[_Facing p. 142._

]

On February 4th the _Melbourne Argus_ published a letter from the

Hon. Secretary of the Caulfield Progress Association, protesting

against “the use of the public park and recreation reserve known

as Caulfield Racecourse for a display for which a charge was to be

made,” and pressed the point that the proceeding was illegal.

This letter did not, however, cut enough ice to prevent the _Melbourne

Argus_ from announcing on the following day special railway services

for the occasion, as well as the intention of Sir John Madden and Sir

George Reid to be present on the course.

Further correspondence relating to the use of the public preserves was

received and published by the _Melbourne Argus_. One correspondent

expressed surprise at the short-sightedness of the Hon. Secretary of

the Caulfield Progress Association in objecting to the racecourse

being used in the interests of aviation, and highly commended the

action of the authorities in recognising the national aspect of the

event. Another correspondent, probably a pessimist this time, who

expressed doubt as to the power of the Minister of Lands to give

permission to make a charge for admission to a display on the Caulfield

Racecourse, stated that nothing short of an Act of Parliament could

give the organisers of the display authority to make a charge. The Hon.

Secretary of the Caulfield Progress Association endeavoured to justify

his first by another letter, which appeared in the _Melbourne Argus_

on February 6th. The morning paper announced that the gates would be

opened at 1.30 p.m. The public were warned that on no account would

they be permitted to encroach on the straight required for rising

and alighting, but they would be allowed to cross the course between

the flights. Further train and tram services were announced.

The Australian Press were not lacking in giving every possible

support to aviation, and in particular to Harry’s enterprise.

On Saturday, February 7th, the _Melbourne Argus_ devoted a whole page

to descriptive details and pictures of the Tabloid, with which Harry

was to give his exhibition in the afternoon. Asked how much there was

in the art of flying, Harry replied: “All you have to do is to

get off the ground, keep up, and get back again, when and where you

want to.” Replying to a request for his opinion as to a certain

accident, when an aeroplane fell to the ground and was smashed as if

it were an egg, Harry said that the source of the trouble was a heavy

machine flying low down near the ground. What one required most of all

was plenty of air beneath one. He himself never from choice flew below

3,000 feet. If anything happened while one was well up, there was a

chance of making a good recovery before making contact with solid earth.

Upwards of 25,000 people assembled at the Caulfield Racecourse to

witness Harry’s flying exhibition on the Saturday afternoon. In

New Zealand, Sydney, and Adelaide, the public had already seen a fair

amount of good flying, but, excepting those who had happened to see his

previous informal flights, the people of Melbourne had not until this

Saturday made the acquaintance of an experienced pilot who was as much,

if not more, at ease in the air as on the ground. Many factors probably

accounted for the extraordinarily large attendance. The display was

unique, for one thing; then the fact of Harry being an Australian, and

young at that, would draw many from pure sentiment. Again, was not the

man of the hour distinguished in the world of flight?

The early part of the day was rainy and cheerless and there was little

improvement by the time the flights were to start. The outlook was

far from promising. Nevertheless, all the scheduled special trains,

numbering eighteen, were filled to overflowing, carrying 8,500 people

in all. All roads leading to the racecourse were filled with motor and

other vehicular traffic, which accounted for another 17,000 people. It

was a veritable Derby Day. Although several thousands paid to enter the

course, as many, and probably more, occupied points of vantage outside,

from where a clear view of the sky was to be had. The top of the fence

which surrounded the field was lined with hundreds of heads of boys,

youths, and men, all craning their necks to see as much as possible

without expending more than a little energy. Others thronged the roads

and streets in the vicinity.

It was most unfortunate that, owing to the fact that the crowd was too

great to be amenable to the wants and dictates of the management, the

display was marred. Carried away by their enthusiasm and curiosity,

parts of the crowd overran the landing-ground, and so forced Harry, in

the interests of their safety, to abandon some of his programme. Harry

had previously been at great pains to choose this straight stretch and

arrange for it to be kept clear as a starting-and alighting-ground.

But across the end of the straight, near a newly-erected grandstand,

a densely-packed mass of people gathered, while hundreds of others

persisted in lining the rail of the steeplechase course. It was thus

rendered very difficult for Harry to land, and these two masses of

people considerably reduced the landing-space available. In fact, as a

result of the heedlessness of the crowds to warnings, cajoling, and the

attempted force of the police, at the end of his second flight Harry

was forced to make a fast landing, which terminated by his swerving

on the ground and running into the railing at the flat side of the

straight, where the crowd was exceptionally dense. One man, Mr. G. K.

Francis, an uncle of Harry’s friend and mechanic, Kauper, was

struck on the nose by the still slowly revolving propeller, and several

others in the vicinity received blows from other parts of the machine.

Fortunately no one was seriously injured, and the damage done to the

machine was very slight. Apart from a damaged landing chassis and a

splintered propeller, no other fracture occurred. Before this happened

Harry had decided that the crowd was making matters impossible for

him. His original intention was to make a solo flight first and then

follow this up by a series of passenger flights. A Miss Dixon was to

be the first passenger and Mrs. Clive Daniel the second. Lord Denman,

the Governor-General, accepted an invitation to make a flight. Several

other passenger flights had also been arranged beforehand.

However, when the first ascent had been made according to schedule, the

crowd became unmanageable. The primary cause of the trouble was without

doubt the immense enthusiasm of the crowd and the intense admiration

which they had for Hawker. After his first flight, Harry managed to

have his machine drawn back to its original starting-point near the

beginning of the straight. Then the crowd which blocked that end of the

course broke from behind a police cordon and swarmed round the biplane.

The number of police present was inadequate to be of any avail. The

crowd would not be forced back. The two or three mounted police who

were stationed in the straight galloped up to the assistance of their

colleagues on foot and did their utmost to force the crowd away. Miss

Dixon had just walked down the course to the point where the biplane

stood, ready to take her seat. The crowd swarmed round on every side,

and meanwhile people from the other side of the straight were climbing

the fences and running across the track. The police did the most they

could to stem this new tide, but fully half an hour elapsed before

anything approaching order was restored. Even then the people lining

the end of the straight had advanced their position a considerable way

up the track, and thousands were lining the high fence on the flat side

of the course. Harry and his mechanics and members of the racing club

harangued the crowd and warned them of the danger, but their efforts

to clear the course were of no avail. Harry therefore decided not to

take the risk of making a landing in the cramped area with a passenger

on board. Nevertheless, in order that the entertainment should not be

entirely spoiled, he determined to make one more flight, with Miss

Dixon as a passenger, and land at Elsternwick.

His altitude record having been broken in England a few days

previously, Harry had felt inclined to attempt to regain it in

the course of his exhibition on Saturday, but in view of all

the circumstances which I have outlined he abandoned the idea.

Nevertheless, his second flight was an effective exhibition of altitude

flying. He topped 6,000 feet and was almost lost to the view of the

spectators. Descending after a flight of about fifteen minutes, Harry

experienced the landing difficulties which he had expected and which

terminated as already described. Sweeping in from above the new

grandstand, he switched off his engine and swooped down, only to find

the space too small for landing. He switched on again and passed above

the crowd. Three times he repeated this manœuvre, which the crowd

cheered and regarded as an intentional feature of the exhibition. On

the fourth occasion he landed and ran into the crowd as explained.

Speaking of the accident afterwards, Harry said: “I made a very

bad landing, but it was a very difficult place. If there had not been

so many people there it would have been all right. It was difficult

work, but the machine stood the test.”

To review these flights in greater detail.

However great was the difficulty when near the ground, Harry was

perfect master of the machine in the air. Like a snipe hopping along

the ground before it takes wing, the machine shot forward. No one

seemed really to expect that it would fly, and the shout which rent

the air as the machine left the ground seemed one of half astonishment

and half satisfaction. At first Harry was content to traverse the

course, circling round and round above the heads of the people, who

cheered and cheered again. Turning the nose of his machine into the

south-westerly wind which blew, Harry began to climb in ever-narrowing

circles. Suddenly he pulled back the “joy-stick,” and from

the crowd below came a long-drawn “Ah!” To those on the

ground it seemed impossible that the machine could right itself. But

Harry had done no more than wilfully stall his machine, which, instead

of turning upside down, merely slid down about two hundred feet on

its tail. Righted once more, the machine was made to bank, volplane,

twist and turn like a great bird circling and hovering above the sea of

upturned faces. Then apparently it grew tired and swooped gracefully

to earth again. Passing over the stewards’ stand, Harry several

times playfully swooped down and up, leaving only a few feet between

the machine and their heads. Momentarily the crowd felt a thrill of

fear.

Cheers rent the air as the machine at last came to a standstill, and

when Harry, after he had scrambled out, walked towards the grandstand,

there was a general rush to congratulate him and shake his hand. Thus

ended the first flight.

The second flight seemed to the watchers below far more sensational

than the first. Scarcely waiting to circle the course, Harry began to

climb. The bark of the motor became no more than a purr as the machine

forced its way upwards, towards the sun apparently; 5,000 feet up, the

Tabloid appeared as a soaring bird to the crowd below. Suddenly the

purring of the motor ceased, and like a black-winged peer of the eagle,

the biplane sailed across the sky, twisting and turning as it were

in pursuit of visible prey. As it descended, the machine appeared to

change from black to grey. It was swallowed up by cloud and disappeared

altogether, only to return to earth with surprising suddenness.

“Wet? No!” said Harry afterwards. “That wasn’t

a wet cloud I went through, it was a dry one. White clouds are always

dry. You go through black ones, and you’ll know the difference.

A white cloud is just like a dry white fog and the sun lights this up

beautifully. It is not a very clear day down here, but it is really a

very nice day up there. I was thinking while I was up that there seemed

to be just about one hundred miles of snow mountains, and the sun was

lighting up every one of them.”

When Miss Dixon came down from the clouds, she, too, remarked on their

beauty as seen from above. Miss Dixon incidentally paid £20 for the

trip, which worked out at more than £3 per minute. Although it was

a costly business, many other ladies wished the flight could have

been theirs. Mrs. Clive Daniel who had also made arrangements for an

excursion on Saturday afternoon, was naturally very disappointed at

not being able to make the flight owing to the unavoidable change

in Harry’s plans. Mrs Daniel went so far as to offer Harry an

extra £10 if he made the flight, but Harry would not incur the risk.

