who had probably heard
through newspaper reports that I was bringing over an eight-cylinder
motor, had himself installed an eight-cylinder motor of eighty
horse-power in one of his light monoplanes. When I learned this, I
believed my chances were very slim indeed, if in fact they had not
entirely disappeared. The monoplane is generally believed to be faster
than the biplane with equal power. I had just one aeroplane and one
motor; if I smashed either of these it would be all over with America's
chances in the first International Cup Race. I had not the reserve
equipment to bring out a new machine as fast as one was smashed, as
Bleriot and other Frenchmen had. Incidentally, there were many of them
smashed during the big meet on the Plain of Bethany. At one time, while
flying, I saw as many as twelve machines strewn about the field, some
wrecked and some disabled and being hauled slowly back to the hangars,
by hand or by horses. For obvious reasons, therefore, I kept out of the
duration contests and other events, flying only in such events as were
for speed, and of a distance not to exceed twenty kilometers, which was
the course for the Gordon Bennett contest in 1909.
It is hard enough for any one to map out a course of action and stick to
it, particularly in the face of the desires of one's friends; but it is
doubly hard for an aviator to stay on the ground waiting for just the
right time to get into the air. It was particularly hard for me to keep
out of many events at Rheims held from day to day, especially as there
were many patriotic Americans there who would have liked to see
America's only representative take part in everything on the programme.
I was urged by many of these to go out and contest the Frenchmen for the
rich prizes offered and it was hard to refuse to do this. These good
friends did not realise the situation. America's chances could not be
imperilled for the sake of gratifying one's curiosity, or national
pride. On top of the urgings of my American friends to go out and fly
and take chances of having a whole machine when the day for the Gordon
Bennett should arrive, I was penalised for not starting in the speed
race, the Prix de la Vitesse, the penalty being one-twentieth of the
time made when I should start in this event. However, I made a number of
trial flights and ten official ones, during the meet, without mishap,
except a sprained ankle. This was the result of running through growing
grain at the time of landing and being thrown out of the machine. I was
also fortunate in being the only aviator who took part in this first big
meet to land at the hangar after each flight.
During this period of waiting, and making explanations to enthusiastic
Americans who could not understand why I did not fly all the time, my
mechanician, "Tod" Shriver,[2] attracted a tremendous amount of
attention from the throngs that visited the hangars because he worked in
his shirt sleeves. They thought "Tod" picturesque because he did not
wear the French workman's blouse. Shriver used to say that if he were
picturesque in shirt sleeves there were about fifty million perfectly
good Americans across the Atlantic who formed probably the most
picturesque crowd on earth.
In the try-outs it became evident to the Frenchmen that my aeroplane was
very fast and it was conceded that the race for the Gordon Bennett Cup
would lie between Bleriot and myself, barring accidents. After a
carefully timed trial circuit of the course, which, much to my surprise,
I made in a few seconds less than M. Bleriot's time, and that, too, with
my motor throttled down slightly, I gained more confidence. I removed
the large gasoline tank from my machine and put on a smaller one in
order to lessen the weight and the head-resistance. I then selected the
best of my three propellers, which, by the way, were objects of
curiosity to the French aviators, who were familiar only with the metal
blades used on the Antoinette machine, and the Chauviere, which was
being used by M. Bleriot. M. Chauviere was kind enough to make a
propeller especially fitted to my aeroplane, notwithstanding the fact
that a better propeller on my machine would lessen the chances of the
French flyers for the cup. However, I decided later to use my own
propeller, and did use it and won.
August 29 dawned clear and hot. It was agreed at a meeting of the
Committee, at which all the contestants were present, that each
contestant should be allowed to make one trial flight over the course
and that he might choose his own time for making it, between the hours
of ten o'clock in the morning and six o'clock in the evening. The other
starters were Bleriot, Lefebre, and Latham for France, and Cockburn for
England. As I have already stated, Bleriot was the favourite because of
his trip across the English channel and because of his records made in
flights at various places prior to the Rheims meet.
As conditions were apparently good, I decided to make my trial flight
shortly after ten o'clock. The machine was brought out, the engine given
a preliminary run, and at half past ten I was in the air. Everything had
looked good from the ground, but after the first turn of the course I
began to pitch violently. This was caused by the heat waves rising and
falling as the cooler air rushed in. The up and down motion was not at
all pleasant and I confess that I eased off on the throttle several
times on the first circuit. I had not then become accustomed to the
feeling an aviator gets when the machine takes a sudden drop. On the
second round I got my nerve back and pulled the throttle wide open and
kept it open. This accounts for the fact that the second lap was made in
faster time than the first. The two circuits were made safely and I
crossed the finish line in seven minutes, fifty-five seconds, a new
record for the course.
Now was my chance! I felt that the time to make the start for the Cup
was then, in spite of the boiling air conditions, which I had found
existed all over the course and made flying difficult if not actually
dangerous. We hurriedly refilled the gasoline tank, sent official notice
to the judges, carefully tested the wiring of the machine by lifting it
at the corners, spun the propeller, and the official trial was on. I
climbed as high as I thought I might without protest, before crossing
the starting line probably five hundred feet so that I might take
advantage of a gradual descent throughout the race, and thus gain
additional speed. The sun was hot and the air rough, but I had resolved
to keep the throttle wide open. I cut the corner as close as I dared and
banked the machine high on the turns. I remember I caused great
commotion among a big flock of birds which did not seem to be able to
get out of the wash of my propeller. In front of the tribunes the
machine flew steadily, but when I got around on the back stretch, as we
would call it, I found remarkable air conditions. There was no wind, but
the air seemed fairly to boil. The machine pitched considerably, and
when I passed above the "graveyard," where so many machines had gone
down and were smashed during the previous days of the meet, the air
seemed literally to drop from under me. It was so bad at one spot that I
made up my mind that if I got over it safely I would avoid that
particular spot thereafter.
Finally, however, I finished the twenty kilometers in safety and crossed
the line in fifteen minutes, fifty seconds, having averaged forty-six
and one-half miles an hour. When the time was announced there was great
enthusiasm among the Americans present, and every one rushed over to
offer congratulations. Some of them thought that I would surely be the
winner, but of this I was by no means certain. I had great respect for
Bleriot's ability, and besides, Latham and his Antoinette might be able
to make better speed than they had thus far shown. In a contest of this
sort it is never safe to cheer until all the returns are in. I confess
that I felt a good deal like a prisoner awaiting the decision of a jury.
I had done my best, and had got the limit of speed out of the machine;
still I felt that if I could do it all over again I would be able to
improve on the time. Meantime Cockburn, for England, had made a start
but had come down and run into a haystack. He was only able to finish
the course in twenty minutes, forty-seven and three-fifth seconds. This
put him out of the contest.
Latham made his trial during the afternoon but his speed was five or six
miles an hour slower than my record. The other contestants were flying
about thirty-five miles an hour, and were, therefore, not really serious
factors in the race.
It was all up to M. Bleriot. All day long he tinkered and tested, first
with one machine and then another; trying different propellers and
making changes here and there. It was not until late in the afternoon
that he brought out his big machine, Number 22, equipped with an
eight-cylinder water-cooled motor, mounted beneath the planes, and
driving by chain a four-bladed propeller, geared to run at a speed
somewhat less than that of the engine. He started off at what seemed to
be a terrific burst of speed. It looked to me just then as if he must be
going twice as fast as my machine had flown; but it must be remembered
that I was very anxious to have him go slow. The fear that he was
beating me was father to the belief.
As soon as Bleriot was off Mr. Cortlandt Field Bishop and Mr. David
Wolfe Bishop, his brother, took me in their automobile over to the
judges' stand. Bleriot made the first lap in faster time than I had made
it, and our hearts sank. Then and there I resolved that if we lost the
cup I would build a faster aeroplane and come back next year to win it.
[Illustration: WINNING THE GORDON BENNET CONTEST IN FRANCE]
(A) Curtiss flying at Rheims, (B) The welcome home to Hammondsport
[Illustration: Copyright, 1910, by Photo News Co.
"A POSITION HIGHER THAN THE PRESIDENT'S"
President Taft watching Curtiss fly, Harvard Meet, 1910]
Again Bleriot dashed past the stand and it seemed to me that he was
going even faster than the first time. Great was my surprise, therefore,
when, as he landed, there was no outburst of cheers from the great
crowd. I had expected a scene of wild enthusiasm, but there was nothing
of the sort. I sat in Mr. Bishop's automobile a short distance from the
judges' stand, wondering why there was no shouting, when I was startled
by a shout of joy from my friend, Mr. Bishop, who had gone over to the
judges' stand.
"You win! You win!" he cried, all excitement as he ran toward the
automobile. "Bleriot is beaten by six seconds!"
A few moments later, just at half past five o'clock, the Stars and
Stripes were slowly hoisted to the top of the flagpole and we stood
uncovered while the flag went up. There was scarcely a response from the
crowded grand stands; no true Frenchman had the heart to cheer. A good,
hearty cheer requires more than mere politeness. But every American
there made enough noise for ten ordinary people, so that numbers really
counted for very little in the deep feeling of satisfaction at the
result of the first great contest in the history of aviation. Mr. Andrew
D. White, accompanied by Mrs. Roosevelt and Miss Ethel Roosevelt, came
over to our car and congratulated me. Quentin Roosevelt, who had been in
a state of excitement throughout the day, declared it "bully," while his
brother Archie wanted to be shown all about the working of the machine.
M. Bleriot himself, good sportsman that he is, was among the first to
extend congratulations to America and to me personally.
There was a reason beyond the mere patriotism why the Americans felt so
happy over the result; it meant that the next international race would
be held in the United States, and that the best foreign machines would
have to come across the ocean to make a try for the cup the following
year.
In commenting upon the result the Paris Edition of the New York Herald
said that the race had rehabilitated the biplane; that while the
lightness and bird-like lines of the monoplane had appealed to the crowd
as the ideal representation of artificial flight, "the American aviator
proved that the biplane not only possessed qualities of carrying weight
and undoubtedly of superior stability, but that, if need be, it can
develop speed equal to, if not superior to, its smaller rival."
Offers of engagements to fly in Germany and Italy came pouring in. To
accept these meant a good deal of money in prizes, for it had been
proven that I had the fastest aeroplane in the world. I accepted some of
them, as I had learned that the conditions for flying at the big meets
in Europe were almost ideal and that there was a tremendous amount of
interest everywhere, among all classes. A big meet was organized at
Brescia, Italy, and I went there from Rheims.
Here I carried my first passenger, the celebrated Italian poet and
author, Gabriele D'Annunzio. He was wildly enthusiastic over his
experience, and upon being brought back to earth said with all the
emotion of his people: "Until now I have never really lived! Life on
earth is a creeping, crawling business. It is in the air that one feels
the glory of being a man and of conquering the elements. There is the
exquisite smoothness of motion and the joy of gliding through space–It
is wonderful! Can I not express it in poetry? I might try."
And he did express it in poetry, a beautiful work published sometime
later.
After winning the Grand Prize at Brescia and taking a wonderful motor
trip over the Alps with Mr. Bishop, I hurried home to America to look
after my business affairs, about which I had not had time even to think
during the Rheims and Brescia meets.
NOTE BY AUGUSTUS POST
Delegations of enthusiastic friends met Mr. Curtiss in New York, among
them members of the Aero Club of America and other representative
organisations. There followed a series of luncheons and dinners which
seemed without end. Among all these the luncheon given by the Aero Club
of America at the Lawyers' Club was notable because every one present
showed such a warm interest in the success of American aeronautics, and
such a firm determination not only to keep the trophy in this country,
but to defend it the next year in an aviation meet that should be even
greater than that with which Rheims had led the way.
But the real celebration took place in the little village of
Hammondsport, the place where Mr. Curtiss was born and reared, and where
he knew every man, woman, and child. The men in the factory and all his
other warm friends got together and decided that there must be something
out of the ordinary when he got back to town. They planned a procession
all the way from Bath to Hammondsport, a distance of ten miles, with
fireworks along the route. But a heavy rain came on just in time to
spoil the fireworks plan, so they engaged a special train and this
passed through a glow of red fire all the way home from Bath. At the
Hammondsport station there was a carriage to draw him up the hill to his
home, and fifty men furnished the motive power. There were arches with
"Welcome" in electric lights, banners, fireworks, and speeches. Through
the pouring rain there was a continuous procession of his friends and
acquaintances–townspeople who had always given him their loyal support
and the men from the shop who had made his success possible.
It was after eleven o'clock when the crowd dispersed–an almost unholy
hour for Hammondsport.–AUGUSTUS POST.
