The Sopwith machine, which was christened the _Atlantic_, was a

single-engined biplane propelled by a 350 h.p. Rolls-Royce engine

installed in the nose and driving a four-bladed tractor air-screw.

The engine alone weighed 850 lb., and the rest of the machine (i.e.,

without fuel, oil, water, and pilot and navigator) turned the scale at

about 2,000 lb., the total flying load at the start being estimated at

6,150 lb. A maximum speed of 118 miles per hour could be attained and a

cruising speed in the region of 105 miles per hour at 10,000 feet.

The “fairing,” or streamlining superstructure of the body

or fuselage, was designed in the form of an inverted boat, partly

collapsible, which could possibly be useful in case of emergency if

the aeroplane kept afloat long enough for Harry and Grieve to launch

it. The boat was made of three-ply wood. During their long wait for

the weather they passed away much time by testing this boat in the

inland pools in which broken ice was floating, and found it possible

to launch it in less than a minute. The pair of them could walk along

with the boat, drop it into the pool, and, subject to their exercising

considerable caution, get in; but to steer a course in it was very

difficult owing to its unorthodox shape. The boat contained emergency

rations, paddles, and flares, the latter, of course, being for the

purpose of attracting shipping. Parachute lights for night signalling

and smoke flares for day signalling were carried in the fore part. At

the stern was carried an air-bag, which could be inflated not only

to serve as an additional means of flotation, but also as a support

for the collapsible upper part of the boat, which was made of canvas.

A sea anchor was provided. The emergency rations in the boat were

supplemented by a gallon of water in a hermetically sealed cask. In the

aeroplane the commissariat included sandwiches, cheese, beef extract,

toffee, and black coffee in Thermos bottles.

Neither Harry nor Grieve had much confidence in the lifeboat, in spite

of their skill in launching it. For one thing, they had no experience

in launching it with the aeroplane either afloat or in a sinking

condition. When ultimately they had occasion to launch their boat in

mid-Atlantic, Harry and Grieve found that, with the machine right

way up, the process presented no difficulty. To simply lift a catch

and heave clear was easily done. In the cold inland pools in which

they practised with their boat Harry and Grieve also tried out their

patent unsinkable clothes, which, contrary to many reports, were not

electrically heated.

The clothes which Harry and Grieve wore comprised heavy woollen

under-garments, and two jerseys over their ordinary suits. Outside all

this was a floating rubber suit with air-bags back and front, ready

for inflation if needed. These safety suits were of the American Navy

pattern.

In attempting the flight, Harry was of opinion that he was undertaking

nothing of an exceptionally hazardous nature. Several flights of over

20 hours’ duration had been made by other pilots previously, and,

having confidence in his machine from his knowledge of it, he felt as

safe over sea as over land. He would prefer to fall into the water than

on to the land, and the boat and special clothing were a good insurance

against the drowning risk. The only doubtful factor was the estimation

of the probable weather conditions in mid-Atlantic. Murky weather would

prevent the use of the sextant, and might therefore impede navigation.

Harry believed that at a height of 8,000 feet the conditions over the

Atlantic would be similar to those over a like area of North America,

which being so, he would be able to reach London in 24 hours.

It was estimated that the 350 gallons of petrol which they carried

would be enough to keep them in the air for 22 hours. They proposed to

fly at 10,000 feet and, if possible, maintain a speed of 100 miles per

hour. As the range of their wireless receiver was 300 miles they would

be in touch with the wireless station at St. Johns for three hours

after the start. Nevertheless, when it came to the actual test it was

very difficult to make out any message owing to the noise emanating

from the propeller, and the batteries ran down too.

Naturally, with over a ton of fuel on board to carry them across,

the machine would get lighter and lighter as they progressed, a fact

which would be in their favour as regards “landing.” Had

the engine failed near the start at, say, 10,000 feet the machine

would have glided down in about twelve minutes at an angle of 1 in 6,

and Harry, choosing a spot at once, could have “landed”

anywhere within a radius of about twelve miles. As the machine

proceeded further on its course and became lighter and lighter due

to the consumption of petrol and oil, the radius within which it

could “land” would become correspondingly greater owing

to the increasingly fine gliding angle. This fact was one to give

the two pioneers added confidence, seeing that ships which under the

circumstances prevailing near the start would have been beyond range,

if encountered later on in the flight might have been within the

gliding range.

When Raynham was asked why he had not any safety device such as boats

and tank-exhausters, his reply was that he “proposed to fly the

Atlantic, not to fall into it.”