He offered instead to make another flight with Mrs. Daniel from

Elsternwick after landing Miss Dixon there. When it was suggested

by someone the ladies should toss a coin in order to determine who

should have the privilege of the first trip, Miss Dixon declined to

abandon her bargain of having purchased the right to be the first

lady passenger, and accordingly she made the flight, which I will now

describe.

For about five minutes the biplane circled the course and then,

pointing its nose homeward, flew directly for Elsternwick. The journey

took about a minute, and Harry brought the machine down on the

golf-links. Apparently it was Harry’s unlucky day, for a further

accident befell the machine as it came to earth.

When the news spread abroad that Harry had decided to land at

Elsternwick, another great crowd assembled there. As soon as he saw the

people, Harry realised that he was confronted with a very difficult

landing problem. In order not to injure anybody, Harry purposely made

a steep descent. Unfortunately the biplane swung sharply round when it

touched the ground, with the result that the propeller splintered, the

landing chassis was badly wrenched from its mountings, and sundry wires

were strained. Luckily, no one received any injury.

Miss Dixon thoroughly enjoyed her experience, and her enthusiasm was

shown by the fact that she at once arranged to make another flight with

Harry at Sydney.

As Harry had been careful to bring one or two spare propellers with him

to Australia, the damaged Tabloid was soon restored to flying trim.

On the following Wednesday, four days after the foregoing sensational

incidents, Harry had the honour of taking the Minister of Defence,

Senator Millen, for a flight. Senator Millen thus had the distinction

of being the first member of the Federal Cabinet to make an aeroplane

ascent in Australia. He was greatly impressed by the bird’s-eye

view of Caulfield, Malvern, Armadale, and St. Kilda, which he had

during a flight lasting about a quarter of an hour at a height of 3,500

feet and a speed of 90 miles per hour. The flight was kept as secret

as possible. Nevertheless a crowd assembled in the hope of seeing

something, and, as usual, they pushed forward and occupied the fairway.

Mounted on a box, Harry’s father announced that there would be

no flight until all had withdrawn to the wall. This had the desired

effect, and Harry took his seat, ready to make a preliminary test

flight. After a run of about 40 yards, the machine rose gracefully,

and, steering a south-easterly course, Harry climbed to about 1,000

feet. After circling round the park, he switched off his engine and

glided to earth, landing on precisely the same spot from which he had

taken off.

Surrounded by a circle of friends, including the Minister of Customs,

Senator Millen watched this preliminary display with obvious interest,

and when it was over he made his way forward as it were to congratulate

Harry. But a burly policeman intercepted him and requested him to

retire. At the time very few of those present knew what the Minister

really intended to do. Senator Millen, turning to the constable, spoke

a few words to the latter, who at once broke into a smile and allowed

him to proceed. During the ensuing minutes the policeman bore the air

of one who had been entrusted with an important secret.

But the Senator’s real mission was soon disclosed. Putting on a

pair of motor-goggles, he handed his hat to one of the mechanics, and,

after donning a cap, stepped up, and down into the passenger’s

cockpit. “Good boy, Millen!” shouted somebody, and the

crowd applauded. This time the machine took the air after a run of no

more than thirty yards. Heading into the wind, they soared steadily

above the electric power station until the only background was the

cloudless sky. After attaining a height of 3,000 feet, Harry, heading

eastward, took the Minister over the neighbouring suburbs. The purr of

the engine was distinctly heard by the people as the machine passed

above their heads. A white cloud from the exhaust-pipe indicated the

path of the machine, like the foam in the wake of a liner. To the

onlookers it seemed as if the machine proceeded out to sea during part

of the flight, but Harry explained afterwards that he did not actually

cross the water, but merely followed the coast. As the aeroplane turned

down-wind, Lieut. Petre and Lieut. Harrison, of the Defence Department,

estimated its speed at over 100 miles per hour. Time and again it

appeared to pitch and roll under the influence of the strong breeze,

but always under perfect control. After flying for about a quarter of

an hour at considerable height, Harry shut off his engine and glided

down, heading into the wind. After sinking and disappearing for a few

seconds behind the Elsternwick Hotel, the machine climbed just high

enough to clear the building by a few feet and swept between two tall

pine-trees, close to the ground, skimming along for about 50 yards,

a few inches above the turf, as if undecided whether or not to land.

Then it touched gently and, after a single hop, came to a standstill.

Senator Millen was received with loud cheering as he stepped from his

seat.

After his flight with Harry, Senator Millen said: “I cannot say

that there was any feature one could describe as thrilling; nothing can

make one feel that one is heroic or any sort of a dare-devil: it seems

so beautifully simple, so steady, and so safe.” After stating

other opinions of his flight, he said: “My flight with Hawker

was one of the most enjoyable experiences I have had. Hawker is master

of his machine and seems to manipulate it by a movement of his finger.

While I watched him he never at any time made a movement with his arms.

In any case there is very little room to move in the cockpit. I have

done a great deal of fast motoring from time to time, but there is no

comparison between that and soaring in the air.”

Harry afterwards took Lieut. Harrison, an airman of the Australian

Defence Force, and then Mr. T. G. White, holder of the motor speed

record between Melbourne and Adelaide. Mr. Francis Syme also had his

first experience in the air. On each occasion the rising and alighting

of the machine was accompanied by vociferous applause.

Harry found the weather conditions the most boisterous he had yet

experienced in Australia. The strength of the wind he estimated at 35

miles per hour, and the fact that it was not steady, but gusty, called

for most skilful piloting. The distance covered in his flight with

Senator Millen was about 20 miles. Prior to this flight Harry had only

flown an aggregate of about three hours in Australia, in which time he

covered in all about 270 miles. With Lieut. Harrison he ascended to

about 3,800 feet.

Harry certainly displayed a keen appreciation of the economics of

flying propaganda while in Australia. Naturally his main object was to

popularise aviation as much as possible, and to do this he spared no

effort in giving exhibition flights at principal centres of population.

On the several occasions when he spoke of his preparedness to fly from

Melbourne to Sydney in under five hours he did not overlook the fact

that a remunerative inducement was a necessary concomitant. During most

of the time he would be flying over open country where there would be

few people to appreciate the object lesson provided by the aeroplane.

Therefore the expense of the flight must be retrieved.

The weather conditions on Friday, February 13th, being good, Harry

had his machine out at 10.30 a.m. Two ladies and two gentlemen

enjoyed fairly lengthy flights during the morning, and Harry could

have continued carrying passengers until sundown had not the weather

been too good! As there was absolutely no wind it was difficult for

Harry to land below 40 miles per hour, and, the space available being

rather limited, he would not risk any further landings. As usual, a

large number of spectators was present. “How do they get wind

of it?” asked Harry. “I thought we had kept this little

flight absolutely secret.” But whenever the biplane was ready

for ascent there was an eager crowd waiting to watch and applaud or to

take photographs. By 2 o’clock a huge crowd had assembled outside

the garage in anticipation of witnessing further flights, but they had

to be disappointed as there was not a breeze of strength to ensure a

safe landing. Although Harry several times sent word to the effect that

there would be no flying during the afternoon, the people were content

to wait until dusk in a spirit of expectation.

During Harry’s stay at Melbourne the Tabloid was continuously

on exhibition, either in the air or in the garage. Although a charge

of only one shilling was levied for admission to the garage, the sum

received soon totalled more than fifty pounds, representing over one

thousand visitors. To a Londoner this may seem, at first sight, very

few, but when it is realised that the population of the whole of

Australia is practically equal to that of London, it is clear that the

show was a great success.

CHAPTER X

AERONAUTICAL ADVANCEMENT IN AUSTRALIA

Harry’s Proposals for Aerial Defence—Seeing Under Water

from the Air—A Crowd of 20,000—A Governor-General Ascends 4,000

Feet—And a Governor’s Daughter Goes Up Too—Stunts—Rumours of

Looping—Another Accident.

CHAPTER X

When Harry arranged to leave Melbourne for Sydney on Tuesday, February

17th, he did not do so on account of any falling-off in the interest of

the residents of Melbourne and district, whose enthusiasm never abated.

In fact, when he did leave, and when he departed from Australia for

the last time (although he never knew it to be the last), there were

many who, having offered as much as £20 for short flights, had to be

disappointed.

There was no narrowness about Harry’s plans for promoting

aviation propaganda in Australia. One idea which influenced his

actions considerably was to bring into bold relief in the world of

aeronautics the name of Australia, to do which he must accomplish the

converse, by bringing the world of aeronautics to the knowledge of

Australia. He hoped to achieve his object in part by establishing one

or two important records before returning to England in May. On the

important subject of the aerial defence of Australia Harry expressed

very strong views; and his authority was never disputed, for had he not

been brought into close touch with defence requirements in testing the

Sopwith hydro-aeroplanes for the Admiralty and in flying one thousand

miles around the British coast? He gave it as his opinion that the

aeroplanes already imported by the Australian Defence Department would

be of no practical use for the purpose intended. His view was supported

by several sound reasons. First, he declared that Australia’s

long coast-line made it imperative to employ hydro-aeroplanes or

flying-boats, and not land machines.

“No one,” he said, “is coming from New South Wales

to attack Victoria. The danger to either state or the whole continent

will threaten from the sea, and it is therefore on the sea-board that

Australia must be prepared to intercept the enemy.” Continuing,

Harry declared that what was required by the Australian Defence

Department was a number of machines which could slip out over the

coast at a speed of a hundred miles an hour and drop their engines of

destruction upon the enemy before he “pushed the battle to the

gate.” Another significant statement which Harry made concerning

the machines which had already been acquired by the Defence Department

related to their antiquity. “Those machines,” he said,

“were ordered to my knowledge twelve months before they arrived

here. They have been here approximately twelve months. Aeroplanes are

constantly being improved, and the constructors as a rule produce

at least two new models a year. So, you see, your machines are four

models old already, and can only be used, if at all, for school

purposes.”

[Illustration: THE DERELICT AEROPLANE, IN WHICH HARRY AND GRIEVE HAD

ATTEMPTED THE CROSSING, WAS RECOVERED FROM THE ATLANTIC BY THE U. S.

STEAMER “LAKE CHARLOTTEVILLE.”

[Facing p. 156.

]

[Illustration: HARRY AT THE WHEEL OF THE RACING A.C., THE BODY OF WHICH

WAS DESIGNED BY HIM AND PROVED A REMARKABLE ADVANCE IN EFFICIENCY.

[Facing p. 156.