CHAPTER II HUDSON-FULTON CELEBRATION FIRST AMERICAN INTERNATIONAL
MEET, AT LOS ANGELES
I was not permitted to remain long in Hammondsport, although there was
much work for me to do there in the way of planning improvements in the
factory, as well as on my aeroplane, which had now come to be known
throughout the world by reason of winning the Gordon Bennett Cup. There
were tempting offers from all quarters to give exhibitions with the
flying machine, which up to that time had been seen in but few places in
this country. Some of these offers were accepted because I could not
afford to reject them. Moreover, it required a great deal of money to
run the shop, and there was no commercial demand for aeroplanes. They
were, as yet, valuable only as "show machines," to see which the public
was willing to pay goodly sums. For a long time preparations had been
going on at New York City to celebrate the tri-centenary of the
discovery of the Hudson river, and the centenary of the first steamboat
trip on that stream by Fulton in the Clermont. It had been the idea of
the originators of the Hudson-Fulton celebration–an idea that was
expressed in the tentative plans published long before the celebration
itself–that the new conquest of the air should be recognised, in some
way, at the same time. At first it was intended that some sort of
airship should accompany the naval parade the entire length of the
Hudson, with a replica of Hendrik Hudson's Half Moon leading the way,
Robert Fulton's old steamboat Clermont following, and the airship
hovering above them thus furnishing a striking illustration of the
wonderful advancement in the means of locomotion in a hundred years, and
signalising the new science of air navigation. With this end in view the
Celebration Committee engaged the Wright Brothers and myself to bring
aeroplanes to New York, furnishing us with every facility on Governor's
Island, in the Lower Bay, from which point all flights were to be made.
But aerial navigation in the fall of 1909 was not such a sure and
certain thing as all that. Much depended upon the wind and weather, and
it was soon demonstrated that the best that could be hoped for at the
time of the celebration would be flights made at such times as the wind
would permit. Day after day the public waited anxiously for flights to
be made up the Hudson from Governor's Island, but day after day the wind
blew up or down the Hudson in such blasts that it was not deemed safe to
attempt a trip. For it must be remembered that there is scarcely a more
difficult course anywhere in the country than over the Hudson river in
the vicinity of New York. On both sides of the river, which is a
swift-running stream, rise lofty hills, and at some places precipitous
cliffs called the Palisades. On the New York side are miles upon miles
of lofty apartment houses along Riverside Drive. If the wind blows
across the river, either from the east or west, dangerous currents and
eddies suck down through the canon-like streets, or over the steep
Palisades, making flying extremely hazardous. For this reason there has
never, even up to this time (August, 1912), been any flying to speak of
over the Hudson, and for these reasons, the great river will not become
a popular flying course for aeroplanes until they are so constructed as
to be able to defy the treacherous, puffy wind currents. The
hydroaeroplane, however, may navigate the course with safety, as it is
perfectly safe in one of these machines to fly within a few feet of the
water where there is the least danger from contrary air currents.
So much was printed in the New York newspapers while we were waiting for
propitious weather that the public was keyed up to expect great things
from the aeroplanes–far greater than the aeroplane could accomplish.
Bulletins were posted by the newspapers from day to day, informing the
public that flights would surely be made "to-day" provided the wind
abated. In the meantime interest was doubly stimulated by the
announcement of a ten-thousand-dollar prize for the first air-flight
over Fulton's course, from New York to Albany, or from Albany to New
York. One of the paintings made at the time as an "advance notice," I
remember, showed so many aerial dreadnaughts in the sky, passing down
the river by the Palisades at the same time, that one was forced to
wonder how all of them were going to find room to navigate. However, the
atmosphere had cleared long before the actual flight was made down the
Hudson, the following summer.
In spite of the disappointment felt by the public at not seeing a fleet
of aeroplanes sporting over the Hudson daily during the Hudson-Fulton
celebration, there were many other things to divert the attention of New
York's five millions and some few hundred thousands of visitors from
this and other countries. The week of pomp and pageantry culminated in
the most wonderful marine and land parades ever staged in this country,
and seldom, if ever, excelled in the Old World. The marine parade
extended all the way up to Albany, and at every stopping place there was
a repetition, on a smaller scale, of the scenes of enthusiasm and
general holiday spirit that had prevailed in the Metropolis. New York
City was decorated as no one had ever seen it decorated before, and the
great fleet of over a hundred warships that swung at anchor in the
Hudson were visited by thousands by day and were outlined in myriads of
electric lights at night, disguising their ominous guns in soft shadow
and giving them a peaceful and almost fairy-like appearance. Then there
were the dirigible balloons to command the attention of the crowds that
thronged Riverside Drive waiting for the aeroplanes. They, too, were
after the rich prize offered by the New York World. They furnished the
only real contest during the Hudson-Fulton celebration. There were two
of them, one entered by the intrepid Captain Thomas Baldwin, and the
other by a Mr. Tomlinson. These were housed in great tents raised within
an enclosure at Riverside Drive and One Hundred and Nineteenth street,
behind a high fence, on which was painted "Hudson-Fulton Flights." This
was the center of interest for great crowds for days during the period
of waiting. Captain Baldwin, always popular with the people wherever he
goes, was the centre of interest with the crowds that stood around the
sheds, watching the mild, blunt noses of the big dirigibles as they
bobbed and swayed with the gusts that swept around Grant's Tomb,
reminding one of the ceaseless weaving of a restless elephant. But the
elements seemed to be as much against the dirigibles as against the
aeroplanes. Tomlinson made a start, after a long wait, but came to grief
almost at once, while Captain Baldwin fared but little better. His trip
extended but a few miles up the river, when he was forced to come down,
thus ending the chances of the dirigibles.
The aeroplanes were scarcely more fortunate. October winds around New
York are most unruly things, and at that particular period seemed worse
than usual. Weather-wise folk learned after awhile to look out at the
flags on the high buildings; if they stood out straight from the staff,
the people went about their business, knowing there would be no flying
that day. But every one kept an ear cocked for the firing of a big
cannon on Governor's Island, the signal that a flight was about to be
made. Even these were deceiving, for there were so many salutes being
fired by the great fleets in the river and bay, that no one could tell
when to give heed to gun signals. So the crowds sat along Riverside
Drive, or depended upon the unhappy and over-worked policemen for word
of the aeroplanes. Some people were disposed to hold the policemen
personally responsible for the failure of the airships to fly. "You'd
think," said one of the blue-coated guardians on Riverside Drive, "that
I was keepin' 'em back, the way these people go at me. They blame me and
not the wind!"
The wind held out and the week of festivities ended; still there had
been no flying. I could not remain in New York any longer, as I had
accepted an engagement some time before to fly at St. Louis. I was
obliged therefore, much to my chagrin, and the disappointment of the
crowds, to leave the city without making a flight up the river, although
I did make a short flight over Governor's Island.
Mr. Wilbur Wright, however, remained in New York, and during the
following week made a magnificent flight up the river from Governor's
Island to Grant's Tomb and return, a distance of about twenty miles.
This gave the larger part of New York's millions their first glimpse of
an aeroplane in flight.
At St. Louis we gave a very successful meet. There were flights by
Captain Baldwin, Lincoln Beachey, and Roy Knabenshue, in their dirigible
balloons, and myself in my aeroplane. The weather conditions were
favourable, and St. Louis turned out enthusiastic throngs to witness the
exhibitions.
The Pacific Coast, always progressive and quick to seize upon every
innovation, no matter where it may be developed, had been clamoring for
some time for an aviation meet. The enterprising citizens of Los Angeles
got together and put up a large sum of money to bring out from Europe
and the eastern part of the United States, a number of representative
aviators for an international meet, the first ever given in this
country. Louis Paulhan, one of the most celebrated French aviators, was
brought over with a biplane and a monoplane, and there were a number of
American entries, including Charles F. Willard and myself. Los Angeles
furnished the first opportunity for a real contest in this country
between the French and American machines, and these contests aroused
immense interest throughout the country.
The importance of the Los Angeles meet to the aviation industry in this
country was very great. The favourable climatic conditions gave
opportunities for every one to fly in all the events, and the wide
publicity given to the achievements of Paulhan and others, especially to
the new world's altitude record established by the French aviator,
stimulated interest throughout the country. There was cross-country
flying such as had not been seen in this country, brilliant exhibitions
of altitude flying, and speed contests of the hair-raising variety.
Sometimes it takes just such a public demonstration as the Los Angeles
meet not only to spread the news of the general progress of mechanical
flight, but to show the builders of aeroplanes themselves just what
their machines are capable of.
It was at the Los Angeles meet, by the way, that Charles F. Willard
coined that apt and picturesque phrase which soon was used the world
over in describing air conditions. Willard had made a short flight and
on coming down declared the air "was as full of holes as a Swiss
cheese." This made a great hit with the newspapermen, who featured it,
using it day after day in their stories until it went the rounds of the
press of the world. There were special articles written on "holes in the
air," and interviews of prominent aviators to determine how it feels to
fall into "a hole in the air."
The expression was more picturesque than accurate, for it is not
necessary to explain, in this advanced stage of aviation, that there are
no "holes" in the atmosphere. If there were a hole in the atmosphere, a
clap of thunder would result, caused by the rushing in of the
surrounding air to fill the vacuum. The only holes in the air are the
streaks that follow a rifle bullet or a flash of lightning. The real
cause of the conditions described by Willard, and which has since
probably been responsible for the death of several well known aviators,
is a swift, downward current of air, rushing in to fill a vacuum that
follows a rising current from a heated area. The hot air rises and the
cool air rushes down to take its place. An aeroplane striking one of
these descending currents drops as if the entire atmospheric support had
been suddenly removed, and if it be not high enough, may strike the
ground with fatal results to the aviator. Every experienced airman has
met these conditions. They are especially noticeable over water, streaks
of calm water showing where the up-currents are just starting, and waves
or ripples where the down-currents strike the surface.
The representative of the Aero Club of America at the Los Angeles meet
was Mr. Cortlandt Field Bishop, of New York, who had been at Rheims the
previous summer when I won the Gordon Bennett Cup and who had been of
inestimable assistance to me at that time. Mr. Bishop had his
oft-expressed wish to fly gratified at Los Angeles. He was taken up by
Louis Paulhan several times, and Paulhan also took Mrs. Bishop for her
first aerial ride. Great crowds came out at the Los Angeles meet, and
they for the first time in the history of aviation in this country
expected the aviator to fly and not to fall. Paulhan did some wonderful
cross-country flying, and as a climax to the week of aerial wonders, he
established a world's altitude record by ascending 4,165 feet. This was
regarded as marvellous at that time. Since then the mark has been
successively raised by Brookins, Hoxsey, Le Blanc, Beachey, Garros and
others. Legagneux now (September, 1912) holds the record at 18,760 feet.
Interest in aviation was keen following the Los Angeles meet and I
decided to try for the New York World's ten-thousand-dollar prize, which
was still open, for a flight down the Hudson from Albany to New York
City. Notwithstanding all the natural obstacles in the way of the
accomplishment of the undertaking, the conditions were so fair as to
stops, time-limit, etc., and it was so obviously a prize offered to be
won, that I considered it worth a serious effort.
I fully realised that the flight was much greater than anything I had
yet attempted, and even more difficult than Bleriot's great flight
across the English channel from France to England, news of which was
still ringing throughout the world, and even greater than the projected
flight from London to Manchester, England, and for which a prize of
fifty thousand dollars had been offered. Although the course covered
about the same distance as the London-Manchester route, there was not
the difficulty of landing safely over the English route. The Hudson
flight meant one hundred and fifty-two miles over a broad, swift stream,
flowing between high hills or rugged mountains the entire distance and
with seldom a place to land; it meant a fight against treacherous and
varying wind currents rushing out unawares through clefts in the
mountains, and possible motor trouble that would land both machine and
aviator in the water with not much chance of escape from drowning, even
if uninjured in alighting.
CHAPTER III FLIGHT DOWN THE HUDSON RIVER FROM ALBANY TO NEW YORK CITY
To fly from Albany to New York City was quite an undertaking in the
summer of 1910. I realised that success would depend upon a dependable
motor and a reliable aeroplane. In preparation for the task, therefore,
I set the factory at Hammondsport to work to build a new machine. While
awaiting the completion of the machine, I took a trip up the Hudson from
New York to Albany to look over the course and to select a place about
half way between the two cities where a landing for gasoline and oil
might be made, should it become necessary.
There are very few places for an aeroplane to land with safety around
New York City. The official final landing place, stipulated in the
conditions drawn up by the New York World, was to be Governor's Island,
but I wanted to know of another place on the upper edge of the city
where I might come down if it should prove necessary. I looked all over
the upper end of Manhattan Island, and at last found a little meadow on
a side hill just at the junction of the Hudson and Harlem rivers, at a
place called Inwood. It was small and sloping, but had the advantage of
being within the limits of New York City. It proved fortunate for me
that I had selected this place, for it later served to a mighty good
advantage.