Sir Charles Harris, Governor of Newfoundland, handed Harry a letter

for delivery to His Majesty the King, and, with members of the Cabinet

and several naval and military officers, inspected the machine on

Saturday, April 12th.

Among many visitors was Harry’s old friend Raynham, and Harry

returned the call on the following day. The two who, six and a half

years before, had struggled for the British Duration Record were now

matched for Atlantic honours.

After the inspection the tanks were filled, and on the main planes

seals were attached by the representative of the Royal Aero Club, Major

Partridge, who gave Harry an envelope addressed to the secretary of the

club, in which the number of the engine and a list of identification

marks were enclosed for Harry to deliver on landing. Truly for Harry

and Grieve it was now only a matter of sitting still and awaiting the

pleasure of the elements. Before the tanks were filled the petrol and

oil were strained six times.

A storm in mid-ocean was reported early in the day (April 12th), with

westerly winds right across the Atlantic, which caused Harry to decide

to start at 5 o’clock in the afternoon, but when 5 o’clock

came preparations were not complete, so a further postponement until 6

o’clock was made. But the weather conditions went from uncertain

to bad, and thence to worse, with a westerly gale blowing at St.

Johns, and so the flight had to be declared “off” for that

day. But at the first opportunity a start would be made, and this was

provisionally fixed for mid-day on the morrow, Sunday.

In the meantime Harry had plenty to do on the ground, with such duties

as supervising the turning of the machine on the ground while Grieve

was adjusting the compass. In England betting books were being made,

and Harry’s chances of making the flight before May 31st were

estimated at 5 to 1 against about the middle of the month, and he was

first favourite, Raynham being second at 7 to 1.

The mail, consisting of about a hundred letters, included, in addition

to the letter for His Majesty, others for the Prime Minister, Cabinet

Ministers, and other celebrities. “First Trans-Atlantic Aero

Flight” stamps were printed by Newfoundland, but there was no

demand for them at £100 each.

On the following day, Sunday, at the appointed hour, Harry was ready to

start, but a strong south-east wind, heavy rain, and thick fog would

not permit. Moreover, it had been raining throughout the night. At 1

o’clock the proposal to start was definitely abandoned. Harry

and Grieve were now very concerned as to their prospects, seeing that

rival machines were now getting ready and would probably be able to

start as soon as they did, whenever the weather became propitious. The

hangar was besieged by crowds of reporters, photographers, and cinema

operators.

Early on Monday, April 14th, Harry cabled to Sopwith the words

“Bad weather,” which intimated that the flight was not

likely to start on that day. As a matter of fact, after the week-end

a spell of continued bad weather set in, and on Tuesday Raynham was

practically ready to make his trial trip.

Harry was by several days the first to arrive and be in readiness at

Newfoundland, and small wonder that when he was robbed by the weather

of such valuable advantage there should be very keen competition

between him and Raynham. For several days they did not come in contact

very much, but when both had had time to realise that they might be

held up for weeks and months, the rival crews continued on terms of

most intimate friendship.

Thus one effect of the delays of Harry’s departure was to

increase the possibility of a race across the ocean by him and Raynham,

who was ready to start without a preliminary trial if necessary in

order to gain an advantage. Both crews were burning with eagerness to

be first away, but they fought the contest in a thoroughly sporting

spirit. They stayed at the same hotel in St. Johns and were on terms

of close personal friendship. When at one time it was thought that

Raynham’s aerodrome might be too small for his machine to get

off safely, Harry, with characteristic grace, offered the use of the

Sopwith field. They agreed that the first away should carry the mails.

The unavoidable delays in starting also served at least one useful

purpose in that they provided an opportunity for Harry to review and,

where necessary, amend his plans. His final decision was to head due

east until striking the northern steamship route, to which he would

keep, because, owing to alterations in the wireless equipment, he would

probably only be able to receive messages and not transmit them. On

sighting a ship he would fire a red Vérey light as a signal for the

ship to notify her position. These arrangements were communicated by

wireless from Cape Race to ships already on the high seas.