]

The Australians were much interested when one of the lady passengers

carried by Harry said that she could plainly see the bottom of the

bay while she was flying over Port Phillip. Harry and Kauper, during

their round-Britain flight, were able to see wrecks below water off

the Scottish coast. They found that views of this nature are not in

any way hampered by unfavourable conditions overhead, such as clouds.

A correspondent, in a letter to the _Melbourne Argus_, made the

suggestion that an aeroplane might be sent to fly above that part of

the ocean where the ill-fated _Waratah_ was last seen, with a view to

locating the whereabouts of the wreck.

When asked to express his opinion of the meteorological conditions

prevailing in Australia, Harry said: “They are the finest in the

world. If there is one country in the world where aviation can be taken

up whole-heartedly as a sport, that country is Australia.”

On Saturday, February 28th, Harry gave a flying exhibition before

20,000 people assembled at the Randwich Racecourse, Sydney. Most people

knew that Lord Denman was coming to see the flying, but none had the

least idea that the Governor-General would take the air with Harry.

Lord Denman, who had previously enjoyed a flight at Hendon, was taken

up to 4,000 feet. The next passenger was Miss Strickland, daughter of

the Governor of New South Wales. With these distinguished passengers

Harry did not attempt any stunts. In both cases the machine took the

air at a fine angle, climbing steadily. A couple of circuits were made

at a speed of about 90 miles per hour.

It was during the flight with his third passenger, that Harry felt

justified in altering his plans. No one who witnessed his flights on

this particular Saturday afternoon would have been afraid to trust

themselves to his care; as one said, he controlled his biplane with the

ease and grace with which an expert chauffeur controls a motor-car.

Ascending almost perpendicularly, he attained an altitude of about

3,000 feet; then, with the machine banked almost beyond the vertical,

he descended in a rapid spiral. To those below it frequently seemed

that the machine was upside down. A great outburst of applause attended

one such descent, in which, instead of at once landing, he levelled

up the machine within a few feet of the ground and continued round

the course, conveying a vivid impression of speed. On this particular

occasion, after scouring the grounds in search of afternoon tea, Harry

landed in the vicinity of the grandstand!

Harry had another flying engagement to keep on this particular

Saturday, and he flew over to the Victoria Park, Sydney. Many times he

was out of sight, hidden above clouds. There had been some talk of his

attempting to loop-the-loop during the afternoon, but the conditions

were not at all favourable. For one thing, Harry had no intention of

making his first attempt to emulate Pégoud at a height of less than

4,000 feet, and on this particular afternoon there were thick clouds at

1,500 feet. He would have had little satisfaction in going above them

and doing the job out of sight of those below, for who would have borne

testimony to his having accomplished the feat? Despite the low clouds,

Harry carried a goodly batch of passengers at Victoria Park and then

flew back to Randwich, where he was flying again on the morrow. On the

Sunday he carried many passengers, and his trick flying was greatly

applauded.

Reaching an altitude of 2,000 feet, Harry gave what was described

as a magnificent flight of ten minutes’ duration, before an

assembly of six thousand people, at Albany, N.S.W., on Sunday, March

8th. He followed up this flight with another, in which he established

an Australian altitude record by reaching 7,800 feet. During part of

this flight he was hidden from view above clouds. When he reappeared he

executed a series of thrilling glides and dives, finally coming down

to about 400 feet. At this height he turned and flew in the direction

of the grandstand, and then, with intent to land, made a complete

turn. Spectators at once realised that Harry was experiencing trouble

with his engine. During his gliding and spiralling descent from the

great altitude he had allowed the Gnome to get cold, a circumstance

always fraught with the risk of not being able to restart the engine

immediately as required. Spluttering as the machine descended, the

engine finally gave out at 300 feet. Then it was Harry made a daring

dive in the hope that his motor would once more throb into active life.

But this manœuvre, twice repeated, was of no avail. From a height of

about 20 feet Harry brought the machine to ground in a crowded paddock

near the racecourse, in full view of many spectators and about 50

feet from the three-railed fence. At first it was thought the landing

was satisfactory, but the momentum of the machine would have carried

it through the fence and wrecked the engine. Harry, realising this

predicament, took drastic steps, without hesitating. He plunged the

nose of the machine to earth so that the biplane stood on end with its

tail pointing skyward. A dense cloud of dust was raised.

Thinking that Harry must be injured, the crowd gave utterance to a cry

of dismay; but a moment later Harry climbed out of his seat unhurt.

Of course there was a wild rush to the spot where Harry, the coolest

man in the crowd, was examining his machine. The damage amounted to a

splintered propeller, broken landing chassis, and broken interplane

bracing-wires.

Harry’s only comment at the time was: “It was due to

pure carelessness. I let the engine get cold.” In so claiming

entire responsibility for an accident, Harry unconsciously displayed

his love for the cause of aviation. An accident seen by a large crowd

is essentially a set-back to the advancement of commercial aviation.

Presumably to avert this as far as possible, Harry said: “Blame

me, not the aeroplane,” or words to that effect.

Some days later, on Wednesday, March 11th, Harry appeared in Melbourne,

smiling and unperturbed by the previous unfortunate occurrence. “There

was,” he said, “nothing at all about the accident of an alarming

nature; I was never further from a serious smash-up in my life. It

was not a flying accident at all, for the mishap occurred after I had

landed, when the machine was nothing more or less than a motor-car.

I was in danger of running into a fence, and I did the only thing

possible to avoid such a calamity, which would have meant serious

damage to the engine. There are no brakes on the landing chassis,

which was broken simply because I brought the machine up so abruptly.

The biplane will be ready by Saturday, when I shall carry several

passengers. Many more applications have been received, and I have as

many as thirty contracts for flights at £20 a time.”

There was a considerable amount of flying in Australia in 1914. During

May a Farman seaplane was being demonstrated at Sydney. One of the

famous French pilots, Guillaux, was flying in Australia in April. He

looped-the-loop for the first time there, and aroused considerable

interest, following on Harry’s demonstrations.

CHAPTER XI

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS

Harry’s First Loops—Flying to Manchester—Harry is Taken Ill in

the Air—He Returns and Lands Safely—And Collapses—An Extraordinary

Accident—A Very Narrow Escape.

CHAPTER XI

Harry got back to England on Saturday night, June 6th, 1914, and on

the Sunday afternoon was at Brooklands, flying both the two-seater

Sopwith and the Tweenie. He won an impromptu race with Sippé, who flew

a Bristol. “Aeolus,” commenting in _Flight_ on June 12th,

said: “Place Hawker anywhere where he can get his hands on a

machine, and you simply can’t keep him on the ground.”

On Tuesday, June 16th, ten days after his return from Australia, Harry

looped-the-loop for the first time, both with engine on and off. He

was flying the 100 h.p. machine. On the Wednesday he did twelve loops

in succession. These displays were the forerunners of the looping

exhibitions which Harry arranged to give at Brooklands every Sunday

afternoon during the summer on the 100 h.p. Sopwith Scout.

Harry flew to Hendon on the 100 h.p. machine on Saturday, June 20th,

and on returning to Brooklands in the afternoon he gave another looping

display. On Sunday, too, he was looping again.

While the Hendon-Manchester-Hendon race was in progress on Saturday,

June 20th, Harry had the misfortune to be taken ill in the air. In

this race he was the scratch man, and, being favourite on the 100 h.p.

Gnome-engined Sopwith, it was a great pity he had to give up.

He left the aerodrome at a high speed, about 25 minutes after the

previous starter, Lord Carbery. No news of his progress was received,

but an hour later he was seen approaching Hendon again. He made

a perfect landing, but was in a state of collapse, from which he

failed to recover for several minutes. Actually he had been as far

as Coventry, and had had a fairly rough passage. This affected his

stomach, and, after getting into dense fog and feeling he would be

overcome if he continued, he decided to return. His action in not

having landed at once may be criticised, but the fact that he got back

safely, if almost prostrate, is the best evidence that he knew what

he could do. Moreover, he had not experienced a forced landing with

this fast machine, therefore he could hardly be expected to know its

capabilities in this respect.

Dr. Leakey, who attended Harry on this occasion, expressed the

opinion that he was suffering slightly from concussion due to partial

rarefaction of the air about the pilot’s seat of this fast

machine. This would tend, he said, to cause tympanum of the ear while

the roar of the motor compressed the air.

On Saturday, June 27th, an Aeroplane Handicap was held at Brooklands

over a nine-mile course. Of the twelve machines entered, the slowest

had a flying speed of 35 miles per hour, while the fastest, the latest

Sopwith piloted by Harry, was capable of 111 miles per hour. But he was

too heavily handicapped, and the race went to Mahl, who was flying the

80 h.p. two-seater Sopwith.

The same evening Harry had a very narrow escape. About 7 o’clock

he took up the 100 h.p. (monosoupape) Gnome Scout, and at 1,200 feet

looped-the-loop with the engine shut off. The loop was effected

properly, but when he had got the machine back on what seemed to be an

even keel, it got into a spinning nose-dive. Seen from the paddock,

the machine first dived vertically and then began to spin round and

round about its line of descent, descending comparatively slowly.

After a while—only a few seconds that seemed ages—the tail swung out

and the dive resolved itself into a spiral form. Finally the machine

crashed on its right wing in a coppice. The whole flight was described

as ‘looking like a leaf falling,’ and the fact that Harry

landed on the wing undoubtedly broke the fall and saved his life. As it

was, he was found, standing by the machine, in the thick undergrowth,

none the worse for the shaking.

The following account of the accident was given by Mr. C. G. Grey, in

the _Aeroplane_, July 1st, 1914.

“One of the most extraordinary accidents in the history of

aviation, and a still more extraordinary escape from death, occurred

to Mr. Harry Hawker at Brooklands on Saturday evening last. Mr. Hawker

went up about 7 p.m. on the Sopwith Scout (100 h.p. monosoupape

Gnome), and at about 1,200 feet he made one of his famous loops with

the engine cut off, by diving steeply and then pulling back. He made

the loop perfectly, but over the Byfleet road, and as he came out of

it, he started a vertical dive with a spin in it.

“When I first caught sight of him from the paddock he was doing

a perfect ‘tourbillon’ spin, _à la Chanteloup_—that is to

say, the wings were revolving round the centre-line of the fuselage,

and the machine was standing vertically on its nose. It was coming

down quite slowly for such a fast machine, the pace being nothing

like its ordinary diving speed. Then the tail seemed to swing out

and the vertical path became an irregular spiral to the right, till

finally the machine seemed to be doing a banked turn with the body

nearly horizontal and the left wing up. The dropping speed had by

then decreased noticeably, but it was obvious that the machine was

not under proper control, for it seemed to ‘slash’ or

‘flutter’ round like a falling leaf. At this point it

disappeared behind the trees on St. George’s Hill.