There was quite a party of us aboard the Hudson river boat leaving New
York City one day in May for the trip to Albany. As an illustration of
the scepticism among the steamboat men, I remember that I approached an
officer and asked several questions about the weather conditions on the
river, and particularly as to the prevailing winds at that period of the
year. Incidentally, I remarked that I was contemplating a trip up the
river from New York to Albany in an aeroplane and wanted to collect all
the reliable data possible on atmospheric conditions. This officer, whom
I afterward learned was the first mate, answered all my questions
courteously, but it was evident to all of us that he believed I was
crazy. He took me to the captain of the big river boat and introduced
me, saying: "Captain, this is Mr. Curtiss, the flying machine man;
that's all I know," in a tone that clearly indicated that he disclaimed
all responsibility as to anything I might do or say.
Copyright, 1910, by The Pictorial News Co.
[Illustration: THE ALBANY-NEW YORK HUDSON FLIGHT]
(A) Start of the flight at Albany. Mrs. Curtiss and Augustus Post
standing by Curtiss. (B) Over West Point Military Academy–"The new kind
of invader."
Copyright, 1910, by The Pictorial News Co.
[Illustration: THE HUDSON FLIGHT]
Over Storm King
The captain was very kind and courteous, asking us to remain in the
pilot house, where we might get a better view of the country along the
way, and displaying the keenest interest in the project. He answered all
our questions about the winds along the Hudson and seemed to enter
heartily in the spirit of the thing until we approached the great bridge
at Poughkeepsie and I began to deliberate whether it would be better to
pass over or beneath it in the aeroplane. Then it seemed really to dawn
upon the captain for the first time that I was actually going to fly
down the river in an aeroplane. He apparently failed to grasp the
situation, and thereafter his answers were vague and given without
interest. It was "Oh, yes, I guess so," and similar doubtful
expressions, but when we finally left the boat at Albany he very kindly
wished me a safe trip and promised to blow the whistle if I should pass
his boat.
Albany afforded a better starting place than New York, because there
were convenient spots where one might land before getting well under
way, should it become necessary. This was not true of the situation at
New York City. As to the advantage of prevailing winds, it seemed to be
in favour of Albany as the starting place, and I finally decided to have
everything sent up to the capital city. On my way up I had stopped at
Poughkeepsie, in order to select a landing place, as at least one stop
was deemed necessary to take on gasoline and to look over the motor. We
visited the State Hospital for the Insane, which stands on the hill just
above Poughkeepsie, and which seemed to be a good place to land. Dr.
Taylor, the superintendent, showed us about the grounds, and when told
that I intended stopping there on my way down the river in a flying
machine, said with much cordiality: "Why, certainly, Mr. Curtiss, come
right in here; here's where all the flying machine inventors land."
Notwithstanding the Doctor's cordial invitation to "drop in on him," we
went to the other side of Poughkeepsie, and there found a fine open
field at a place called Camelot. I looked over the ground carefully,
locating the ditches and furrows, and selected the very best place to
make a safe landing. Arrangements were made for a supply of gasoline,
water, and oil to be brought to the field and held in readiness. It was
fortunate that I looked over the Camelot field, for a few days later I
landed within a few feet of the place I had selected as the most
favoured spot near Poughkeepsie. This is but one thing that illustrates
how the whole trip was outlined before the start was made, and how this
plan was followed out according to arrangement.
I shall always remember Albany as the starting place of my first long
cross-country flight. My machine was brought over from Hammondsport and
set up; the Aero Club sent up its official representatives, Mr. Augustus
Post and Mr. Jacob L. Ten Eyck, and the newspapers of New York City sent
a horde of reporters. A special train was engaged to start from Albany
as soon as I got under way, carrying the newspapermen and the Aero Club
representatives, as well as several invited guests. It was the purpose
to have this train keep even with me along the entire trip of one
hundred and fifty-two miles, but as it turned out, it had some trouble
in living up to the schedule.
The aeroplane, christened the "Hudson Flier," was set up on Rensselaer
Island. It was now up to the weather man to furnish conditions I
considered suitable. This proved a hard task, and for three days I got
up at daybreak, when there is normally the least wind, ready to make an
early start. On these days the newspapermen and officials, not to
mention crowds of curious spectators, rubbed the sleep out of their eyes
before the sun got up and went out to Rensselaer Island. But the wind
was there ahead of us and it blew all day long. The weather bureau
promised repeatedly, "fair weather, with light winds," but couldn't live
up to promises. I put in some of the time in going over every nut, bolt,
and turnbuckle on the machine with shellac. Nothing was overlooked;
everything was made secure. I had confidence in the machine. I knew I
could land on the water if it became necessary, as I had affixed two
light pontoons to the lower plane, one on either end, and a
hydro-surface under the front wheel of the landing-gear. This would keep
me afloat some time should I come down in the river.
We bothered the life out of the weather observer at Albany, but he was
always very kind and took pains to get weather reports from every point
along the river. But the newspapermen lost faith; they were tired of the
delay. I have always observed that newspapermen, who work at a high
tension, cannot endure delay when there is a good piece of news in
prospect. One of those at Albany during the wait, offered to lay odds
with the others that I would not make a start. Others among the
journalists believed I was looking for free advertising, and when
another of the advertised starters for the World prize reached Albany he
was greeted with: "Hello, old man, are you up here to get some free
advertising, too?" One of the Poughkeepsie papers printed an editorial
about this time, in which it said: "Curtiss gives us a pain in the neck.
All those who are waiting to see him go down the river are wasting their
time." This was a fair sample of the lack of faith in the undertaking.
The machine was the centre of interest at Albany during the wait. It
seemed to hold a fascination for the crowds that came over to the
island. One young fellow gazed at it so long and so intently that he
finally fell over backwards insensible and it was some time before he
was restored to consciousness. Then one of the newspapermen dashed a
pail of water over him and at once sent his paper a column about it.
They had to find something to write about and the countryman, the flying
machine, and the fit made a combination good enough for almost any
newspaper-man to weave an interesting yarn about.
Our period of waiting almost ended on Saturday morning, May 30th. The
"Hudson Flier" was brought out of its tent, groomed and fit; the special
train provided by the New York Times to follow me over the New York
Central, stood ready, with steam up and the engineer holding a
right-of-way order through to New York. The newspapermen, always on the
job, and the guests were watching eagerly for the aeroplane to start and
set out on its long and hazardous flight.
Then something happened–the wind came up. At first it did not seem to be
more than a breeze, but it grew stronger and reports from down the river
told of a strong wind blowing up the river. This would have meant a head
gale all the way to New York, should I make a start then. Everything was
called off for the day and we all went over and visited the State
Capitol. The newspapermen swallowed their disappointment and hoped for
better things on the morrow.
Sunday proved to be the day. The delay had got somewhat on my nerves and
I had determined to make a start if there was half a chance. The morning
was calm and bright–a perfect summer day. News from down the river was
all favourable. I determined it was now or never. I sent Mrs. Curtiss to
the special train and informed the World representative and the Aero
Club officials that I was ready to go. Shortly after eight o'clock the
motor was turned over and I was off!
It was plain sailing after I got up and away from Rensselaer Island. The
air was calm and I felt an immense sense of relief. The motor sounded
like music and the machine handled perfectly. I was soon over the river
and when I looked down I could see deep down beneath the surface. This
is one of the peculiar things about flying over the water. When high up
a person is able to see farther beneath the surface.
I kept a close lookout for the special train, which could not get under
way as quickly as I had, and pretty soon I caught sight of it whirling
along on the tracks next to the river bank. I veered over toward the
train and flew along even with the locomotive for miles. I could see the
people with their heads out the windows, some of them waving their hats
or hands, while the ladies shook their handkerchiefs or veils
frantically. It was no effort at all to keep up with the train, which
was making fifty miles an hour. It was like a real race and I enjoyed
the contest more than anything else during the flight. At times I would
gain as the train swung around a short curve and thus lost ground, while
I continued on in an air line.
All along the river, wherever there was a village or town, and even
along the roads and in boats on the river, I caught glimpses of crowds
or groups of people with their faces turned skyward, their attitudes
betokening the amazement which could not be read in their faces at that
distance. Boatmen on the river swung their caps in mute greeting, while
now and then a river tug with a long line of scows in tow, sent
greetings in a blast of white steam, indicating there was the sound of a
whistle behind. But I heard nothing but the steady, even roar of the
motor in perfect rhythm, and the whirr of the propeller. Not even the
noise of the speeding special train only a few hundred feet below
reached me, although I could see every turn of the great drive-wheels on
the engine.
On we sped, the train and the aeroplane, representing a century of the
history of transportation, keeping abreast until Hudson had been past.
Here the aeroplane began to gain, and as the train took a wide sweeping
curve away from the bank of the river, I increased the lead perceptibly,
and soon lost sight of the special.
It seemed but a few minutes until the great bridge spanning the Hudson
at Poughkeepsie, came into view. It was a welcome landmark, for I knew
that I had covered more than half the journey from Albany to New York,
and that I must stop to replenish the gasoline. I might have gone on and
taken a chance on having enough fuel, but this was not the time for
taking chances. There was too much at stake.
I steered straight for the centre of the Poughkeepsie bridge, and passed
a hundred and fifty feet above it. The entire population of Poughkeepsie
had turned out, apparently, and resembled swarms of busy ants, running
here and there, waving their hats and hands. I kept close watch for the
place where I had planned to turn off the river course and make a
landing. A small pier jutting out into the river was the mark I had
chosen beforehand and it soon came into view. I made a wide circle and
turned inland, over a clump of trees, and landed on the spot I had
chosen on my way up to Albany. But the gasoline and oil which I had
expected to find waiting for me, were not there. I saw no one for a
time, but soon a number of men came running across the fields and a
number of automobiles turned off the road and raced toward the
aeroplane. I asked for some gasoline and an automobile hurried away to
bring it.
I could scarcely hear and there was a continual ringing in my ears. This
was the effect of the roaring motor, and strange to say, this did not
cease until the motor was started again. From that time on there was no
disagreeable sensation. The special train reached the Camelot field
shortly after I landed and soon the newspaper-men, the Aero Club
officials, and the guests came climbing up the hill from the river, all
eager to extend their congratulations. Henry Kleckler, acting as my
mechanic, who had come along on the special train, looked over the
machine carefully, testing every wire, testing the motor out, and taking
every precaution to make the remainder of the journey as successful as
the first half. The gasoline having arrived, and the tank being
refilled, the special train got under way; once more I rose into the
air, and the final lap of the journey was on.
Out over the trees to the river I set my course, and when I was about
midstream, turned south. At the start I climbed high above the river,
and then dropped down close to the water. I wanted to feel out the air
currents, believing that I would be more likely to find steady air
conditions near the water. I was mistaken in this, however, and soon got
up several hundred feet and maintained about an even altitude of from
five hundred to seven hundred feet. Everything went along smoothly until
I came within sight of West Point. Here the wind was nasty and shook me
up considerably. Gusts shot out from the rifts between the mountains and
made extremely rough riding. The worst spot was encountered between
Storm King and Dunderberg, where the river is narrow and the mountains
rise abruptly from the water's edge to more than a thousand feet on
either side. Here I ran into a downward suction that dropped me in what
seemed an interminable fall straight down, but which as a matter of fact
was not more than a hundred feet or perhaps less. It was one of
Willard's famous "holes in the air." The atmosphere seemed to tumble
about like water rushing through a narrow gorge. At another point, a
little farther along, and after I had dropped down close to the water,
one blast tipped a wing dangerously high, and I almost touched the
water. I thought for an instant that my trip was about to end, and made
a quick mental calculation as to the length of time it would take a boat
to reach me after I should drop into the water.
The danger passed as quickly as it had come, however, and the machine
righted itself and kept on. Down by the Palisades we soared, rising
above the steep cliffs that wall the stream on the west side. Whenever I
could give my attention to things other than the machine, I kept watch
for the special train. Now and then I caught glimpses of it whirling
along the bank of the river, but for the greater part of the way I
out-distanced it.
Soon I caught sight of some of the sky-scrapers that make the sky-line
of New York City the most wonderful in the world. First I saw the tall
frame of the Metropolitan Tower, and then the lofty Singer building.
These landmarks looked mighty good to me, for I knew that, given a few
more minutes' time, I would finish the flight. Approaching Spuyten
Duyvil, just above the Harlem river, I looked at my oil gauge and
discovered that the supply was almost exhausted. I dared not risk going
on to Governor's Island, some fifteen miles farther, for once past the
Harlem river there would be no place to land short of the island. So I
took a wide sweep across to the Jersey side of the river, circled around
toward the New York side, and put in over the Harlem river, looking for
the little meadow at Inwood which I had picked out as a possible landing
place some two weeks before.