It was Harry’s intention to fly fairly low, gradually gaining

height, until reaching the Grand Banks, frequently fog-bound from

sea-level up to 2,000 feet. Beyond there he expected finer weather, and

would ascend to 8,000 feet, which he would maintain for the greater

part of the flight, until nearer home, where he would climb to about

12,000 feet. At 8,000 feet he anticipated freedom from the impediment

of fog usually very prevalent in that season, and as Grieve used

clouds, not the horizon, for navigation, it was necessary to be above

them. But if they were uncertain of their position at dawn Harry would

decide to come down low near some passing ship or other in order to

get a check on his reckoning. Arrangements were made whereby as soon

as the flight was begun the Admiralty wireless at St. Johns would

advise all the coast stations and ships in the Atlantic zone; and it

was anticipated that general interest in the flight would keep every

wireless operator on the Atlantic keenly alive to the importance of

getting news of the machine.

As for Grieve, his chief concern was as to the weather conditions over

the ice area from St. Johns to the Grand Banks. He conceived four

weather zones between Newfoundland and Ireland, the first of which

was that just mentioned, where conditions were complicated by the

existence of heavy Arctic ice-floes drifting south on the Labrador

current into the Gulf Stream, the fog being caused by this confluence

of currents having a temperature difference of 20 degrees. From Grand

Banks to mid-ocean was an area regarding which atmospheric conditions

above sea-level were very little known, but where frequent storms were

reported by shipping in the early spring. Farther east was an area

less notorious for violent weather changes, and beyond this the region

round the Irish coast, where, on account of the complete meteorological

records of the United Kingdom, the condition could be forecasted with

approximate accuracy.

Although Grieve had a good understanding of weather, forecasts were

useless unless the type of weather prevailing was known. This essential

information, obtainable only from vessels carrying wireless, was

very difficult to get, and when it arrived was generally days late.

A weather chart of the Atlantic was plotted out daily by the local

meteorological officer, Mr. Clements, to the best of his ability, but

he was handicapped by the absence of necessary reports and had to

assume a good deal. Regarding the weather during the Atlantic attempt,

Grieve wrote:

“The day we flew the weather was apparently of the westerly

type with a depression in mid-Atlantic a little to the southward of

our course. This depression should have proceeded to the E.N.E., over

towards Ireland, but apparently it spread to the northward, and we

landed in the middle of it.”

The first half of the journey, therefore, seemed to involve the greater

element of risk, and it was a debatable point whether the great total

flying load during this stage would be an advantage or otherwise.

With a ton of petrol on board, the machine would be less likely to be

severely tossed about than without it, and if it did not yield to the

wind gusts it would have to be strong enough to resist the buffeting of

the wind, which it was quite capable of doing. On the other hand, it

would not have such pronounced climbing powers as it would in the later

stages, when a great proportion of fuel would have been consumed.

Grieve[2] was of opinion that, if they safely traversed mid-ocean,

information from west-bound ships in the vicinity would be of great

guidance during the remaining half of the voyage. He also believed that

the machine, the qualities of which they had tested thoroughly for

nine hours, could easily maintain full speed for eighteen hours, which

should enable them to reach Ireland; and they hoped to be able to make

their landing at Brooklands, another five hundred miles from there.

[2] Commander Kenneth MacKenzie-Grieve is the youngest son of Captain

MacKenzie-Grieve, R.N., and a younger brother of Captain Alan

MacKenzie-Grieve, R.N. He entered the Navy at the age of fourteen and

a half and spent many years on foreign stations, Australia, China, and

the Mediterranean. During the Great War he served in an armed trawler

on the East Coast, and was later acting Commander of H.M.S. _Campania_,

a seaplane ship, for navigating duties. In 1913 he received the vellum

of the Royal Humane Society for saving life.

In order to locate their position and lay a course which would take

them to the Irish coast, just north of Valentia, Commander Grieve

intended to take observations every half hour. It was Harry’s

intention to fly on to Brooklands without landing in Ireland if

daylight would allow. He also intended to release the undercarriage

soon after the start in order to conserve his petrol as much as

possible. In view of the fact that the machine would have to be landed

without an undercarriage it was highly important that this act should

be accomplished in daylight. A squadron of R.A.F. aeroplanes was in

readiness at Fermoy co. Cork to proceed to the coast to escort Harry

over the last few miles of his journey. Four magnetos were installed on

the _Atlantic_ on April 14th, in place of the two ordinarily carried,

the risk of engine failure due to ignition troubles being thereby

halved.

Heavy rain fell during the night of April 14th and the morning of the

15th, but by 11 a.m. the weather had somewhat improved. In view of the

keen competition of the Martinsyde, which was by then ready for trial,

Harry hoped to make a start from a less sodden stretch of ground which

he had discovered at Mount Pearl. Raynham’s main object was to

make a start at the same time as the Sopwith. Later in the day a fall

of snow prevented any flying for either the Sopwith or the Martinsyde.