“As quickly as possible a number of people from Brooklands got

to the spot, and after considerable difficulty found the machine on

the ground in a thick coppice, with Mr. Hawker standing alongside

it absolutely unhurt. A few minutes afterwards he went off back to

Brooklands, sitting on the carrier of a motor-bicycle, leaving the

machine in charge of the Sopwith machine crew.

“Apparently the machine had struck partly sideways and partly

nose on into the top of a tall tree, into which it had flown rather

than fallen. It had then fallen vertically, bringing several big

boughs of the tree with it, and had finally sat down right side up,

flat on its chassis, on top of sundry saplings and undergrowth. The

wings had folded up neatly as it fell through the trees, and had come

down like a lid on the cockpit—how Mr. Hawker got out is a mystery.

The chassis had telescoped into the front of the fuselage. The cowl

was dented and bent, but not torn off. Two or three valve tappets

had been wiped off the engine, which was evidently revolving when it

struck the trees. The propeller was broken at the ends, but not at the

boss. The fuselage aft of the tank, with the elevator and rudder, were

absolutely untouched.

“The first thing we did was to test the controls, and then found

the elevator and rudder working perfectly. The warp wires were also

uninjured, so there can be no question of controls going wrong. What,

then, was the cause of the accident?

“For some time previously Mr. Hawker had been proving the

extraordinary stability of this machine. He used to take her up to

1,000 feet or so, switch off his engine, and let the machine glide.

Then he would pull his elevator slowly back to stall her. With

the elevator hard back she would neither tail-slide nor dive nor

side-slip. She would simply descend on an even keel like a parachute,

but moving gently forward and rolling slowly first on to one wing and

then back to the other. Occasionally, in a gust, she would slide to

one side, descending sideways at about 45 degrees, which is hardly

a side-slip. On pushing the lever forward she would pick up her

gliding angle promptly. In fact, she seemed absolutely stable in every

direction. She recovered promptly also from a straight-dive which was

almost vertical.

“Now comes this smash, and it is worth studying, for according

to the rules of the game the machine should have come up when the

elevator was pulled back. During the afternoon Mr. Hawker had been

arguing with an officer of the Naval Air Service about the need for

more vertical surface aft on these small high-speed Scouts. The

officer in question held that, owing to the short tail, if a Scout

started to spin round its own nose it would never come into control

again.

“When Mr. Hawker disappeared behind the trees he undoubtedly had

his elevator lever hard back, and, as he was then banked well over to

the right, his elevators were acting, if they were acting at all, as

rudders, and so were forcing his tail round and increasing the spin.

In this position the rudder should act as an elevator and throw the

nose of the machine down, so causing a straight nose-dive from which

it should be easy to recover. Mr. Hawker tells me that he tried to

do this, but could not get it round against the air pressure, and he

ascribes this to the rudder being of the unbalanced type. He thinks

that with a balanced rudder and no fin he could have done it.

“Also, he admits that if he had pushed the elevator forward as

soon as he found the spin developing, and had made a straight dive,

he could have pulled up straight, but he thought he was too near the

ground to risk doing so.

It must be remembered that the Caudron on which Chanteloup does his

‘tourbillon’ dive has a tail that warps in unison with the

wings and that it has two big balanced rudders, so that it really has

more control than the Scout class, and as it is a much slower machine

it changes its attitude in a much shorter distance even if it takes

the same length of time to do so. Still, it looked to me as if Mr.

Hawker was getting the machine under control just as she disappeared,

and I believe that if he tries the experiment again at 3,000 feet (no

one should try experiments lower than that), instead of about 1,000,

he will have come into control at 1,000 or so.

“Anyhow, he is very lucky to be alive, and only for that

opportune clump of trees he would not have been. Still, to please the

Navy it might be worth while trying one of the Scouts with a bigger

rudder and fin—and a proportionately strong rudder tube, just to

avoid B.E. habits—so as to see how it affects their normal flying.

If it does not slow the machine appreciably, it might be well to adopt

a larger size simply to give extra directional stability and control,

and simplify the flying of the type by less clever pilots.

“Has it struck anybody that there may be a very good reason for

the old Antoinette system of having vertical fins and rudders exactly

equal to the tail fins and elevators? An arrow with its vertical

feathers differing in area from its horizontal feathers would probably

steer curiously, so why not try a symmetrical ‘empennage’

on aeroplanes?—C.G.G.”

On the Sunday, the day after his so remarkable escape, Harry was giving

exhibition flights at Brooklands on the 80 h.p. Scout.

CHAPTER XII

SOME WAR-TIME EXPERIENCES

Testing Production Machines—The Distinguished General and the

Camel—The Boredom of Old-Fashioned Transport—And How it was Remedied

on One Occasion—Testing a Doubtful Machine—Harry Gives Expert

Criticism—And Predicts the Performance of a Four-Engined Aeroplane.

CHAPTER XII

Harry was flying at Brooklands on Saturday, July 4th, 1914, when from

a height of 11,000 feet he could plainly discern the Isle of Wight,

so good was the visibility. A week later his machine arrived from

Australia. He lost no time in assembling the Tabloid, for during the

afternoon and on the morrow he gave looping exhibitions on it. These

Sunday exhibitions became a regular institution, and Harry’s

demonstrations were frequently referred to by the technical Press as

the “finest ever seen.”

On Monday, July 13th, Harry flew to Farnborough and back on the

Tabloid, certain parts of which had been replaced by modifications

since its return from the South. The principal alterations were the

application of a lateral dihedral angle to the lower planes and the

uncovering of the rear part of the fuselage, the latter feature

resembling in some measure the practice adopted by Blériot in his early

monoplane designs. These changes were made to improve the suitability

of the machine for looping-the-loop.

For looping displays at Brooklands during the period July 13th to 31st,

1914, Harry received bonuses amounting to £30.

Public interest in displays of looping-the-loop was at its zenith about

this time, and Harry was kept very busy satisfying the craze, until

war was declared. On August 4th, the fateful day, he delivered his pet

looper to the Royal Aircraft Factory at Farnborough.

By this time the Commonwealth of Australia had a flying-school in good

working order and instruction had begun in earnest. It was generally

conceded that the great enthusiasm which the Australians had for flying

was largely aroused by the demonstrations which Harry gave there and

the pronounced views which he expressed.

So far as the public were concerned, nothing more of Harry’s

flying was seen for several months after war was declared, until early

in March there arrived at Hendon, after journeying by air, a two-seater

tandem Sopwith biplane, a development of the Tweenie and of a size

intermediate to the Scout and the standard two-seater: and the pilot

was Harry.

The privileged few who saw this businesslike-looking machine gleaned

from Harry that it climbed exceedingly well, besides being easy to

handle and comfortable to fly. Those who had not had an opportunity

to watch Harry’s piloting during the previous few months were

particularly gratified to see him coming in from Brooklands at a high

speed and exhibiting that brilliancy which characterised his piloting

in happier days of looping exhibitions and race meetings.

Harry’s flying visits to Hendon were very frequent about this

time, partly because there was a very big training centre of the Royal

Naval Air Service there, in charge of the late Commander J. C. Porte,

R.N. On one occasion it was noticed he was flying for a long period far

beyond the precincts of the aerodrome, and numerous guesses were made

as to the cause, ranging from the belief that he had lost his way to

another that his engine had stopped and he was floating about, unable

to get down! When finally he had landed it was ascertained that he had

merely been completing the Admiralty one-hour test of a new machine.

Some say Harry was the first pilot to loop-the-loop on a seaplane. Be

that as it may, on a certain spring morning in 1915 he was out testing

one of the Tabloids to which floats had been fitted. He described a

couple of loops as perfect as any that could be done on a land machine.

Although most of his experience had been gained on high-powered Sopwith

biplanes, Harry was always equal to the occasion when it came to flying

something of a different order. Thus on a certain Sunday in August,

1915, he made a successful flight on a single-seater Beatty-Wright

biplane at Hendon. He was especially struck by the ease of handling

and sensitiveness of the controls of this machine, which in a sense

was not new to him, for it bore a striking resemblance to the old

Sopwith-Burgess-Wright.

On June 6th, 1915, Harry broke the British Altitude Record for pilot

alone by ascending to 18,393 feet. This height exceeded the previous

record by nearly 4,000 feet.

During April, 1916, Harry had the honour of flying before the King and

Queen at Brooklands, on the occasion of a Royal tour of inspection of

the Sopwith Works.

The welfare of munition workers during the war when the strain was

greatest was of the utmost importance, and no explanation is needed as

to why the Sopwith Aviation Company held an athletic sports meeting in

the summer of 1917. In the afternoon a Sopwith Camel came overhead,

piloted by Harry, who performed what were described as “the

most hair-raising stunts ever seen.” At a very low altitude,

so that all could see in detail, he carried out loops, side-twists,

apple-turnovers, spiral dives, and other evolutions for which names

did not then exist. Once or twice the machine swooped down so low that

people ducked their heads. Those who recall the giant German Gotha

aeroplane exhibited at the Agricultural Hall may remember that it was

by a Camel that that particular machine was brought down.

Of Harry’s work as test pilot to the Sopwith Aviation Company

during the Great War the best record is contained in his personal

log-book, or pilot’s diary, although this is by no means complete

and many entries are obscure, for Harry had no love for clerical work.

To reproduce this diary would occupy many more pages than the whole of

my book, but the more interesting details and a statistical summary for

the period 1914-1916 are not out of place. In the particular book with

which I am dealing the first entry was made on July 13th, 1914, and the

last on October 20th, 1916. Entries were made relating to flights made

on 199 different days during that period. The different machines flown

and tested numbered 295, a remarkable record when it is realised that

with no more than a dozen exceptions all the machines were brand new

and put through their initial tests by Harry.

Places mentioned in his diary as visited by Harry on his testing

expeditions include Brooklands, Farnborough, Southampton, Eastchurch,

Hendon, Blyth, Killingholme, Yarmouth, Dover, Calshot, Montrose,

Dundee, Woolston, Felixstowe, Chingford, Isle of Grain, Lincoln,

Kingston, Dunkirk, Villacoublay, Coventry.