There I landed on the sloping hillside, and went immediately to a
telephone to call up the New York World. I told them I had landed within
the city limits and was coming down the river to Governor's Island soon.
I got more oil, some one among the crowd, that gathered as if by magic,
turned my propeller, and I got away safely on the last leg of the
flight. While I had complied with the conditions governing the flight by
landing in the city limits, I wanted to go on to Governor's Island and
give the people the chance to see the machine in flight.
From the extreme northern limits of New York to Governor's Island, at
the southern limits, was the most inspiring part of the trip. News of
the approach of the aeroplane had spread throughout the city, and I
could see crowds everywhere.
New York can turn out a million people probably quicker than any other
place on earth, and it certainly looked as though half of the population
was along Riverside Drive or on top of the thousands of apartment houses
that stretch for miles along the river. Every craft on the river turned
on its siren and faint sounds of the clamour reached me even above the
roar of my motor. It seemed but a moment until the Statue of Liberty
came into view. I turned westward, circled the Lady with the Torch and
alighted safely on the parade ground on Governor's Island.
General Frederick Grant, commanding the Department of the East, was one
of the first officers who came up to extend congratulations and to
compliment me on the success of the undertaking. From that moment I had
little chance for anything except the luncheons and dinners to which I
was invited. First came the luncheon at the Astor House given by the New
York World, and then the big banquet at the Hotel Astor, presided over
by Mayor Gaynor and attended by many prominent men interested in
aviation. The speeches were all highly laudatory, of course, and there
were many predictions by the orators that the Hudson river would become
a highway for aerial craft, as it had for steam craft when Fulton first
steered the old Clermont from New York to Albany.
On the trip down from Albany I carried a letter from the mayor of that
city to Mayor Gaynor, and delivered it in less time than it would have
taken the fastest mail train. My actual flying time was two hours,
fifty-one minutes, the distance one hundred and fifty-two miles, and the
average speed fifty-two miles an hour.
From Albany to Poughkeepsie is eighty-seven miles, and by making this in
a continuous flight I had, incidentally, won the Scientific American
trophy for the third time. It now became my personal property, and its
formal presentation was made at the annual dinner of the Aero Club of
America for that year.
NOTE BY AUGUSTUS POST
The newspapers made much of Mr. Curtiss' flight, drawing comparisons
between the Hudson river course and the flight made by Bleriot across
the English channel, and the trip of Paulhan from London to Manchester,
which he had just accomplished a flight of about the same distance, for
which he received fifty thousand dollars from the London Daily Mail.
The New York Times offered a large prize for a flight from New York to
Philadelphia and return, immediately afterward, which Charles K.
Hamilton won, and also offered a prize of twenty-five thousand dollars
for a flight between New York and Chicago, which was never won. Mr. W.
E. Hearst was also moved to offer fifty thousand dollars for a flight
between New York and a point on the Pacific Coast, the offer standing
open for one year. This flight was accomplished by Calbraith P. Rodgers,
but was not concluded within the time limit.
There was, naturally, an outburst of editorial comment from newspapers
all over the United States, not only long and scholarly leaders, but
brief, snappy paragraphs that make the press of this country an
interesting record of public feeling and sentiment on all extraordinary
achievements. For instance, the St. Louis Times spoke of the passing of
the new aerial menace over West Point where cadets were studying the
history of military science along ancient lines, and the Chicago
Inter-Ocean chuckled over how this latest achievement "would jar old
Hendrik Hudson."
Copyright, 1910, by The Pictorial News Co.
[Illustration: THE HUDSON FLIGHT]
(A) Stop at Poughkeepsie. (B) Finish, at Governor's Island
[Illustration: THE EVOLUTION OF THE HYDRO]
(A) The first hydro in the world–the "June Bug" on pontoons,
Hammondsport, November 5, 1908. (B) Developing Hydro at San Diego
Curtiss and Ellyson in hydro of winter, 1911; dual control–either of two
military aviators may steer. (C) Curtiss Landing in hydro at Cedar
Point, Ohio.
The Newark News declared that "the Indian canoe, the Half moon, the
Clermont and the Curtiss biplane each represented a human achievement
that marked an epoch," while the Providence News believed that "valuable
as was astronomer Halley's naming of a comet, Mr. Curtiss has
accomplished something of more practical value to the world" and the
York Gazette compared the flight down the Hudson Valley by the aeroplane
to the conquest of the North Pole. There were other interesting points
of view taken by the press, the Birmingham News, for instance,
expressing the opinion that the New York World was extravagant, as "it
had paid $10,000.00 for Curtiss' ticket from Albany to New York, when it
might have brought him down by train for $4.65." The Battle Creek
Enquirer said that Mr. Curtiss ought to go into politics, for "a man who
can soar as high, stay up as long, travel as far, light as safely, all
on wind, would have the rest of them tied to the post." But the Savannah
News intimated that nobody could blame Mr. Curtiss from flying away from
the Albany Legislature at the rate of a mile a minute. The Birmingham
Age-Herald declared that the way was paved for other and greater
flights, even across the Atlantic ocean, and indeed, the ocean flight
now seemed to the press a not far distant possibility. The Rochester
Chronicle-Democrat argued that the bench and bar would now have an
opportunity for the exercise of all their legal ability to settle the
question "who owns the air!" But it was left to the Houston Post to
break into poetry in the following outburst of local pride:
"The wonder is that Curtiss did
Not pass New York and onward whiz
Southwest by south, half south, until
He got where Houston, Texas, is."
But perhaps the most characteristic comments were those like that of the
New York Evening Mail:
"In every newspaper that you picked up yesterday you read a thrilling
account of the great achievement of Glenn H. Curtiss. The detailed
description of his wonderful flight stirred every emotion in you. Chills
ran up your spine and tears of joy came to your eyes as you read on and
on of the courage of the man who propelled his airship at a speed of
fifty-three miles an hour at a height of a thousand feet above the
earth. He realised all of the time that a broken bolt or some little
thing gone wrong might dash him to death." It is of course quite
impossible to give even a small proportion of the bright comments that
were made by the newspapers not only of this country, but even by the
foreign press. The New York Times sent a special train to follow the
flight, on which I rode as the representative of the Aero Club of
America. Here is my report in the Times:
"7:02–A. M. Mr. Curtiss started from Van Rensselaer Island, Albany.
Jacob L. Ten Eyck official starter for Aero Club of America.
7:03–Passed over the city limits of Albany.
7:20–New Baltimore.
7:26–Twenty-one miles. The Times special train caught up with aeroplane.
7:27–Milton Hook brick yards. Wind still. Aeroplane flying about 45
miles per hour. Passed lighthouse on west side of Hudson River.
7:32–Stockport. Twenty-four miles.
7:35–Hudson. Twenty-nine miles. Aeroplane flying high. Catskill Mountain
houses could be seen in the distance. Machine flying steady, water was
calm, small ripples along the surface.
7:36–Thirty miles. The Times special train passed through tunnel
parallel with 'plane.
7:40–2 Tower 81, New York Central Railroad. Greensdale ferry.
7:41–Catskill on west shore of Hudson River. Flying high.
7:44–Water trough in centre of track. Train equal with 'plane. Linlithgo
Station.
7:46–Germantown steamer dock. Aeroplane flying well.
7:48–Passed old steamboat on west side of the river. Germantown Station.
Aeroplane pitched when foot oil pump was used. Slight ripples on the
water.
7:51–*The Times* special train running parallel with aeroplane.
7:53–Tivoli. Forty-four miles. Aeroplane 1,000 feet high. Wind slightly
from the west.
7:58–Barrytown. Forty-nine miles. Aeroplane about 800 feet high,
descending a little lower until about 400 feet high.
8:03–Kingston. Brick yards on west shore of river. Mr. Curtiss is flying
very near The Times special train, within perhaps 100 yards.
8:04–Aeroplane turns toward west. Heads a little more into the wind and
crosses to the west side of the river at high speed.
8:05–Private yacht dock on east side of river. Aeroplane flying high
again.
8:06–Rhinecliff: Ferry. Fifty-four miles. Aeroplane has been flying one
hour and four minutes. Seems to be flying well.
8:08–Passing Tower 67, New York Central Railroad.
8:08–*The Times* special train passed through tunnel. Mr. Curtiss goes
back to west side of river, flying over ice-houses.
8:11–Passed lighthouse in middle of river. The aeroplane seems to be
rising and falling slowly on the varying currents of air. River is very
wide at this point. There are large stone crushers on the west shore,
and a large stone building of an institution on the bank of the river.
8:12–Staatsburg. Sixty miles.
8:16–Aeroplane now is passing over a large white house, some private
residence on the west shore of the river. Aeroplane is flying past
freight train on the West Shore Railroad.
8:18–Hyde Park Station. Sixty-four miles. The Times special train
passing water trough in centre of railway track. Passing Insane Asylum
at Poughkeepsie.
8:20–Passing upper portion of Poughkeepsie. 'Plane over river.
8:24–Passing Poughkeepsie Bridge. Aeroplane about 200 feet above it.
8:25 1/2–*The Times* special train goes through Poughkeepsie Station.
8:30–*The Times* special train arrives at Gill's Mill Dock, opposite
landing place of Mr. Curtiss. Aeroplane landed according to Mr.
Curtiss's watch on his machine at 8:26. I left special train and went to
the field where Mr. Curtiss had landed, arriving a few minutes later.
The tanks of the machine were filled with eight gallons of gasoline and
one gallon and a half of oil. The machine was examined carefully and
found to be in good order, one wire being stayed to prevent vibration.
George Collingwood took The Times special train party to New Hamburg
Station.
9:26–Mr. Curtiss started for New York from field on property of Mr.
Gill.
9:31–Camelot.
10:02–West Point. Aeroplane passed over Constitution Island at an
altitude of about 400 feet above the land.
10:06–Manitou.
10:15–Ossining. Aeroplane flying on west side of the river.
10:25–Dobbs Ferry.
10:30–Yonkers. Aeroplane flying about level with top of Palisades.
10:35–Landed 214th Street. Inwood. After passing down river to Dyckman
Street and returning to Spuyten Duyvil and passing over drawbridge the
aeroplane landed upon the property of the Isham estate.
11:42–Mr. Curtiss left his landing place, flying again over the
drawbridge, out over the Hudson River, turned south.
12:00–M. Passed New York City and landed at Governor's Island at noon.
"Mr. Curtiss also entered for the Scientific American trophy and the
first flight from Albany to the landing place at Poughkeepsie, the exact
distance of which is to be determined later, will count as a record for
this event, and if not exceeded in the year will stand as Mr. Curtiss's
trial for this trophy.
"The figures as finally corrected show that Mr. Curtiss was in the air
on the first leg of his flight from Albany to the Gill farm near
Poughkeepsie 1 hour and 24 minutes; from the Gill farm to the Isham
estate at 214th Street 1 hour and nine minutes, and from 214th Street to
Governor's Island 18 minutes, making a total flying time for the 150
miles of 2 hours and 51 minutes.
"Figured on the basis of 150 miles for the entire flight, Mr. Curtiss is
shown to have maintained an average speed of 52.63 miles per hour."–A.
P.
CHAPTER IV THE BEGINNING OF THE HYDROAEROPLANE
The Albany Flight was a great stimulus to aeronautics in this country.
Prizes were at once offered in several different places by several
different newspapers, and a great many cities wanted to have public
flights made and particularly wanted flights to be made over water.
At Atlantic City I flew over the ocean, making a record for fifty miles
over water on a measured course. It was here at the same time that
Walter Brookins made a world's altitude record of over six thousand feet
in a standard Wright machine. Later I flew from Cleveland to Cedar
Point, near Sandusky, Ohio, a distance of sixty miles over the waters of
Lake Erie, and returned next day in a rain storm.
After making flights in Pittsburgh, Pa., I thought that a successful
meet could be held in New York City, so I arranged to have all of our
forces gathered together at Sheepshead Bay race track, near Brighton
Beach, N. Y., and during the week of August 26, 1910, we had an
aeroplane meet at which Messrs. J. C. Mars, Charles F. Willard, Eugene
B. Ely, J. A. D. McCurdy, and Augustus Post made flights and this meet
was so successful that it was continued for a second week. Mr. Ely flew
to Brighton Beach and took dinner and then flew back. Mr. Mars flew out
over the Lower Bay and we had all five of the machines in the air at one
time on several occasions a record for New York at that time. It was
here that Mr. Post made a Bronco Busting Flight over the hurdles at the
Sheepshead Bay track, landing safely after putting his machine through
all manner of thrilling manoeuvres.