The new starting-ground which Harry had found was a gravel hillside to

which he could draw his machine by means of horses. He expected to be

able to take off down the slope. Harry and Raynham had now become so

equally prepared to start that they agreed to spin a coin as to who

should carry the mail bag.

On Wednesday, the 16th, snow fell heavily all over Newfoundland, making

flying altogether impossible. Nevertheless, the rival camps kept a wary

eye on each other, Harry being particularly on the alert to prevent

Raynham stealing a march on him by an unexpected start, but really

there was nothing for both parties to do other than watch and wait for

the passing of the bad weather. The Martinsyde crew claimed that they

could afford to give Hawker three hours’ start, and catch him up

after that.

Later in the day report showed that it was very problematical as to

whether anybody would make a start during the week, and the weather

charts indicated unfavourable conditions for several days to come.

Raynham had made a trial flight on the previous day and was entirely

satisfied. The moon was on the wane, and as this was a most important

factor in influencing a decision to start by either party, hopes of an

early start were at most slight.

On the afternoon of Thursday, April 17th, Raynham and Morgan, his

navigator, made another trial on the Martinsyde. Raynham cabled to

London two bets of £50 each at prevailing odds on Harry and himself.

On the morning of Friday, April 18th, the weather prospects were so

good that both Harry and Raynham decided to start at noon, but before

then a storm came on, accompanied by weather reports which indicated

no prospects of an early start being at all possible. It was on this

day that Major Wood and Captain Wyllie left England for Ireland, in

the Short biplane on which they were to attempt the flight from east to

west. But their effort was terminated in its preliminary stage by an

enforced descent in the Irish Sea.

Hawker, Grieve, Raynham, and Morgan supported the nervous tension of

the immensely trying period of waiting with remarkable fortitude. It

was a great strain, living in a highly keyed-up condition day after

day; yet beyond a certain restlessness there was nothing unusual in

their outward demeanour. It was easy to see that they were watching

each other to guard against a surprise start. They were on the best of

terms. When practically no work remained to be done on the machines

they found time hanging very heavily, and how to pass the hours was a

matter of difficulty.

The long delay in starting was due to lack of knowledge of weather

conditions in the Atlantic rather than to the weather itself. Many

crossings will have to be made before the requisite knowledge is

gained, and as this knowledge is gained so will the evolution of

commercial trans-Atlantic aircraft be influenced. It was only

elementary wisdom for all concerned to wait for tolerable weather.

Hopes of a start being made were high on Sunday, April 20th, when the

Air Ministry stated that conditions were then exceptionally favourable,

except at Newfoundland, where it was still foggy, and between 18

degrees and 25 degrees west, where the clouds were low and extensive

and the sea rough. At St. Johns at 8 a.m. there was a light west

wind and a clear sky, and the day was very promising. If mid-ocean

conditions were in their favour Harry decided that he would start early

in the afternoon.

Subsequent reports, however, indicated the presence of storms

in mid-ocean, and all hope of an attempt being made that day

was abandoned. So Harry busied himself by installing a small

wireless-sending equipment, which was later on discarded as it proved

unsatisfactory. Raynham, too, would have nothing to do with appliances

tending to lessen his will-power and induce him to summon help in an

emergency which might otherwise be overcome.

Pending a change in the weather, Harry tended his machine as one would

a thoroughbred racehorse. Every morning he visited the hangar, started

up the engine, and tested the controls to ensure that everything was in

order for a “snap” jump-off in the event of the opportunity

arising; while Grieve busied himself “listening-in” for

wireless reports. Sandwiches were changed every morning and Thermos

flasks replenished, to the delight of young urchins, who enjoyed an _al

fresco_ meal. During the whole of the waiting period Harry continued to

be optimistic and was never really downcast by the weather prophets.

On Monday, April 21st, a strong head wind, accompanied by indications

of a complete break-up of the weather, prevented any start being made

and almost induced Harry to give up all hope of making a start during

the month. Nevertheless, the same evening the Air Ministry announced

ideal weather conditions as being prevalent. Betting odds on the

chances of a successful flight before May 31st were now 7 to 2 in the

cases of both Harry and Raynham.