[Illustration:

_Photo by_] [_Newspaper Illustrations, Ltd._

OUR HOUSE AT HOOK, SOON AFTER NEWS OF HARRY’S RESCUE FROM THE

ATLANTIC.

[_Facing p. 174._

]

[Illustration:

_Photo by_] [_Newspaper Illustrations, Ltd._

HOME AGAIN! HARRY AND GRIEVE AT GRANTHAM STATION, AFTER THE ATLANTIC

FLIGHT. MR. SOPWITH IS STANDING IN THE DOORWAY.

[_Facing p. 174._

]

During the war several thousands of Sopwith aeroplanes were supplied

not only to the British Government but also to France and other

countries; and it not infrequently fell to Harry’s lot to pay

flying visits to Villacoublay during the years 1915-1917. On one

occasion, while Harry was there, a certain British General—who shall

be nameless—came on the scene, full of his own importance and talking

loudly of what he knew and of what he did not know. The subject under

discussion was the Sopwith Camel, a machine which Harry loved to

fly and believed to be well-nigh perfect, despite adverse criticism

occasionally directed against it. The General said he had had a good

deal of experience of the Camel, and that he found great difficulty

in getting the machine out of a spin, which, of course, was a serious

matter.

In an undertone to a colleague, Harry said: “I don’t

believe he has ever flown one.” He then ordered a Camel to be

brought out from the sheds and extended to the General an invitation

to make a flight with him. Having carried the “Brass Hat”

about 2,000 feet up, he put the machine into a right-hand spin, from

which he did not attempt to recover until within but a few hundred feet

of the ground. Instead of landing and permitting the General to stand

on _terra firma_, he went up again and repeated the manœuvre, but with

a left-hand spin this time. Harry got out of the machine as if nothing

untoward had happened. He made no comment; but those who witnessed the

incident affirm that the way he looked at the General spoke volumes;

and as for the General, well, he suddenly discovered he had to go

off and inspect other sheds!

The episode seems not to have ended there, however, for within a day

or two the officer in charge of the Villacoublay sheds (the friend to

whom Harry had confided in an undertone) was requested to report to the

controlling authority there, who made serious complaint and requested

him to write a letter of apology, containing assurances “that Mr.

Hawker would not do this sort of thing again.” It appears that

just before Harry had carried out the stunts with the General there had

been an epidemic of crashes through foolish, inexperienced young pilots

stunting too near the ground. Harry was therefore chosen as the victim

for chastisement, an action which caused him and his friends much

amusement.

On one occasion it was necessary for Harry to go over from England to

Villacoublay by boat and train, a journey which to anyone, aviator or

not, was a miserable proceeding during the war. It is said that he

arrived at the aerodrome abusing everything to do with the sea, the

ships on it, the French railways, the railway officials, and everything

connected with rail transport. Finally he explained that he must have

a machine on which to fly back, as it was the only way of getting

about in reasonable comfort. How his want was satisfied provides an

interesting story.

For some time the French had been in a very parlous state in regard to

fighting machines, in consequence of which the Sopwith representatives

at Villacoublay applied to the Air Board to let them have a Camel to

submit for tests. The request was complied with, and instructions were

sent from London to G.H.Q. at Marquise for a Camel to be detached

from store and sent to Villacoublay. A quaint old ruin turned up,

that had about as many flying properties as a tea-tray: the engine, a

subcontracted Clerget, was described as “simply a collection of

ironmongery,” and, taking the machine as a whole, it was just

possible to stagger about in the air if one knew a lot about flying.

Needless to say, the machine was of no use for its intended purpose,

namely, for demonstration purposes before the French Government, and in

consequence it had been rotting in the sheds for months.

When Harry asked for a machine on which to make his return journey,

he was told that this was the only one available, and its history was

recounted in detail. Nothing daunted, he went and had a look at it,

and, after a few minutes’ examination, he expressed the opinion

that as apparently it had some indication of having been an aeroplane,

he thought, with care, it might be flown to London; and anyhow,

anything was better than boats and trains. He took the machine up and

found it unsafe to fly in its existing condition, for the engine very

nearly came out of its fixings.

As it happened, there were one or two experimental Sopwith 1½

Strutter biplanes, the property of the French Government, in the sheds,

and as the authority in charge decided that something very serious

might occur if Harry did not fly back, he ordered the engine from one

of these machines to be installed in the decrepit Camel.

Harry set out for England in the Camel next morning in filthy weather,

but it was not he who had the “hump,” for those at Villacoublay had

intermittent spasms of what they called “heart disease” during the next

twelve hours, as they could get no news of his safe progress or arrival.

Really, they said, they had not the least anxiety, for they had

unbounded confidence in what they described as Harry’s uncanny

capacity for getting out of trouble. Nevertheless, there were

considerable expressions of relief when news turned up that he had

landed safely. During the flight he had three forced landings owing

to failure of petrol feed; and he pulled out sundry odd bits of inner

tube and rubber piping from his tank. How they ever got there was never

discovered, but Harry regarded it as all in a day’s work, and a

subject of amusement rather than annoyance.

Mr. Alan R. Fenn, a colleague of Harry’s and French

representative of the Sopwith Company at that time, to whom I am

indebted for some of these reminiscences, in a recent letter to me

wrote:

“One other little thing that occurs to me is concerned with

the Dolphin. You will remember that we converted the 200 h.p.

Hispano-Dolphin to take the 300, and this work was done in Paris, all

more or less by rule of thumb. I then asked Harry to come over and

look the job over and fly it, if he thought well, and generally to see

if it was all right.

“This was an extremely important matter, not by any means solely

from the point of view of the Sopwith Co., but much more from the

point of view of the French and American Armies in the field, who had

then no fighting machines coming forward for the 300 Hispano at all.

“When Harry arrived and I pointed out to him that he must

not be too particular, explaining to him the very serious position

of matters, he did not hesitate for a moment, but took the machine

straightaway in the air, and as there was some little question as

to its strength, he gave it a thorough good rolling, spinning, and

diving, just to make quite sure it was all right.

“It was so characteristic of the man in showing his complete

absence of fear, even when there might be a doubt in his mind as

to the capabilities of the machine. As a matter of fact, when this

machine was stressed, it was found to be very seriously weak, and

before it was put into production it was, of course, stiffened up.

“There is one other characteristic little incident that occurred

as illustrating his outspokenness when he knew a machine was not right.

“I took him to the sheds of a certain very famous designer and

constructor at Villacoublay to show him the new machine which had

just been offered for test to the Technical Section of the French

Government, and was supposed to be going to do all sorts of wonderful

things.

“It was a weird affair, and its designer and constructor

happened to be in the shed at the time. Harry had a careful look over

the whole machine and made one or two caustic comments to me. I then

introduced him to the designer, who was a fairly tall man, and Harry,

looking at him squarely with his brown eyes, enquired which way up the

machine was intended to fly!

“It was a tense moment, but Harry’s obvious sincerity

completely disarmed the designer, and they went into a discussion of

the pros and cons. Unfortunately I have no capacity for describing

incidents of this sort, but it really was very comic, for it never

occurred to Harry that his remark might cause offence: the design was

wrong, and that’s all there was to it!

“I need hardly say he was correct in his views, as the machine

never did anything except kill a couple of people: which was what

Harry said it would do.

“On another occasion there was a big four-engined Blériot. Harry

was on the field when this machine crashed at its first flight. The

pilot, I believe, was paid one thousand francs for every minute he

remained in the air. Harry was aghast at the whole machine and that it

should ever go into the air. He foretold precisely what happened when

it was flown.

“The tail twisted off, and the machine, after falling like a

stone, caught fire.

“Harry’s visits were very much looked forward to at

Villacoublay, and among the French pilots he was a source of

considerable admiration for the brilliancy of his work and his

profound knowledge of air work generally. Everybody turned out when

they got to know that Hawker was in the air.”

CHAPTER XIII

A MOTORING HONEYMOON

Harry to the Rescue—A Game of Cards—Keeping an

Appointment—Twenty-four Hours too Early!—A Provisional

Engagement—Marriage—Gas-bag Motoring—A Strained Back—Faith in

Christian Science.

CHAPTER XIII

There must have been very few moments in Harry’s life when he did

not thoroughly enjoy himself, and since the time when I first met him

in April, 1915, stranded in a little light car which I used to drive

in those days, his cheery optimism has helped him over disappointments

and dangers which would have overcome a less buoyant nature. Some few

incidents of the intimate side of his character help to show how he

took life.

One Sunday in April, while driving with a school friend through

Richmond Park, we came to a sudden standstill half-way between the

Kingston and Richmond Gates. Before starting that day I had seen that

the boy had placed a spare tin of petrol in the back, and I had put

this petrol into the tank before leaving Kingston. My knowledge of cars

extended very little beyond the amount it took to get this particular

light car along, so any stoppage was the source of much anxiety if it

happened to occur far from the reach of assistance.

I commenced to look for the trouble in the carburetter, but this seemed

to be getting a proper supply of petrol. I dare not look so far afield

as that mystery the magneto, and I began to look upon the person who

could locate the cause of a stoppage almost immediately as a kind of

wizard; there seemed so many things that might happen. While I turned

the starting handle hoping that the car had forgotten its trouble, a

Grégoire came by in which were two men, and it was a sign of awkward

youth that I resolutely refused their proffered assistance, regretting

it as soon as the car was out of sight. Presently I noticed the

“petrol,” dropping from the carburetter when I flooded her,

instead of quickly disappearing into the ground, had accumulated into a

puddle, and then the bright idea at last struck me that the tank had

been filled up with nothing but water. I let all the contents of the

tank out and resignedly settled down to wait for a passing car whose

driver had a tin of petrol to spare. One or two passed, but we were

unable to obtain petrol from them.

Then the Grégoire returned, and this time pulled into the kerb. The

driver, whom we were soon to know as Harry Hawker, got out and said,

“Was it petrol after all?” Rather surprised at this very

lucky guess, we enquired as to how he got his knowledge. “If

a girl breaks down,” he said, “she will invariably take

everything down that is detachable before she looks into the petrol

tank”; and although this was not quite fair in our case, it was

characteristic of his almost uncanny gift of being able to discern

what was wrong with a car almost without seeing it. I explained what

had actually happened while Harry was filling our tank from his spare

tin. We exchanged cards, or, rather, it would have been an exchange

had not Harry, after a lengthy search in many pockets, found he had

left his case at home, and so wrote his name on the back of the other

man’s. He had a nervous, offhand manner all the time, and

although he made one very unconvincing effort at a compliment on my

knowledge of motor-cars, he seemed genuinely relieved when I let in the

clutch and with many thanks drove away.