The Harvard Aeronautical Society had arranged a meet at Boston, Mass.,
which followed directly after this one, and Claude Grahame-White, the
famous English aviator, who was later to win the Gordon Bennett cup at
Belmont Park, came over from England, bringing his fast Bleriot
monoplane with him. A special race was arranged between Mr. White in his
Bleriot and my racing biplane. The meet was a great success, and but a
very small margin separated Mr. White's Bleriot and my machine when we
tried out our best speeds.
Then came a meet at Chicago,[3] after which it was arranged that three
machines should start to fly from Chicago to New York for the New York
Times' prize of $25,000. A team was made up and Mr. Ely was chosen to
make the attempt to fly to New York. This was a very ambitious
undertaking for this period in the history of aviation in America, for
the longest flight that up to this time had been made in this country
was between New York and Philadelphia, one hundred and eighty miles;
while the distance between Chicago and New York was fully one thousand
miles and landings were very difficult to accomplish in the broken
country along the way. Mr. Ely made a good attempt, but there was not
sufficient time to complete the trip as flights had already been
arranged at Cleveland, Ohio, and in order to go there, this attempt was
given up.
The Gordon Bennett Aviation Cup race was the next thing to arouse the
interest of patriotic Americans and the Aero Club of America had been
busy with arrangements for a big meet to be held at Belmont Park, near
New York. This was the largest undertaking that the club had up to this
time attempted and they taxed every possible resource, with the splendid
result of securing all the foremost fliers of Europe, as well as of
America, to participate.
I had built a machine for the trials which I thought would be very fast
and had constructed it as a type of monoplane in order to cut down the
head resistance to the very least possible point. America was
represented by Anthony Drexel, Jr., in a Bleriot; by the Wright
Brothers, who had constructed a racing machine by putting a powerful
motor in a small machine which was about one-half the size of their
regular model, and by Mr. Charles K. Hamilton, who flew a Curtiss type
machine, but with a large power motor of another make. Mr. Grahame-White
won the race in his Bleriot, although Mr. Alfred Leblanc, representing
France, made remarkable time, but on the last lap ran into a telegraph
pole on one of the turns and smashed his machine and had a most
miraculous escape from being killed.
I did not try out my monoplane, although my regular type was the
speediest standard biplane at the meet and was very well handled by Ely,
Mars, Willard, and McCurdy who flew in the contests. I had given up
public flying in contests at this time.
A new line of thought or to express it more accurately, the following
out of a very old one was taking my interest and a great part of my
time. The experiments I had in mind involved the problem of flying from
the water and alighting on the water.
The season of 1910 was now far advanced and it was time to make plans
for the winter. Flying meets were to be held at Los Angeles again, and
also at San Francisco, and California seemed the best place to go, for
the weather there would be most favourable not only for winter flying,
but also for carrying on the experiments which I had in mind. Meantime,
when it seemed as if all the paths were open to the aeroplane over the
land, and it was only a question of development, not of pioneering, it
was suggested to me by the New York World to launch an aeroplane from
the deck of a ship at sea and have it fly back to shore carrying
messages.
The Hamburg American Steamship Company offered their ocean liner
Pennsylvania for this test, and I sent a standard Curtiss biplane to be
operated by J. A. D. McCurdy. The ship was fitted with a large platform,
erected on the stern, a platform sloping downward, and wide enough to
allow an aeroplane set up on it to run down so that it could gather
headway for its flight. The plan was to take McCurdy and the aeroplane
fifty miles out to sea on the outward voyage from New York, and then
launch them from the platform.
A mishap at the last moment upset all the well-laid plans. In trying out
the motor just as the Pennsylvania was about to leave her dock at
Hoboken, an oil can, carelessly left on one of the planes by a mechanic,
was knocked off and fell into the whirling propeller. The result was a
broken propeller, and as the ship could not delay its sailing long
enough for us to get another, the attempt was abandoned.
In the meantime, however, the Navy became interested in the sea
experiments and offered the armoured cruiser Birmingham, then at Hampton
Roads, to be fitted up with a similar platform for launching an
aeroplane. This was accepted and Eugene Ely, who was flying in a meet at
Baltimore and already in the vicinity of Norfolk, took his Curtiss
biplane over to the Birmingham for the test, fired with enthusiasm by
McCurdy's attempt. On November 14 the Birmingham, equipped with a
platform for starting the aeroplane, awaited good weather for the
flight. The good weather did not come and after waiting impatiently on
board for some time, Ely determined to risk a start, even though there
was a strong wind coming off shore carrying a heavy mist that made it
almost impossible to see more than half a mile. The ship was at anchor,
but starting up his motor he flew off with the greatest ease, slightly
touching the water with the wheels of his machine, but quickly rising
and flying straight to shore, where he landed without difficulty.
This flight attracted world-wide attention, especially among the
officers of the navies of the world. It was the first demonstration of
the claims of the aeronautical enthusiasts of the navy that an aeroplane
could be made that would be adaptable to the uses of the service, and it
appeared to substantiate some of the things claimed for it.
When I found that business would bring me to California during the
winter, and probably would keep me there for several months, I decided
to grasp the opportunity to do the development work I had long wanted to
do, and at the same time to request the honour of instructing
representative officers of the Army and Navy in the operation of the
aeroplane. I believed the time had arrived when the Government would be
interested in any phase of aviation that promised to increase the
usefulness of the aeroplane for military service.
So, on November 29, 1910, I sent letters to both Secretary Dickinson of
the War Department and to Secretary Meyer of the Navy Department,
inviting them to send one or more officers of their respective
departments to Southern California, where I would undertake to instruct
them in aviation. I made no conditions. I asked for and received no
remuneration whatsoever for this service. I consider it an honour to be
able to tender my services in this connection. Other governments had
already organised their aeronautical military branches and instructed
men to fly, and it seemed to me that our own Government would do
likewise were the opportunity afforded the officers to familiarise
themselves with the aeroplane.
The invitations to the War and Navy Departments were written just prior
to my departure for the Pacific Coast, and three weeks later I was
notified that the Secretary of the Navy had accepted, and that they
would detail officers for instruction.
It began to look, even to the doubters, as if an aeroplane could be made
adaptable to the uses of the Navy, as the aeronautic enthusiasts of the
service had claimed. The experiment begun would have to be completed,
however, by flying from shore to the vessel, and for this opportunity we
were eager. The chance came when we were all at San Francisco and
another Pennsylvania, this time the big armoured cruiser, was in the
bay. Rear Admiral Thomas, and Captain Pond, in command of the
Pennsylvania, readily consented to assist in these further experiments.
The Pennsylvania went to Mare Island to be outfitted, Ely and I going
there to tell the Navy officials at the station just what would be
required for such a hazardous test.
The platform was like that built on the Birmingham, but in the case of a
flight to, instead of from, a ship the serious problem is to land the
aeroplane on the deck and to stop it quickly before it runs into the
masts of the ship, or other obstructions. The platform was built over
the quarterdeck, about one hundred and twenty-five feet long by thirty
feet wide, with a slope toward the stern of some twelve feet. Across
this runway we stretched ropes every few feet with a sand bag on each
end. These ropes were raised high enough so they could catch in
grab-hooks which we placed under the main centrepiece of the aeroplane,
so that catching in the ropes the heavy sand bags attached would drag
until they brought the machine to a stop.
To protect the aviator and to catch him in case he should be pitched out
of his seat in landing, heavy awnings were stretched on either side of
the runway and at the upper end of it.
[Illustration: ELY LANDING ON U.S.S. PENNSYLVANIA]
[Illustration: TWO FAMOUS MILITARY TEST FLIGHTS]
(A) Curtiss and hydro hoisted on U. S. S. "Pennsylvania," at San Diego.
(B) Ely leaving "Pennsylvania," San Francisco harbor
When all arrangements had been completed, and only favourable weather
was needed to carry out the experiment, I was obliged to leave for San
Diego, and, therefore, was unable to witness the flight. I regarded the
thing as most difficult of accomplishment. Of course, I had every faith
in Ely as an aviator, and knew that he would arrive at the ship without
trouble, but I must confess that I had misgivings about his being able
to come down on a platform but four feet wider than the width of the
planes of the aeroplane, and to bring it to a stop within the hundred
feet available for the run.
Ely rose from the Presidio parade grounds, flew out over the bay,
hovered above the ship for an instant, and then swooped down, cutting
off his power and running lightly up the platform, when the drag of the
sand bags brought him to a stop exactly in the centre, probably one of
the greatest feats in accurate landing ever performed by an aviator. As
I have said, the platform was only four feet wider than the planes of
the Curtiss biplane that Ely used, yet the photograph taken from the
fighting top of the ship shows the machine touching the platform
squarely in the centre. When one stops to think that the aeroplane was
travelling about forty miles an hour when it touched the deck and was
brought to a stop within a hundred feet, the remarkable precision of the
aviator will be appreciated.
Not only was there not the least mishap to himself or to the machine in
landing, but as soon as he had received a few of the many excited
congratulations awaiting him, he started off again and flew back the ten
miles to the camp of the 30th Infantry on the Aviation Field, where wild
cheers greeted the man and the machine that had for the first time
linked the Army and the Navy. For this is what, in the wars of the
future, or even in the preservation of the future's peace, the aeroplane
is certainly going to do, joining as nothing else can the two branches
of the service.
I don't think there has ever been so remarkable a landing made with an
aeroplane as Ely's, and probably never so much store put by the mere act
of coming down in the right place. A few feet either way, a sudden puff
of wind to lift the aeroplane when it should descend, or any one of a
dozen other things, might have spelled disaster for the whole
undertaking, deprived the daring aviator of a well earned success, and
the world of a remarkable spectacular demonstration of practical
aviation.
On the day of the test I was in San Diego and awaited news from San
Francisco with a good deal of impatience. When at last the Associated
Press bulletin announced that Ely had landed without mishap I first felt
a great relief that there had been no accident to mar the success of the
thing, and then a sense of elation that we had taken another long step
in the advancement of aviation.
Early in January I went to Southern California to establish an
experimental station, and at the same time to instruct the officers of
the Army and Navy whom I had invited the War and Navy Departments to
assign for that purpose. A part of our experiments were along the line
of a new "amphibious" machine that had been on my mind ever since my
first experiments in Hammondsport.
I believed that with the proper equipment for floating and attaining a
high speed on the water, an aeroplane could be made to rise as easily as
it could from the land.[4] I had carried these experiments just far
enough in Hammondsport to convince me that the thing was feasible, when
I was obliged to discontinue them to take up other business. I knew it
would be safer to land on the water than on land with the proper
appliances, and that it would be easier to find a suitable landing place
on water, for the reason that it always affords an open space, while it
is often difficult to pick a landing place on the land. So, when I made
preparations for my flight from Albany to New York City, I fitted
pontoons beneath the chassis of my machine and a hydro-surface under the
front wheel. I wanted to be prepared for alighting on the water should
anything go amiss. As a matter of fact, the river course was the only
feasible one for this flight, as there were mountains and hills for
almost the entire distance.
It was while on that trip that I decided to build an aeroplane that
would be available for starting or landing on the water. I don't know
that I had the idea of its military value when I first planned it; but
it came to me later that such a machine would be of great service should
the Navy adopt the aeroplane as a part of its equipment. I thought the
next step from pontoons, to float an aeroplane safely on the water,
would be a permanent boat so shaped that it could get up speed enough so
the whole machine could rise clear of the water and fly in the air.
It was important to find a location where it would be possible to work
along the lines I had mapped out a place where I might be free from the
pressing calls of business and the hampering influence of uncertain
climatic conditions. In short I wanted a place with the best climate to
be found in this country, with a field large enough and level enough for
practice land flights by beginners, and with a convenient body of smooth
water for experiments with a machine that would start from or land upon
water.
Above all, I wanted a place not easy of access to the curious crowds
that gather wherever there is anything novel to be attempted; for a
flying machine never loses its attraction to the curious. Mankind has
been looking for it ever since the beginning of the world, and now that
it is actually here he can't get away from it, once it is in sight. A
machine that has actually carried a man through the air takes on a sort
of individuality all its own that acts as a magnet for the inquiring
mind. Once people have really seen an aeroplane fly, they want to know
what makes it fly and to come into personal contact with the machine and
the man who operates it.
San Diego was brought to my attention as affording every advantage for
experimental work in aviation. A study of the weather bureau records
here showed a minimum of wind and a maximum of sunshine the year round.
I visited that city in January, 1911, and after a thorough inspection of
the grounds offered as an aviation field, decided to make that city the
headquarters for the winter and to carry on the experimental and
instructional work there.
North Island, lying in San Diego Bay, a mile across from the city, was
turned over to me by its owners, the Spreckels Company. It is a flat,
sandy island, about four miles long and two miles wide, with a number of
good fields for land flights. The beaches on both the ocean and bay
sides are good, affording level stretches for starting or landing an
aeroplane. Besides, the beaches were necessary to the water experiments
I wished to make. North Island is uninhabited except by hundreds of jack
rabbits, cottontails, snipe, and quail. It joins Coronado Island by a
narrow sand spit on the south side, which is often washed by the high
tides. Otherwise the two islands are separated by a strip of shallow
water a mile long and a couple of hundred yards wide, called Spanish
Bight. Thus the island on which we were to do our experimenting and
training was accessible only by boat and it was a comparatively easy
matter to exclude the curious visitor whenever we desired to do so.
There was no particular reason for excluding the public other than the
desire to work unhampered by crowds, which is always a distracting
influence.
In the meantime Lieutenant Theodore G. Ellyson of the submarine service,
then stationed at Newport News, Virginia, had been detailed by the Navy
Department to report to me in California for instruction in aviation. He
had joined me in Los Angeles, where, though there are all the climatic
requirements, and good fields for practice flights, the ideal body of
smooth water for experiments on that element was lacking. The War
Department responded later, instructing General Bliss, commanding the
Department of California at San Francisco, to detail as many officers as
could be spared to go to San Diego for instruction in the art of flying.
There was much eagerness among the officers of the Department of
California and I was informed that some thirty applications were made
for the detail. Lieutenant (now Captain) Paul W. Beck, of the Signal
Corps, located at the Presidio, San Francisco, and Lieutenant John C.
Walker, Jr., of the 8th Infantry, Monterey, Cal., were named at once,
and later Lieutenant C. E. M. Kelly, 30th Infantry, San Francisco, was
added to the Army's representation. This made a list of four officers,
three from the Army and one from the Navy, and with these I began work.
In February, however, the Navy Department designated Ensign Charles
Pousland of the destroyer Preble, at San Diego, to join Lieutenant
Ellyson as a Navy pupil in aviation.
There are a dozen good landing or starting fields on North Island, but
we chose the one on the south side, which gave us easy access to the
smooth shallow water of Spanish Bight. A field was cleared of weeds and
sagebrush, half a mile long by three or four hundred yards wide. Sheds
to house the machines were built by the Aero Club of San Diego, and
landings put in for the small boats that carried us to and from the
city. The Spreckels Company gave us every assistance in fitting the
place up, and the people of San Diego, anxious to make the island the
permanent home of an aviation experimental station and school, were
prompt to lend a hand and to impress upon us the climatic advantages of
their city.
I have asked Lieutenant Ellyson to write his own story of the work on
North Island, and it is to be found in another part of this book.
CHAPTER V DEVELOPING THE HYDROAEROPLANE AT SAN DIEGO–THE HYDRO OF THE
SUMMER OF 1912
January had nearly passed before the first machine was ready. Although
this proved unsuccessful, I was not discouraged and learned a good deal
about what sort of a float was necessary to support the aeroplane and
how it acted when under way over the water. Nearly every day for over
two weeks we dragged the machine down to the edge of the water, launched
it on the smooth surface of San Diego Bay, and drew it out again after
testing out some new arrangement of floats and surfaces. We kept it in a
hangar, or shed, on the beach, and there we would sit and study and
change and plan how to improve the float.
We were in the water almost all day long; no thought was given to wet
clothing and cold feet. We virtually lived in our bathing suits. The
warm climate aided us, but there were some chilly days. Discomfort and
failure did not deter the Army and Navy officers, who watched and worked
like beavers, half in and half out of the water.
On the 26th of January the first success came. That day the aeroplane
first rose from the water and succeeded in alighting gently and without
accident after the flight. A page was added to aviation history, which
extended its domain and opened the lakes, rivers, and seas to the
hitherto land-locked flying machine. It was no more a land bird, but a
water fowl as well.
The machine was crude, and there remained many things to be improved,
but the principle was correct. We kept adjusting the equipment, adding
things and taking them off again to make some improvement; perhaps the
float was too heavy, or leaked, or the spray would fly up and chips
would be knocked out of the whirling propeller, which the drops of water
would strike like shot out of a gun. The least projection on the floats
would send up spray while travelling at such high speed as was made
through the water. The balance of the machine was as troublesome as
anything, because the push of the propeller would give it a tendency to
dive if the floats were not properly adjusted.
When we brought the machine out on the 26th day of January I felt that
we ought to get some results. There were no crowds of people present and
there was no announcement of what was about to happen. I had not
expected to make a flight, but climbed into the aviator's seat with a
feeling that the machine would surely rise into the air when I wished,
but that I would only try it on the water to see how the new float
acted. Lieutenant Ellyson spun the propeller and I turned the machine
into the wind. It ploughed through the water deeply at first, but
gathered speed and rose higher and higher in the water and skipped more
and more lightly until the float barely skimmed the surface of the bay.
So intent was I in watching the water that I did not notice that I was
approaching the shore and to avoid running aground I tilted the
horizontal control and the machine seemed to leap into the air like a
frightened gull. So suddenly did it rise that it quite took me by
surprise.
But I kept the machine up for perhaps half a mile, then turned and
dropped lightly down on the water, turned around and headed back to the
starting point. The effect of that first flight on the men who had
worked, waited, and watched for it was magical. They ran up and down the
beach, throwing their hats up into the air and shouting in their
enthusiasm.
I now headed about into the bay, in the direction of San Diego, and rose
up into the air again even more easily than the first time. I flew for
half a mile and turned twice to see how the machine would act in the air
with the clumsy-looking float below it. The naval repair ship Iris
caught sight of me as I went flying by and sent its siren blast far out
over the water, and all the other craft blew their whistles, until it
seemed as if all San Diego knew of the achievement. Satisfied that it
was all right, I landed within a few yards of the shore, near the
hangar.
We made flights nearly every day after this, taking the Army and Navy
officers as passengers. I found the machine well adapted for passenger
work and it became very popular. While experimenting we kept changing
things from day to day, adding and taking off, lightening the machine,
or adding more surface. We tried putting on an extra surface, making a
triplane, and got remarkable lifting power. We changed the floats and
finally made one long, flat-bottomed, scow-shaped float, twelve feet
long, two feet wide, and twelve inches deep. It was made of wood, the
bow being curved upward the full width of the boat and at the stern
being curved downward in a similar manner. This single float was placed
under the aeroplane so that the weight was slightly to the rear of the
centre of the float, causing it to slant upward, giving it the necessary
angle for hydroplaning on the surface of the water.
I will confess that I got more pleasure out of flying the new machine
over water than I ever got flying over land, and the danger, too, was
greatly lessened.
I then decided upon a test which I had been informed the Navy regarded
as very important. In fact, I had been told that the Secretary of the
Navy regarded the adaptability of the aeroplane to navy uses as
depending very largely on its ability to alight on the water and be
hoisted aboard a warship. With the hydroaeroplane I had developed, I had
no doubts about being able to do this, without any platform or
preparation on board the vessel.
So, on February 17, at San Diego, I sent word over to Captain Charles F.
Pond, commanding the armoured cruiser Pennsylvania, then in the harbour,
that I would be pleased to fly over and be hoisted aboard whenever it
was convenient to him. He replied immediately, "come on over." The
Pennsylvania is the ship that Ely landed on at San Francisco in his
memorable flight, and it was Captain Pond who at that time gave over his
ship and lent every assistance in his power to make the experiment the
success it was. He lent his aid to this second experiment as willingly
as he did to the first.
There were no special arrangements necessary for this test. All that
would be needed to get the aeroplane and its operator on board would be
to use one of the big hoisting cranes, just as they are used for
handling the ship's launches.
The hydroaeroplane was launched on Spanish Bight, and in five minutes I
was on the way. The machine skimmed over the water for a hundred yards
and then rose into the air. In two or three minutes I was alongside the
cruiser, just off the starboard quarter. There was a strong tide running
and when I shut off the propeller the aeroplane drifted until a rope
thrown from the ship was made fast to one of the planes by Lieutenant
Ellyson of the Navy. It was drawn in close to the side of the ship,
where a boat crane was lowered and I hooked it in a wire sling attached
to the top of the planes. I then climbed up on top of the aeroplane and
slipped my leg through the big hook of the crane, not caring to trust
too much weight to the untested sling.
In five minutes from the time I landed on the water alongside the ship,
the hydroaeroplane reposed easily on the superstructure deck of the big
cruiser, just forward of the boat crane. It had been the easiest sort of
work to land it there, and thus one more of the problems that stood in
the way of a successful naval aeroplane was overcome.
The rest of the experiment was performed with equal promptness and ease.
After a stay of ten minutes on the cruiser, the aeroplane was dropped
overboard by the big boat crane, the propeller was cranked by one of the
military pupils in aviation, and I got under way for the return trip to
the island. Two minutes later I brought the hydroaeroplane to a stop a
few yards away from the hangar on the beach. The entire time taken from
the moment I left North Island for the cruiser to the moment I landed on
the water at the hangar on my return was less than half an hour, and yet
within this brief space had been written one of the most interesting
chapters in the history of naval aviation.
I regard this experiment as one of the most interesting, from my idea of
a military experiment, that had been attempted up to that time, for the
reason that no special equipment was needed on board the ship. Obviously
the objections to the landing of an aeroplane on deck from a flight had
to be overcome, and this could be done with a machine that could land on
the water and be picked up. For a flight from the ship, all that was
necessary was to drop it over the side and watch it rise from the water
into the air. Such a machine could be "knocked down" and stored in a
very small space when not in use; and when wanted for a flight, it could
be brought out and set up in a short time on deck.
An aeroplane sent from a scout ship on a scouting flight must, to be
efficient, be able to carry a passenger, especially if it be sent for
any purpose other than as a messenger, where speed would be the first
consideration. But if sent to seek information as to an enemy's
position, to take observations and make maps of the surrounding country,
or with any of a dozen other objects in view where a trained observer
would be necessary, it seems to me it should be equipped to carry at
least two, and possibly three, persons the aviator and two passengers.
There were many machines capable of carrying one or more passengers on
land flights, so I set about equipping one to carry passengers on water
flights.
This I first succeeded in doing on February 23, when I took up
Lieutenant T. G. Ellyson of the Navy, in the hydroaeroplane. We rose
from the water without difficulty, flew over San Diego Bay and
returning, alighted on the water with perfect ease.
This was all very well and good where a flight was to be made from the
water and back to the water; but I believed we should go further and
provide a machine that would be able to go from one to the other from
water to land and land back to water before it could be said that all
the difficulties of making the aeroplane adaptable to both Army and Navy
uses had been overcome. This was of comparatively easy accomplishment,
and on Sunday, February 26, I made the first flight from water to land
and from land back to water. Starting from North Island, on the waters
of Spanish Bight, I flew out over the ocean and down the beach to a
point near Coronado Hotel, where I came down on the smooth sand of the
beach. Returning, the machine started from the beach and came back to
the water on Spanish Bight whence I had started.
With these achievements it seems to me the aeroplane has reached the
point of utility for military purposes either for the Army or Navy. It
now seems possible to use it to establish communication between the Navy
and Army, when there are no other means of communication. That is, a
warship could launch an aeroplane that can fly over sea and land and
come to earth on whichever element affords the best landing. Having
fulfilled its mission on shore it could start from the land, and,
returning to the home ship, land at its side and be picked up, as I was
picked up and hoisted aboard the Pennsylvania at San Diego.
Here let me call attention to the splendid field that California offers
for the development of aviation, with its climate, permitting aviation
to be pursued all the year, and its large winter tourist population with
wealth and leisure to devote to furthering the art of flight. In
California even the legislature recognises the increasing popularity of
flying, and it has given careful attention to the formation of laws to
protect the aeroplane and the aviator.
There remained one thing further to accomplish complete success with the
hydroaeroplane, and that was to devise a method of successfully
launching the machine from a ship without touching the water and without
resorting to any cumbersome platform or any other launching apparatus
that would interfere with the ship's ordinary working. To accomplish
this would solve the principal obstacle that stood in the way of using
the hydroaeroplane at sea.
Lieutenant Theodore G. Ellyson, of the United States Navy, had been
working out a plan for doing this and it was not until September, 1911,
that the experiment was finally completed at Hammondsport, where
operations were continued after breaking up the camp at San Diego, late
in the spring.
A platform sixteen feet high was erected on the shore of Lake Keuka and
a wire cable two hundred and fifty feet long was stretched from the
platform to a spile under water out in the lake. The hydroaeroplane was
set on this wire cable near the platform on which the men stood to start
the propeller. A groove was made along the bottom of the boat in which
the cable fitted loosely, to guide it as it slid down, until sufficient
headway was obtained to enable the wings of the aeroplane to support the
weight of the machine. A trial of this method of launching was entirely
successful. The machine started down the cable gathering headway and we
all watched it gracefully rise into the air and fly out over the lake.