But this did not prove to be the end of the episode, for the

following Sunday morning brought me a telephone message from the

“Police.” Vaguely wondering how I had broken the law,

although when one drives a car one gets on quite a familiar footing

with the police, I was surprised to hear that it was our rescuer of the

previous Sunday, who, with a sort of boyish enthusiasm, said he had

bought a 27-80 h.p. Austro-Daimler car during the week and suggested I

should come and try it. So we four newly-made friends set out, and this

was the first time I drove a real motor-car. It was characteristic of

Harry’s good-nature that each car he had—and he had many during

his lifetime—he was not only willing to let me, but pleased that I

should want to drive it, and those who have a kind of love for their

cars will know the effort required to let others handle them.

Every Sunday during the summer we continued these drives without the

knowledge of my parents, until these meetings were discovered, as

such meetings usually are sooner or later. After a while I managed,

by telling stories of his great gallantry, to persuade my mother to

ask Harry and his friend Basil, with whom he “digged,” to

dinner. After dinner, my father, mother, and an old friend wished to

get up a hand of whist, and Harry volunteered to make up the fourth,

and sat down as though he enjoyed it. There were some young people

there that night, and we all trooped off into another room to indulge

in more enlivening pastimes. Whether he thought that to play a quiet

game of cards with the older people would make a better impression

than playing such childish games as we others were indulging in, is

a debatable question; but I am not sure he would not have had more

success had he joined us, for, as I afterwards learned, he loathed

cards, had played whist only once in his life before, and, needless to

say, played a very bad game. However, his simple frankness found favour

and we were allowed to continue our Sunday afternoon drives.

Christmas drew near, and mother, on finding that Harry and Basil would

be alone in “diggings” for the festive season, invited

them to come and spend Christmas with us. “Now, don’t be

late,” she admonished them as they said good-bye on the Sunday

before. “We have dinner at four o’clock on Christmas

Day.” They certainly were not late, since they arrived at four

o’clock on Christmas Eve, twenty-four hours before they were

expected! Dad was the only one at home, and I arrived home at six

o’clock to hear his recital of their brief call. I guessed at

once they had made a mistake in the day, but Dad refused to agree with

me. The incident was never mentioned to Harry until after we were

married and about to spend Christmas in my old home. Then I said to

Harry, as we were packing: “We will not make a mistake in the

day this time!” “Good gracious!” exclaimed Harry,

“do you mean to say my wonderful display of tact failed on that

other occasion? As soon as we arrived, and I saw we were not expected,

I guessed we were a day too soon.” He went on to tell me that he

got out of a difficult situation by convincing Dad it was a time-worn

custom in Australia to make a call upon people the day before you went

to stay with them. Then he thought of the tell-tale bags in the back of

the car. He fixed Basil with his eye, and in a meaning voice directed

him to go out and turn off the petrol as the joint leaked—and Basil

took the tip. When Dad went out a little later to speed his two guests,

the bags were hidden beneath a large fur rug. Now, Basil felt the cold

intensely in England, but Harry not at all. So it must have been a

study in expressions when, in answer to a suggestion from Dad that they

should throw the rug over their knees, Harry assured him it was not

necessary as neither of them felt the cold in the least!

In those days of war, when Harry was very busy seven days a week

testing new machines, sometimes at the rate of ten a day, and working

half the nights on designs for new ones, it was brought home to me, on

Harry’s enquiry as to how I filled in my time, how little work

I did to justify my existence. “I bet you I will get some work

within a fortnight,” I told him, and, after arranging the nature

of the bet, he took me on.

Then followed a hunt for the elusive work. I had not the slightest idea

where to begin, as I had no special qualifications. However, I applied

at a Labour Exchange, an experience uncongenial in the extreme. I was

asked to fill in some forms stating my qualifications and experiences.

This did not take me long! I was then asked to fill in some more, and,

after this, was told to go home and await their communication.

In a few days I had a letter asking me to call on the Monday at the

offices of the National Health Insurance Commission, Buckingham Gate.

There were only three days more before the expiration of my bet with

Harry, so I was only too glad to keep this appointment. I could have

laughed aloud when Mr. Alfred Woodgate, afterwards affectionately

known as the ‘Archangel,’ turned to his colleague, Mr.

Bailey, under whom I afterwards worked, and observed: “Let me

see, Bailey, you are wanting someone at once, aren’t you?”

and I was told to consider myself engaged as from the morrow. I

wondered whether I ought to say “Thank you, Mr. Woodgate,”

or “Thank you, sir.” Eventually I just said “Thank

you,” and departed very elevated. Perhaps the greatest joys

and sorrows of my life hung upon the words, “Consider yourself

engaged from to-morrow,” for that same evening Harry and I became

provisionally engaged to be married. I say provisionally, because at

that time, being still in my teens, and taking into consideration the

uncertainties of war, I did not want to be tied completely.

The Sunday rides were continued, generally to Brooklands, where

there was always something for Harry to do. The Austro-Daimler had

been well “hotted up” and was now capable of 80 miles

per hour, and we spent many an exciting time “strafing”

anything willing and able on the road. I often wonder what manner of

curses we drew on our heads from nervous pedestrians who seem to enjoy

ignoring the footpath and walking with their backs to traffic, or

those twenty-mile-an-hour motorists who love the very centre of the

road and hate to move. I remember in particular an elderly gentleman

walking slowly along the road by the side of which was a perfectly

good and empty footpath, who, dropping his hat and stick, remained

firmly planted on both feet and stared at us in open-mouthed amazement

and disapproval as we whizzed by. Certainly for his especial safety

it would have been better had we indulged in our turn of speed on the

footpath. But I am sure Harry was less of a danger on the road driving

at 70 miles an hour than those, who cursed us most, were driving at 20

or sauntering about in the middle of the fairway. These little trips

did not cease, and I well remember the very last Sunday Harry was with

me he said: “Let’s go out alone like we used to do and not

take anyone with us.” We did so, but then we met some friends at

tea-time!

I often wonder if the early days of our engagement would have been

less stormy had I been more nearly Harry’s intellectual equal

or else a different type of girl altogether. But Harry had no time

for the “take-care-of-me” kind of female, and I believe

he thoroughly enjoyed our heated arguments. After we were married we

drifted into an always interesting and exciting existence, and life was

well worth living.

We were married at St. Peter’s Church, Ealing, on November 14th,

1917. Just before the appointed hour, I sent a message round to the

church to see if Harry was there, as he so easily forgot the times of

his engagements. But his brother, who was to attend him, had rounded

him off the aerodrome at Brooklands, where he had completed the testing

of a machine in the morning, and hustled him into the awful clothes and

awful hat customary at wedding ceremonies, which he wore for the first

time. My first sane memory after the ceremony and reception were over

was of a most appalling noise issuing from the room in which Harry was

changing, and eventually some object was kicked into my room, which

turned out to be the poor old hat in tatters!

For months Harry had been saving petrol from all quarters,—the

restrictions on that commodity being very severe then—in order that

we might spend our honeymoon on a motor tour. But motoring with petrol

became quite prohibited, so Harry had a large stand built on the

Grégoire to hold a gas-bag. We tried it a day or two before we were

married and found we could run a matter of about four or five miles

on the whole bag, which did not look very hopeful for a journey down

to Cornwall. Anyway, we started with the gas-bag up and the petrol

tank full and a few extra tins of petrol in the back, since it was our

intention to proceed by petrol except for an occasional mile or two by

gas for appearances’ sake. We filled up at Exeter, and arrived

at Launceston the next day in time for lunch. A dear old waiter, very

interested in us and our fearsome erection, related for our benefit

some incidents he remembered connected with the appearance of the

first motor-car in Launceston. He asked us how far we could go with a

bagful of gas. Harry said: “Oh, eighty or ninety miles.”

The waiter said someone had told him that gas-bags were no good, as

they could only do about ten miles. But Harry informed him we carried

compressed gas in an aluminium case, which assertion completely

satisfied him and left him with the idea that he had just seen the last

word in gas-propelled vehicles! The gas-bag was a nuisance, however,

and we should have done just as well without it, despite the remark

of the “bobby” inspecting petrol licences at Exeter.

When he saw us coming out of the gas company’s premises, he

said with a grin: “Ah! I see you have the laugh of the petrol

restrictions!”

All the horses shied at the wretched thing, and we were hung up half

an hour in a very narrow lane near Penzance owing to a horse which

had shied, fallen, and refused to get up again through fear of our

conveyance.

It was at this period that Harry’s back started to give trouble.

A week or so before we were married he was flying a machine to France

and had to make a false landing into thick snow for some trivial cause.

Not being able to speak any French to explain his presence there, and

being in civilian clothes, he was taken into custody by the French

authorities and placed in the guard-room. He was due to arrive at his

destination—Villacoublay, I think it was—before dark, so the delay

was serious. He managed to get away on a passing English lorry, and

with the assistance of two men he got the machine out of the snow and

arrived at Villacoublay before dark. In moving the machine, he strained

his back, which since his crash in 1913 was always apt to give trouble

under a great strain. It did not get better, and a month later he went

to bed for a time on his doctor’s order. The treatment gave him

no relief, so that after a fortnight he decided to get up and let his

back cure itself, which, for the time being, it did.

He had no trouble of any description until two years later. One day,

when he had been doing some heavy lifting in his workshop, he came in

and complained once more of the pain in his back. It grew worse and

worse, until he could not stoop or bend his back at all. He was then

advised to consult a famous bone-setter, who told him his trouble was

an adhesion of muscles which would have to be broken away, an extremely

painful process, but that when it was completed there would be no

further trouble. Harry said, “Go ahead,” and every week

he received the treatment and every week he seemed to get stiffer and

to suffer more pain. He persevered with the treatment for some weeks,

often in great pain, until I persuaded him to have further advice. He

consulted a back specialist in London, who, after having seen the X-ray

photos of his back, gave the verdict that two courses only remained

open to him. The first was to be flat on his back for two years; the

second, an operation, by which new bone was to be grafted into the

spine, followed by twelve months on his back. He was told that there

was no alternative to these two remedies, as if his back were left in

its present condition it would gradually grow worse until he could not

move at all. Poor Harry! This was the greatest trial of his life.