This launching from a wire is the last step in the development of
handling the aeroplane and it is hardly possible to foresee all the many
important applications which will be made in the future of this type of
machine, since a cable can be easily stretched from the bow of any
vessel, which can then steam into the wind, easily enabling an aeroplane
to be launched in almost any weather, while it can without difficulty
land under the lea of the vessel and be hoisted on board again.
As the wireless has almost revolutionised ocean navigation by furnishing
a means of constant communication between steamers, perhaps the
hydroaeroplane will be able to bring passengers back to shore or take
them from shore to a ship on the high sea, or enable visits to be made
between ships that pass on the ocean. Great, powerful hydroaeroplanes
may be able to cross the ocean itself at high speed, and they will no
doubt add greatly to the safety of ocean travel, as well as furnish the
Navy with an arm of destruction much more far-reaching than its most
effective guns or torpedoes.
Frank Coffyn in May, 1912, took a belated passenger from the Battery,
New York City, out to a steamer as it was steaming out of the lower bay
and landed him safely aboard a hint of future possibilities.
We had a curious opportunity to prove how the hydroaeroplane can be an
arm of preservation as well as destruction, when at the Chicago meet of
1911. Simon, dashing over the lake, dropped in his machine. Hugh
Robinson had been putting a hydroaeroplane through its evolutions, to
the great interest of the crowd, who evidently thought it a sort of
freak machine, but when Simon fell Robinson was after him instantly, and
for the first time in the history of the world, a man flew through the
air from dry land, alighted on the water beside a man in distress, and
before anything else could get there, invited him to fly back to shore
with him. As there were boats close at hand, the offer was not needed,
but the value of the land-air-water machine had been proved, for it had
left its hangar and flown a mile from shore in a little more than a
minute.
The hydroaeroplane can already fly sixty miles an hour, skim the water
at fifty miles, and run over the earth at thirty-five miles. Driven over
the surface of the water the new machine can pass the fastest motor boat
ever built and will respond to its rudder more quickly than any water
craft afloat. Its appeal will be as strong to the aquatic as to the
aerial enthusiast.
Flying an aeroplane is thrilling sport, but flying a hydroaeroplane is
something to arouse the jaded senses of the most blase. It fascinates,
exhilarates, vivifies. It is like a yacht with horizontal sails that
support it on the breezes. To see it skim the water like a swooping gull
and then rise into the air, circle and soar to great heights, and
finally drop gracefully down upon the water again, furnishes a thrill
and inspires a wonder that does not come with any other sport on earth.
The hydroaeroplane is safer than the ordinary aeroplane, and for this
reason is bound to become the most popular of aerial craft. The beginner
can take it out on his neighboring lake or river, or even the great
bays, and skim it over the water until he is sure of himself and sure
that he can control it in the air. He can fly it six feet above the
water for any distance, with the feeling that even if something should
happen to cause a fall, he will not be dashed to pieces. The worst he
will get is a cold bath.
The hydroaeroplane may compete with motor boats as a water craft, or in
the air with the fastest aeroplane. It can start from the land on its
wheels, but launch itself on the water where there is lack of room for
rising from the land.
Its double qualities as a water and air craft make possible flights that
could not be attempted with the aeroplane.
At Cedar Point, Ohio, I had to fly the new machine when a strong gale
was blowing across Lake Erie, kicking up a heavy surf. However, I
determined to make the attempt under what were extremely trying
conditions, and so started it on the beach and under the power of the
aerial propeller, launched it through a heavy surf.
Beyond the surf I found very rough water, but turning the machine into
the wind, I arose from the water without the least difficulty, and
circled and soared over the lake for fifteen minutes. I landed without
trouble on the choppy water a few hundred yards off shore, and after
guiding the hydroaeroplane up and down the beach for the inspection of
the great crowd, made a second flight of ten minutes' duration, and
landed safely upon the sandy beach. That was the hardest test I have
ever given the hydroaeroplane, and I think a very severe one. I am
satisfied that it can be used in more than ordinarily rough water, if it
is properly handled.
There is no question that in this particular line of aeronautics,
America is now leading the world; but the hydroaeroplane contests
recently held at Monte Carlo and the experiments made in France by the
Voisin Brothers' "Canard," which was erroneously hailed by the French
press as being the first occasion when a machine had risen from the
water with two men, show that the French are not far behind us.
Other experiments have been made in Europe by Fabre, who was the first
to achieve any degree of success in this line, and by the Duf aux
Brothers on the Lake of Geneva, to say nothing of the flights made by
Herbster, the old Farman pilot, on an Astra-Wright at Lucerne, and if
the American aeronautic industry does not awaken to the immediate
possibilities along this line, it will once more be overtaken by
Europeans.
There are thousands of men throughout the country who would gladly take
up a new mechanical sport as a successor to motor boating and motoring
if they felt they could do so with a reasonable degree of safety to
themselves, and adequate assurance that the life of their machine would
be commensurate to the price paid for it.
Followers of the sport of motor boating, which has made thousands of
converts during the past few years, are already turning to the
hydroplane, which skims over the water at much greater speed and less
power. The next step will be the hydroaeroplane, which can skim over the
water in exactly the same way and has the further enormous advantage of
rising into the air whenever the driver so desires. The sport should
develop rapidly next summer and be in full swing in a few years. Several
improvements of detail will have to be made. Ways of housing the
craft–of stopping the engine–of muffling the roar of the motor, will be
devised; while more comfort for the pilot and passengers will be
arranged.
If a cross-country flight is too dangerous to attempt because of the
rough character of the land, the hydroaeroplane can follow a river
course with perfect safety. Or, if there is no water course and the
country is level, it can take the land course with equal safety.
In short, it matters little whether an aerial course takes one over land
or water, the hydroaeroplane is the safest machine for flight. With the
"Triad," as we called the machine from its triple field–air, land, and
water–the Great Lakes offer no impassable obstacle to a long flight, and
it is within the vision of him who watches the trend of things, that an
over-sea flight is not far in the future.
NOTE BY AUGUSTUS POST
THE "FLYING BOAT"
At San Diego, on Jan. 10, 1912, a new type of Curtiss hydroaeroplane, or
"flying boat," was given its first trial on the bay. It had been
designed and constructed under strict secrecy at Hammondsport. The
public knew nothing as to the details of this craft until it was taken
out on the bay in order to test its balance and speed on the water.
This craft, which was equipped to carry a passenger, was driven by a
sixty horse-power motor. In contact with the water, it went at over
fifty miles an hour; and lifted off the water, it travelled at more than
sixty miles an hour in the air. It differs in many respects from the
hydroaeroplane now in use by the United States Navy officers who, by the
way, were present and witnessed the test. There were two propellers
instead of one and these were driven by clutch and chain transmission.
They were really "tractors," being in front of the planes; the motor had
a new automatic starter, and there was also a fuel gauge and bilge pump.
The transmission has since been changed to direct drive.
The boat, or hydro equipment, contained a bulkhead fore and aft, was
twenty feet long, with an upward slope in front and a downward slope in
the rear. The hydro equipment, which was more like a boat than anything
yet designed, was able to withstand any wind or wave that a motor boat
of similar size could weather. The aviator sat comfortably in the hull
with the engine not behind him, but forward in the hull in this model.
THE "FLYING FISH"
A "No. 2 flying boat," just built by Mr. Curtiss, and successfully
tested on Lake Keuka, Hammondsport, in July, 1912, is the "last word" in
aviation so far. An illustration in this book, made from photographs
taken in mid-July, 1912, shows fully the bullet-shape of the "flying
fish."
It is a real boat, built with a fish-shaped body containing two
comfortable seats for the pilot and passenger or observer, either of
whom can operate the machine by a system of dual control, making it also
available for teaching the art of flying.
All the controls are fastened to the rear of the boat's hull, which
makes them very rigid and strong, while the boat itself, made in
stream-line form, offers the least possible resistance to the air, even
less than that offered by the landing gear upon a standard land machine.
Above the boat are mounted the wings and aeroplane surface. In the
centre of this standard biplane construction is situated the eighty
horse-power motor with its propeller in the rear, thus returning to the
original practice, as in the standard Curtiss machines, of having a
single propeller attached direct to the motor, thus doing away with all
chains and transmission gearing which might give trouble, and differing
from the earlier model flying boat built in San Diego, California, last
winter (1911-12), which was equipped with "tractor" propellors
propellers in front driven by chains.
The new flying boat is twenty-six feet long and three feet wide. The
planes are five and a half feet deep and thirty feet wide. It runs on
the water at a speed of fifty miles an hour, and is driven by an eighty
horse-power Curtiss motor. At a greater speed than this it cannot be
kept on the water, but rises in the air and flies at from fifty to sixty
miles per hour.
[Illustration: DIAGRAM OF THE CURTISS FLYING BOAT NO. 2.]
The boat itself is provided with water-tight compartments so that if any
one compartment should be damaged the flotation afforded by the other
would be sufficient to keep the craft afloat. It is also provided with
wheels for making a landing on the shore; these wheels fold up, thus not
interfering in the slightest with its manoeuvres over the water. The
boat is so strongly built that it can be readily beached even through a
high surf and handled the same as a fisherman would handle his dory, or
it may be housed afloat like a motor boat or anchored to a buoy like a
yacht.
In rough water the spray-hood with which this type of boat is provided
protects the navigators from getting wet and enables the craft to be
used very much as you might use a high speed motor boat, with the added
excitement of being able to rise above other crafts or fly over them if
they get in the way. It looks very much like a flying fish in the air
and although designed to skim close to the surface of the water at high
speed it can rise to as high an altitude as the standard land machine.
Mr. Curtiss states: "My idea was to provide a machine especially adapted
for the requirements of the sportsman, one that would be simple to
operate and absolutely safe. During the tests which we have made with
this flying boat it carried three people with ease and the boat rose
without difficulty with the extra passenger, although it is only
designed to accommodate two people."
With the hydroaeroplane a safe landing can always be made, and if,
through inexperience or carelessness of the driver, a bad landing is
made, no injury to the operator or passenger can occur other than what
may result from a "ducking."
[Illustration: THE EVOLUTION OF THE HYDRO]
(A) (B) The flying boat of summer, 1912–on land and in the air. (C) A
contrast–the hydroaeroplane of winter, 1911.
[Illustration: HYDROAEROPLANE FLIGHTS]
(A) Curtiss driving the "Triad" over Lake Erie, ground-swells at
Atlantic City.
(B) Witmer riding the ground-swells at Atlantic City.
This boat shows how directly aeroplane-builders are turning to air craft
available for amateur sport–not for exhibition "stunts." Such boats will
have ample protection for the passenger and be able to carry a large
quantity of fuel together with wireless apparatus and provisions, so
that long overwater journeys may be made in comparative comfort, and
also well within the radius of communication by wireless. And most of
all they are safe!–A. P.
THE NAVY ON THE HYDRO (AUGUSTUS POST)
Captain Washington Irving Chambers, head of the Aeronautical Bureau,
United States Navy, in a speech delivered at the Aeronautical Society's
banquet in New York, said:
"The hydroaeroplane is the coming machine so far as the navy is
concerned; in fact, it has already come.[5] The navy machine built by
Glenn Curtiss has had several tryouts and has proved itself a success. I
recently had a flight with Mr. Curtiss in this machine, the 'Triad,' at
Hammondsport, N. Y.
"With two passengers seated side by side, the control can be shifted
from one to the other easily while in the air. When we had gone a mile
Curtiss yelled to me to take the control. The levers had been explained
to me on the ground, but I had not familiarised myself with them for the
purpose of handling the machine under way. I turned on a notch and the
front plane tilted up, bringing the machine off the water to a level of
four feet in the air. We kept this level for another mile or two, when
Curtiss took the control again. He turned the plane lever another notch
and we rose to a ten-foot level and encircled the lake several times
without changing from this level more than a foot or two, lower or
higher."
As a justification of Captain Chambers' remarks, the Aero Club of
America, at their annual banquet held on January 27, 1912, awarded the
"Collier Trophy" to Mr. Curtiss for his successful development and
thorough demonstration of the hydroaeroplane, the terms of the deed of
gift stating that "it shall be awarded annually for the greatest
achievement in aviation in America, the value of which has been
demonstrated by use during the preceding year."
The trophy is a group in bronze by Ernest Wise Keyser of New York,
representing the triumph of man over gravity and other forces of nature.
The trophy was donated by Robert J. Collier, president of the Aero Club
of America.–A. P.
PART IV THE REAL FUTURE OF THE AEROPLANE BY GLENN H. CURTISS WITH
CHAPTERS BY CAPTAIN PAUL W. BECK, U. S. A., LIEUTENANT THEODORE G.