A few days later he was persuaded to have Christian Science treatment,

and by a strange coincidence Commander Grieve wrote to him on hearing

of his trouble, telling him in his blunt way to “Give Christian

Science a go.” He told of cures that had been effected in the

case of his own relatives, and said he firmly believed that their

lives were saved through Christian Science methods. Harry read out

the letter, saying: “Well, if it’s good enough for old

Mac, it’s good enough for me!” and at once received the

treatment which he had been advised to take, and made a study of the

Science. The result was magical. The pain in his back went away, not

gradually, but immediately, and never to the end of his life—only a

year it is true—did he have any further trouble, although that last

year was filled with greater physical strain—track-racing—than any

other year of his life. He was able to bend his back to do anything,

put on the weight which he had lost during the painful two months, and

was his own cheery self again.

I have written here just the bare truths of Harry’s back trouble

and cure, making no attempt to round it off with suggestions that the

cure may have been the effect of his first adviser’s treatment

(just for the benefit of those sceptics who will smile), since it

was his firm opinion that the Christian Science treatment did for

him immediately and permanently what no one in whom these sceptics

put their faith could do. We all know so little and profess so much,

and yet ninety-nine out of a hundred Christian people will back any

guessing human doctor against their God when bodily adjustments are

necessary, and smile with amusement when the odd one seeks and receives

his Maker’s help.

CHAPTER XIV

BUILDING A 225 H.P. MOTOR-CAR

Harry Buys Two Aero Engines—And a Mercèdes Chassis—Structural and

Starting Problems—Myself as Rivet-Driver—We Start the Engine—And I

Stop It—On the Road—Shows Clean Heels to Big American Car—And Tows

a Rolls—Harry in His Home Workshop.

CHAPTER XIV

As soon as we had settled down at “Ennadale,” Hook, Surrey,

and Harry had fitted up his own workshop adjoining the garage, he

conceived the idea of building himself a real motor-car, and with this

end in view he purchased two 225 h.p. Sunbeam aero engines (one for

spares) and a 35 h.p. Mercèdes chassis.

At the time we had an enclosed Talbot, the gas-bag Grégoire, and a

“sports” Ford, and Harry wanted to complete the “fleet” with a truly

sporting car.

He dismantled the Mercèdes chassis and then began his task of putting

the Sunbeam in the frame, no small undertaking single-handed.

The first trouble was the front cross member of the frame, which

did not allow sufficient room for the long engine, and for days he

debated whether he would cut out the Mercèdes four-speed gear-box and

substitute a smaller box of two gears or shift the member. He decided

to move the member back, and in the end the frame had so many holes in

it that it had the appearance of having been “lightened.”

However, he had all the surplus holes filled and the frame strengthened

to take the extra weight. Then he got the engine in, and the trouble

became the ground clearance, which only amounted to about six inches.

The engine was raised a little, and although the oil-sump and fly-wheel

seem perilously near the ground, no damage has ever been done. The

radiator he obtained off an aeroplane, which he had nickelled, and the

propeller-hole filled in with tubes. Then he started with sheets of

aluminium to make the bonnet. I became so proficient at riveting that

one side was left to me, which I successfully accomplished, though the

length of the bonnet, about 7 feet, made it cumbersome to handle.

Messrs. C.A.V. made a special starter capable of turning it at a good

speed, as it was impossible to start it by hand. I well remember the

first evening we started her up. The batteries were so low that the

starter would only just turn the motor over. The car was not ready for

the road, so we could not tow it, and we were a long time trying all

means to start it. At last, with Harry swinging for all his might,

helped by what little effort the starter could manage, it started up,

but on one side of six cylinders only.

With the deafening roar of an unsilenced aero engine running in the

confined space of a shut garage, and with the exhaust filling the air,

it became very uncomfortable to me, but not so Harry. He seemed quite

content to stand and watch it. Whether he had had secret forebodings as

to whether it would ever start, or, having started, whether it would

blow itself up, I do not know; but he looked so impressed to see the

motor running, although only on one side, that it was quite an effort

to leave it to fetch some tools which he needed from the adjoining

workshop.

It had been running some time, and not too slowly, when, looking round,

I saw the induction-pipe was red hot. I called to Harry to come and

stop the engine, but in the din he did not hear, so, rather than waste

a second, I stopped the engine. After all the trouble we had had to

start it, Harry thought I must be mad, until he saw the induction-pipe

creaking and cracking—all the solder run.

For a minute he thought the motor was spoilt, realising that it had

been running too long on one side alone.

However, off came the induction-pipe, and the next day it was brazed up

and then replaced.

A few days after this saw it out on the road for its first run. It

exceeded all expectations both as to speed, flexibility, and especially

acceleration, and we returned home covered in mud and home-made glory.

Harry had a special aluminium body fitted of his own design, one of the

first aluminium bodies seen on the road, and certainly the first real

attempt at protection for the rear passengers. For some time we had a

good deal of plug trouble. Continually they oiled up through running

slowly. Sometimes a good fast run would clear them, but generally they

had to be changed, and with twelve sparking plugs this became pretty

frequent. The use of special adapters, into which his ever-favourite

K.L.G.‘s were fitted, completely solved the difficulty and

never has the trouble recurred.

This car became Harry’s most valued possession. In appearance, an

ordinary powerful touring car, he loved to try her out against anyone

willing for a “go.”

I remember being passed on the Portsmouth Road at a high speed by a

12-cylinder Packhard, driven by a big American. We were not exactly

“dawdling” along at the time, and the Packhard came for

us, thinking Harry had his foot down. However, following it through

the town of Kingston at the staid pace that town demands, but, happily

for its finances, does not always obtain, we found the broad straight

road of Kingston Hill practically empty of traffic. The American opened

out, and the 12-cylinder Packhard is no indifferent “speed

model.” He sped away, we following closely, until well on to the

hill, when Harry, without need of the rapid change down employed on

lesser cars to get away quickly, put his foot down, and with a dig in

the back due to the acceleration we shot ahead with half the power to

spare.

At the top, the man on the Packhard came alongside and said,

“Say, that’s some roadster you’ve got there. What

power is she?” To which Harry replied with his usual inoffensive

bluntness, “Same as yours. Twelve cylinders, only better

ones.” They struck up quite a friendship, the American vowing at

parting that he must get something like that to take back to America

with him.

Another time, going to town to have it out with some body-works people

who had kept a chassis of his an unconscionable long time fitting

a body, and getting no satisfactory promise of an early date of

completion, Harry told them they could leave it altogether and he would

take the chassis home. He had a friend with him at the time who had

never driven a car in his life, and knew nothing about such troubles.

Well, the car was to be got back somehow, and if this man could not

drive it he “could at least,” says Harry, “sit and

steer it while I tow you gently.”

And thus they left London for Kingston, the novice at his first

steering-wheel being towed by Harry on the Sunbeam. The very natural

qualms on the part of the man were testified by the state of the brakes

when they eventually did get home, showing it was doubtful if they

were ever released in his manful endeavour to follow instructions and

“keep the rope tight.”

All went well, proceeding at little more than double the lawful

speed of five miles per hour for towing vehicles, until they reached

Putney, when a Benz, manned by a good portion of the British Navy,

started to tempt Harry. Undoubtedly the Sunbeam interested them,

and they kept passing and stopping, inviting yet hardly expecting a

“strafe,” considering the Rolls chassis tied on behind.

Still, Harry studied the feelings of his friend behind and plodded on

into the open road between Putney and Kingston. At last, having just

been passed like the wind by the Benz, the temptation got the better

of him, and with a glance behind to notify his intention, he opened

out, and up the hill he roared with his freight behind, passing the

Benz with its highly-amused and excited crew like an express train.

And the man behind only said two words when they arrived home to tea:

“Never again.”

It was never amusing to be towed home by Harry, as I know well from

experience. Once at Brooklands the 6-cylinder A.C., then in its

experimental stage, had broken something while on the track, and Harry

offered its driver, Victor Bruce, a tow home on his own racing A.C.,

then fitted with a two-seater body. Just before starting, a little

delay was caused by someone taking the passenger seat on the 6-cylinder

A.C. for a lift home, which said seat was apparently booked by another

member of a little gang of speed merchants who forgather at Brooklands,

called generally “Moir,” although he has other and very

nice names. The gentleman having been placed gently but firmly on his

feet by Moir, he started to walk up the hill from the paddock towards

the gate.

Harry, having tied the six-cylinder on behind with a bit of thin

string he had found lying about, we started off, accelerating to take

the hill. Halfway up, just passing the seat-usurper, to whom Moir,

standing on the seat that he could be better seen, was bowing with

that courtly manner lost to us centuries ago, the string broke through

the jerk in changing gear, and the bow had a sudden and undignified

ending. However, in a very up-to-date manner, the gentlemen assisted

in replacing him, and the rest of the homeward journey, with the same

string, only much shorter, leaving a couple of feet between the two

cars, was of sufficiently diverting a nature to remedy any discomfort

that might have been felt from the bruises. Harry and I being very late

for something that night, we hurried, making a run home in record time,

which time I should hate to see in print.

And yet he had very few accidents. The only one that might have had

bad results, but which fortunately did not, was when driving his

Austro-Daimler in 1917 with Lieut. Higginbotham, who was the Admiralty

representative in inspecting the Sopwith machines, and two other men.

Entering Brooklands for the flying-ground, they had just left the

paddock, and in negotiating the S bend which the road takes here, at a

good speed, the car turned completely over and landed in the ditch.

The three got out unhurt, but the car had to be lifted off

Harry’s arm where the steering-wheel had caught him. His shoulder

was badly put out, necessitating his arm being in a sling. The next

afternoon, in making some enquiries about some machines, he was advised

not to go near Brooklands for a day or two, or he might be tempted to

fly. He replied: “That’s all right, old man. I put three

of them through this morning, but this wretched sling is a nuisance

flying; I must have it off to-morrow”—which he did, although it

was very painful and took much longer to right itself. Another outcome

of the incident was that Lieut. Higginbotham the next morning lodged

a humorous complaint against the Sopwith Aviation Company for trying

to dispose of the Admiralty representative owing to his strictness in

supervising their productions.

[Illustration:

_Photo by_] [_Newspaper Illustrations, Ltd._

THE SCENE OUTSIDE KING’S CROSS STATION, LONDON, WHEN HARRY

RETURNED FROM THE ATLANTIC. THE AUSTRALIAN SOLDIERS DECIDED THAT HARRY

MUST HAVE SOMETHING MORE TRIUMPHANT THAN A CIVIC RECEPTION.

[_Facing p. 198._

]

Harry spent all his spare time in his workshop attached to the garage,

where he always had some big undertaking on hand. He had the habit

of singing or whistling at his work, unless things went very wrong,

when he would work in silence and it was difficult to extract a word

from him. But it was when he had two or three days’ work to be

finished in one night that he developed that irritability which came so

quickly and went as quickly which was one of his characteristics. But

the occasions were comparatively rare, for generally he was perfectly

happy and good-tempered during the evenings we spent in the workshop.

He always worked with a rapidity which almost bewildered the stranger,

and he had no patience with a slow worker, rather doing the work

himself. In the winter months we decided to give up going down to the

workshop after dinner, and spent these evenings reading. Or, rather,

I read while Harry listened, as he could never read or write himself

for any time, since he performed both in such a slow and laborious

manner it was obviously no enjoyment to him. We always began with any

items of interest from the current motoring and flying papers, and

sometimes a long (and to me generally unintelligible) article from the

_Automobile Engineer_, and then continued the book we had in hand. He

was a schoolboy in his taste for literature, for it was always a tale

of adventure, varied by something gruesome, such as Bram Stoker’s

“Dracula,” which he chose to be read, and we got through

many books in this way.

One evening, soon after the Armistice, Harry came in and said he had

been asked to fly the Atlantic with a machine which Sopwith’s

were prepared to build. He had always been keen on the flight, and I

knew it would come sooner or later. Pamela was two months old at the

time, and I had a great feeling of responsibility on her account. Harry

gave me a perfectly free choice as to whether he should go or not,

and I was torn between my duty to Pam to ask him to stay and my duty to

him to let him go. I tried to imagine how I should feel if another man

were to fly the machine that Harry ought to fly, just because I feared

the consequences. I knew I could never allow that to happen. I said:

“Why should you think I want you to stay? I want to be proud of

you.”

So after that they went steadily forward with their preparations

and were eventually ready to start for St. Johns, Newfoundland, on

March 28th, 1919. Harry and Commander Grieve in a preliminary test at

Brooklands in one day flew a distance of 1,800 miles, equivalent to the

Atlantic flight, and there was no hitch, not even in the sandwiches

which I cut for them!

Jury’s Imperial Pictures produced a film showing Harry’s

trials for the Atlantic flight conducted at Brooklands prior to his

leaving for Newfoundland. The operator who took this film went up in a

second machine when Harry was in the air.

It was pouring with rain the day Harry started, and bitterly cold.

During the preparations my courage had remained high, but when I went

into Harry’s room just before we left, and found him crying, I

lost heart and broke down entirely. He had been putting a few last

things into his bag when his feelings got the better of him. He was

always sensitive and soft-hearted, and I knew he was going to be

terribly homesick until he got over the other side and had plenty to

do. The sight of his grief was too much for me—my courage oozed out

altogether. But tears—even the tears of a grown-up man and woman—are

a wonderful relief to overwrought feelings. We felt much better

afterwards, and were able to look on the bright side of things once

more.

I only went as far as London to see Harry off, for I could not leave

our baby for long at a time. The drive could hardly be described as

cheerful. I sat on the floor of the 12-cylinder Sunbeam, for better

protection from the rain, as we carried no hood. With my head on

Harry’s knee, I longed to sleep away the next two months. He

reached the station only just in time to catch the train, and a number

of friends had gathered to see him off. I recall that at that moment

I wished I had married a farmer’s lad without ambitions. I was

thankful when the whistle blew, as I felt so very unsure of myself and

was afraid of breaking down again. He was gone, and all I could do was

to wait for the future to unfold itself.

I got back home at ten o’clock in the morning, oppressed by a

feeling of great desolation. I could not settle to anything, and even

Pam could not brighten me up.

After the first week of Harry’s absence, time at home went fairly

quickly. I never left home for longer than two hours, and when I did I

bought newspapers of every edition, in the hope of getting news.

CHAPTER XV

READY FOR THE ATLANTIC FLIGHT

Conditions Governing the Flight—Arrival in Newfoundland—Mount

Pearl Farm—Snowed Up—The Test Flight—Local Interest

Intense—Wireless Difficulties—Details of the _Atlantic_—An

Aerial Lifeboat—Clothing of the Trans-Atlantic Airmen—Estimates

and Anticipations—Over a Ton of Fuel—A Letter for the King—An

Inspection by the Governor—Storms—Prospects of a Race—Revising

Plans—Grieve—Navigation Problems and Methods—Weather Forecasts—A

new Starting-ground—Nervous Tension—The Aviators are Amused

by Their Correspondence—A Would-be Aerial Bandsman—False

Weather Reports—Services of the Air Ministry—Weather-bound at

St. Johns—Harry’s Confidence—Four Magnetos and a New

Propeller—Address from the Mayor of St. Johns.

CHAPTER XV

The regulations governing the competition required that the flight be

made from any point in the British Isles to the United States, Canada,

or Newfoundland, or in the reverse direction, within seventy-two

consecutive hours. The competition was open to all persons of any

nationality not of enemy origin, and no aeroplane of enemy origin or

manufacture could be used. The starting-place had to be named by each

competitor and also as nearly as possible the proposed landing-place.

All starts had to be made under the supervision of officials appointed

by the Royal Aero Club, and only one machine could be used in each

attempt, which could, however, be repaired _en route_. The machines had

to be marked so that they could be identified on landing on the other

side. Intermediate stoppages were permissible, as also was towing on

the water, and if a pilot left his machine to go on board ship he must

resume his flight from approximately the same point as that at which

he went on board. (The latter condition seems at variance with the one

permitting towing.) It was permissible to alight on the water for the

purpose of making minor repairs, and an aeroplane could lie alongside a

ship for the period for making the repairs.

Harry and Grieve arrived at St. Johns, Newfoundland, on Sunday, March

28th, 1919, and immediately about to prepare for a start on April

16th, when they would have the advantage of a full moon, if conditions

otherwise were favourable. It was their intention to start about

10 p.m. English time, and they expected to reach Fermoy, co. Cork,

Ireland, between 4 and 5 o’clock on the following afternoon.

They arrived before their rivals, Raynham and Morgan, the Martinsyde

personnel. Considerable difficulty was experienced in getting the

Sopwith machine, in its gigantic packing-case, from the city to the

temporary aerodrome, although the distance to be traversed was only

a few miles. The roads between St. Johns and the aerodrome were in a

shocking condition, and the immediate approaches to the aerodrome at

the best could only be described as sodden.

The shed in which the machine was housed was of timber, 55 feet across

the front, 50 feet deep and 30 feet high. The front was made up of door

sections sliding between grooved panels to either side, where they

were removed and laid on the ground when the machine was brought out.

The replacement of these doors presented no little difficulty when the

wind was high. The shed overlooked a slight downward incline, with

an eastern aspect, facing St. Johns Harbour and the Atlantic Ocean,

neither of which, however, was visible from the aerodrome. The name

of the place was Mount Pearl Farm, four miles west of St. Johns, and

was the largest area of cleared ground in the vicinity. It was rough,

uncleared ground that made it difficult to get the machine from St.

Johns to the aerodrome.

For a distance of about 100 feet heavy stone was spread in front of the

shed to facilitate handling of the machine. When only quarter filled

with petrol about 20 men were required to wheel the machine on the

aerodrome.

On April 7th, there was a very heavy fall of snow followed by a

twelve-hours’ rainfall, which effectively combined to turn the

Mount Pearl Aerodrome into a mud-bath, thereby preventing any test

flights being made for several days. Thus delayed, Harry and the

Sopwith personnel were able to take it more or less easy in erecting

the machine. The work was soon completed. The Ford car which they

had at their disposal became stuck in the snowdrifts more than once.

Attempts to drain the aerodrome by the digging of trenches were made.

In expediting the installation of the wireless on the machine, the

staff of the Admiralty wireless station rendered considerable services,

for which Harry was very grateful.

Harry made the first flight with Grieve on Thursday afternoon,

April 10th. Leaving the ground at 4.40, he ascended to 3,500 feet,

flying above St. Johns and Concepcion Bay, where he carried out some

high-speed tests, during which well over 100 miles per hour was

attained. He landed at 5.30. But for the fact that the mud due to the

recent heavy fall of rain had been hardened by frost, this flight

would not have been possible; and, as it was, the wheels sank into the

mud considerably when the machine landed, in spite of the fact that

Harry had lightened the load as much as possible by carrying a minimum

quantity of fuel.

So far as concerned the engine, the test flight was entirely

satisfactory, and the only trouble with the aeroplane was a slight

bending of the rudder, which occurred as the machine was leaving

the ground. Considering the state of the latter, it is a matter for

surprise that more damage was not done. The wireless transmitter was

put out of action owing to the fan, by means of which the generator

was driven, being of unsuitable dimensions and turning too fast. As

regards the actual flight, all was nearly lost; for when the machine

was leaving the aerodrome an unusually strong “bump” nearly

drove it into a cluster of trees. Crowds of people in the streets of

St. Johns congregated to watch the trial flight, which, incidentally,

was the first ever seen by the majority. The interest was so great that

even the Senate, or Parliament, was prorogued in order that members

might see what was going on.

As his rivals with the Martinsyde were due to arrive, Harry was anxious

to get away as soon as possible. So well did everything go that at one

time he hoped to get away on April 12th (Saturday), but the weather

would not agree when the time came.

As already mentioned, the generator of the wireless transmitter was

burned out, and so Harry, being unable to replace it locally, cabled

home for another. In the interim, Grieve, who was inclined to favour a

smaller type of apparatus having a shorter radius of action, procured

a “Boy Scout” set for use in case the new generator

ordered from home did not arrive in time. The absence of wireless

“sending” apparatus would certainly minimise their chances

of safety in the event of a mishap because they would be unable to

summon ships to their aid by this means. Harry and Grieve, however,

were at first inclined to believe that, travelling at a speed of 100

miles per hour, wireless would be of little use in making effective

communication with passing vessels.

Nevertheless, one effect of the long delay in making a start was to

cause them to modify their views as to the utility of carrying a

wireless transmitter, for on April 20th Harry installed a small sending

apparatus. This, however, proved unsatisfactory, and about the end of

the month he cabled to England for a more powerful set to be sent out

by the steamer _Digby_ on April 28th. It is interesting to note that

experiments with a directional wireless apparatus were carried out

during the trials at Brooklands, but they decided to do without it on

account of its great weight and because wireless was not a necessary

accessory for Grieve’s method of navigation.