ELLYSON, U. S. N., AND AUGUSTUS POST
CHAPTER I AEROPLANE SPEED OF THE FUTURE
If you look over the books on aviation that were published even a
comparatively short time ago, you will see how much of them is given to
prophecies and how little to records of performance. Because, of course,
as soon as the aeroplane came into existence every one with eyesight and
a little imagination could see that here was a new factor in the world's
work that would change the course of things in almost every way, and
naturally every one began to forecast the possibilities of aerial
flight. And at first, when the machine was really so little known, even
to the inventor, that aviators hesitated to push it to the extreme of
its possibilities, writers had more to say about what the aeroplane
would probably do than what it had actually done. But the aeroplane,
which is bound to break all speed-records, has made history at the
fastest rate yet. Day by day we move things over from the prophecy
department to the history chapter, and as the days slip by on their rush
to join the future, hardly one but leaves a record of accomplishment and
achievement to justify the aeroplane prophets.
At first, as I have just said, aviators could not believe in the powers
of the machine; we used to trim down our garments to the lightest point,
to avoid extra weight, whereas now we bundle up in heavy furs, or wear
two suits, one over the other, to meet the intense cold of the upper
air; and a great surplus of weight can be carried by almost all
machines. We used to wait for a calm almost absolute before going up it
used to be a regular thing to see aviators wetting their fingers and
holding them up to see from which direction the faint breezes were
coming or dropping bits of paper to see if the air was in that complete
stillness we used to think necessary for successful flight. When I was
waiting for just the right moment in Albany to begin the Hudson Flight
which, because of the unusual and absolutely unknown atmospheric
conditions over a river flowing between precipitous and irregular hills,
had to be timed with unusual care the Poughkeepsie paper in an editorial
said the "Curtiss gives us a pain in the neck."
Even after I had made the flight the Paterson Call made the wait a
reason for denying the use of aeroplanes in time of war, pointing out
how amusing it would be to see in the newspaper reports of the wars of
the future, "Battle postponed on account of the weather!" Whereas now we
go up without hesitation into what is actually a gale of wind, and under
weather conditions that would have made the first flyers think it
absolute suicide.
This discussion of the future of the aeroplane will have more of a basis
of solid fact for its prophecy than if it had been written a couple of
years ago. Some ideas the world has as to the future of the machine we
have had reluctantly to abandon or at least indefinitely to postpone,
but so many new fields of activity have opened that one may only sketch
the principal lines along which it is reasonable to expect the aeroplane
and the art and science of mechanical flight to develop.
The most practical present and future uses of the aeroplane in the order
of relative importance which it seems to me that these uses will
naturally take, are: for sport, war, and special purposes which the
aeroplane itself will create.
SPEED–PRESENT AND FUTURE
In saying "for sport" I mean both for the aviator himself and for the
spectators interested in watching his aerial evolutions and enthusiastic
over results; over sporting competitions, speed races, and record
flights of all kinds. Such flights provide as much fun for the fellow
who looks on as the fellow who flies and gives an opportunity for those
who take pleasure in acting in an official capacity to exercise
authority to their hearts' content!
Speed will always be a most important factor in the development of the
sporting side of aviation. Almost all races depend upon speed and
activity; and the aeroplane, the material embodiment and symbol of
speed, equals and in many cases surpasses the speed of the wind.
Speed will have no bounds in the future. As I have already said briefly
in passing, aeroplanes will soon be going considerably over one hundred
miles per hour. A motorcycle has gone at the rate of one hundred and
thirty-seven miles per hour and an aeroplane should be able to go even
faster. With the help of a strong wind blowing in the direction of
flight, two hundred miles an hour ought to be possible of attainment.
Machines for high speed, however, must have some means of contracting
the wing area or flattening out the curve in the planes so that when we
want to go fast, we can reduce the amount of surface of the machine to
lessen friction and so that when we want to go more slowly and land, we
can increase the size of the wing surface.
The Etrich machine built in Austria has been constructed so that the
curvature of the planes can be changed by operating a lever near the
pilot; this enables the machine to attain high speed in flight and to
fly more slowly in starting and landing.
The record is one hundred and eight miles an hour now (September, 1912)
and we will not be surprised to see it climb up in proportion as rapidly
as the altitude record did in 1911.
There is no wonder that an aeroplane race should create such absorbing
interest, almost amounting to a craze, in the mind of the public
directly interested. Speed is the one thing about the aeroplane that
appeals both to the practical and to the imaginative man; the man of
business, to whom saving time means saving money, and the poet, or the
man of leisure, to whom the words "make a bee-line"–that is, an air
line–have always stood for speed and directness. Now in earth or rail
friction-machines, the limit of speed has almost been reached, except in
the case of monorail vehicles, and there seems to be little progress in
this direction. With the aeroplane, on the contrary, speed is only in
its infancy. None of the difficulties that check the development of
speed in the automobile or locomotive attend the aeroplane. What means
speed now–ninety or ninety-five miles an hour–merely marks a stage in
the machine's development; a hundred and fifty an hour is even now
within its possibilities, and a much greater speed is by no means beyond
the vision of the present generation. What the boys of to-day are going
to see when they grow up no one can foretell. It is largely a question
of motive power that and the reduction of resistance. In the latter
respect I have already materially cut down the resistance of the newest
type of Curtiss machine, in order to increase the speed. I was able, as
I have said, to win the International Cup at Rheims in 1909 with a speed
of forty-seven and one-half miles an hour. At Los Angeles during the
past winter my latest type was able to fly more than seventy miles an
hour, and the same type of engine, an eight-cylinder, has also been made
more powerful, thus the increased speed is due to the improvements in
the lines of the machine, the reduction of surface, and the controls,
and the increase of the power of the motor.
There is still room for reduction of surfaces, minor improvements in the
general outlines and in the control; but the largest element in any
increase of speed must rest with the development of the motor. Increased
power is the tendency, with as much reduction in weight as possible.
Personally, I can't see much room for reduction in weight. At present I
am using a motor of my own manufacture that weighs but three pounds to
the horse-power. This I consider extremely light as compared, for
instance, with the engines used in submarines of the Navy, which weigh
from sixty to seventy pounds to the horse-power. Still, there will be
some reduction in weight per horse-power.
With the great speed that will undoubtedly mark the aeroplane flights
even of the near future, the physical endurance of the operator will
count for a great deal in long flights. By the time we can fly much over
a hundred miles an hour there will have to be some means of protection
devised for the operator, for anyone who has travelled sixty or seventy
miles an hour in an automobile knows how uncomfortable such a trip
becomes if it keeps up over long distances. The driver of an aeroplane
sitting out in front unprotected causes far more "head-resistance." It
will be an easy matter to arrange some sort of protection for him.
How strong this "head-resistance" can be, I realised in a curious
experience while racing with Ely at Los Angeles, going at probably
sixty-five miles an hour. I looked upward to see just where Ely was
flying, and as I raised my head the wind got under my eyelids and puffed
them out like toy balloons. For a moment I was confused and could
scarcely see, but as soon as I turned my gaze on the ground the wind
pressure forced the lids back into their normal position.
SAFER THAN AUTOMOBILE RACES
I believe there are fewer dangers in racing aeroplanes than in racing
automobiles. Races run over the ground have to contend against
obstructions to the course, tire troubles, and "skidding" on a wet
track, or in making sharp turns. None of these exist in the race in the
air. The course is always clear, there is no "track," wet or dry, and as
for the turns that look so desperate to the inexperienced observer on
the ground, the operator, far from slipping out of his seat as he
"banks" sharply, sits tight and feels as if he were going on an even
keel. If you can imagine how the water in a pail would feel as you swing
the pail around your head so fast that not a drop spills, you can
realise the sense of stability that the aviator feels as he whirls
around a circular course at a tremendous rate of speed, in fact, once an
aeroplane is up in the air, it is often safer to travel fast than it is
to travel slow.
ACCIDENTS
Of course it would be folly, in view of the list of accidents, fatal and
otherwise, that the newspapers print and reprint every time a noted
aviator falls, to assert that there is no danger in flying. I doubt if
the American man, especially the American young man, would take to the
aeroplane so enthusiastically if the sport were as safe as parlour
croquet. There is, of course, always danger of something going wrong
with an aeroplane in flight that may bring it down too quickly for
safety, but unless the derangement is vital, an expert aviator can make
a safe landing, even with a "dead" motor. And the dangers of flight are
growing less and less every year as the machine is improved and as the
aviator becomes more skilful and more experienced in air conditions. The
report of the French Government for 1911 shows that there have been only
one-tenth as many fatal accidents in proportion to the number of flights
made, as in the first year of aviation, but each accident has made ten
times as much stir.
INCREASE IN SKILL
Perhaps the greatest advancement in aviation during the past year has
been due to the increased skill of the aviators. Men like Beachey,
McCurdy, Willard, Brookins, Parmelee, Latham, Radley, and others who
have made flights in this country, have shown remarkable strides in the
art of flying. This advancement has been in experience–in knowing what
to do in all sorts of weather–in taking advantage of air currents and in
knowing how to make safe landings when trouble occurs. A year ago it
would have looked like a desire to commit suicide to attempt some of the
"stunts" these men now perform as a part of their daily exhibitions.
At the same time, I want to make it plain that, personally, I do not
now, nor ever have encouraged so-called "fancy" flying. I regard some of
the spectacular gyrations performed by any of half a dozen flyers I know
as foolhardy and as taking unnecessary chances. I do not believe fancy
or trick flying demonstrates anything except an unlimited amount of
nerve and skill and, perhaps, the possibilities of aerial acrobatics.
CROSS-COUNTRY RACES
The year 1912 in America is the year of great cross-country flights. We
have already seen the foreshadowing of this development in the great
flights of Atwood from St. Louis to New York and Rodgers from coast to
coast. Rodgers' trip was a great feat. Just think! Clear across the
United States and so many smashes that only a man with indomitable will
and pluck would have kept on to success. Rodgers became an expert at
landing and made landings almost anywhere. Soon we shall see, instead of
men flying alone as in the case of these trips, double flights with two
pilots relieving each other so that the distance covered in flights may
be increased, and the capabilities of machines for endurance can be
fully shown.
The Gordon Bennett International Cup race at Chicago this year brought
to this country two of the best racing machines in the world and has
stimulated interest in aviation to a higher pitch than it has ever had
in the United States. At the next Gordon Bennett, I hope to see an
American surpass even Vedrines' speed of one hundred and five miles an
hour for one hundred twenty-four and eight-tenths miles.
RACING TYPES OF TO-MORROW
There have been many meets since Rheims, some international, some of
local importance; indeed almost every citizen of a civilised country has
had a chance to attend some one of them without too great a journey, but
what I have said of one meet is true to some degree of all: that racing
and contests in general, especially between different makes of machines,
is of the greatest use to the development of the aeroplane, just as
competition among automobile manufacturers, in putting out racing
machines, helped the development of that vehicle.
There are at the present time a number of types and makes of aeroplanes,
each claiming some especial advantage over the others, and trying to
demonstrate it. Some of these will drop out–some of them have dropped
already–some will develop toward the aeroplane of the future, which we
can only infer from the machines of to-day. The way to bring about this
"survival of the fittest" is by speed contests and endurance races,
where the American manufacturer pits his machine against the
foreign-made article and the biplane contends against the monoplane.
The public believed, when these two types came into being, that there
would be a sharp division of uses between them; that the biplane would
excel in just certain directions, the monoplane in others, and the
public has watched the various records of speed, of endurance, of
distance, as they changed back and forth between the two types, and has
found that deciding their relative merits and assigning their special
uses was by no means the simple and summary process they thought it
would be. The contests will have to evolve new rules and regulations;
for instance, there will have to be some means of handicapping machines
with very high-power engines and small plane surface as in the case of
monoplanes, which, with a minimum of plane surface and high power
engines, have a speed advantage over the biplanes, that with equal
engine power have much larger plane surface. Perhaps the method of
handicapping now used in certain races of stock automobiles, that is
cubic displacement of the engine, will be adopted.
PUBLIC INTEREST IN MEETS
The aviation meet at Los Angeles, California, in 1911, was a good
indication of what great and deep interest the public have in contests
in the air, and will have in the great races of the future.
Aeroplane flights called thirty thousand people through the gates the
second day of the ten days' meet. This is the biggest crowd, I believe,
that ever paid admission to an aviation meet, in this country, and
probably the largest that has ever attended any outdoor attraction
except the world's series baseball games and the few big football games.
In addition, there was a considerable crowd on the outside who did not
pay admission, but the actual paid admissions on Sunday were more than
thirty thousand. This third annual meet did better than either of those
held during the two previous years, and this, I am convinced, proves
that aviation is a standard and lasting attraction.