The local weather conditions at St. Johns on April 22nd were decidedly

unfavourable for flying. A severe sleet storm was raging off the

coast, which would have impeded the progress of any machine, and the

city and suburbs were overshadowed by a dense fog. Conditions reported

from mid-ocean were equally discouraging, and the general effect of

the reports led Harry to suppose that there would be no substantial

improvement for a day or two. Both Harry and Grieve and Raynham and

Morgan were showing increasing signs of the strain arising from the

delays and the uncertainty regarding the start. They all agreed that

they had come to the starting-point much too soon, but each party

pleaded that the other was trying to steal a march and get away first.

While trying to pass away the time, Harry derived some entertainment

from a large number of letters which arrived daily, both from England

and all parts of the American continent. These letters contained good

wishes of all kinds, besides offers of assistance from inventors and

weather prophets, poetry, and the usual requests for autographs in

handwriting which was obviously “flapper.” The gem of

the collection was from an old Irish soldier in Manitoba, who asked

if the airmen would have any use for the services of a cornet-player

during the journey across. He said he served fourteen years in the

Army as a bugler and had the honour of sounding all calls during the

military ceremonies in connection with Queen Victoria’s last

visit to Dublin. His suggestion was that, apart from entertaining them

during the flight, he could make himself useful in sounding calls or

playing tunes as the aeroplane approached towns in Ireland or England.

He thought “Garryowen” would be suitable to herald the

arrival over Ireland, and suggested “We’re Bound for London

Town” as an appropriate melody after crossing the Irish Channel.

He wound up by saying he would give his services gratis.

From New York came a poem in a feminine hand, entitled “The

Vikings of the Air.” Both Hawker and Grieve, as well as Raynham

and Morgan, received copies of this effusion, which they considered

displayed considerable powers of versification in its authoress, but

was tactless in one part:

“Like Norsemen bold who launched their sturdy craft

On seas that stretched beyond their farthest ken,

And drank deep draughts of ocean’s briny air

With keen delight, and sailed they knew not where.”

The last line was considered by Grieve as casting serious aspersions on

his skill as a navigator.

From an Englishwoman in New York Harry received a letter which was

voted “first rate” by all members of the Sopwith party.

After wishing him the best of luck on his “daring venture,”

the writer continued:

“I have followed the papers feverishly each day for news of

your latest movements. And now the honour of the old Mother-Country

rests on your success. You have just got to be the first across the

Atlantic. May God speed you on your perilous but still wonderful

flight.”

In a different strain was a letter received by Grieve from two young

women in the cable office of the British War Mission in New York. It

ran:

“Sir, do buck up, and start—we cannot stand the suspense much

longer. Best of luck from two Cablettes.”

Grieve’s only comment was to the effect that their suspense was

nothing in comparison with his own.

Excitement was keen on Tuesday, April 22nd, when Raynham announced his

intention to make another “trial” flight. Although the

fog prevented Raynham from carrying out this project, Harry had his

machine out, suspecting an attempt to outwit him, for on the previous

Sunday Raynham had declared that his next flight would be THE FLIGHT,

and Harry knew Raynham’s tanks were full. This episode resulted

in both parties coming to an agreement not to make a “hurried

unconsidered departure,” and not to start unless the weather

conditions were fairly settled. The local betting was by now 5 to 1

against Harry and 8 to 1 against Raynham. The weather conditions at St.

Johns, around the Newfoundland coast, and across the Atlantic continued

to be most unpropitious for flying, and there was little prospect

of an early change. Weather experts, who expressed doubts as to the

possibility of the flight being accomplished before May, said that the

only day during the previous two months on which flying was possible

was Friday, April 12th, when the Sopwith machine was scarcely ready and

the Martinsyde only arrived. Harry was now greatly concerned over the

prolonged delay and did not expect to be able to start before April

25th, or 26th.

Consternation was caused in the airmen’s camp on Wednesday,

April 23rd, by what appeared to be a genuine message from the Air

Ministry asking the reasons for Harry’s and Raynham’s

failure to start. The message, which was addressed to Mr. Clements,

the meteorological expert of the Royal Air Force at St. Johns,

declared that all the weather reports reaching England indicated

favourable conditions for a start. Harry replied that wireless reports

from vessels at sea announced conflicting winds, making the start

inadvisable.

The weather had not improved on Thursday, April 24th, when rain fell

all day. It was discovered that impostors had been busy sending

messages purporting to come from the meteorological bureaux of Canada

and the United States. One such message, which advised the airmen to

leave at once, said that the weather was suitable, notwithstanding the

fact that it was the worst possible.

The Air Ministry, in emphatically denying having sent any cable asking

why Harry or Raynham did not start, indicated that their function was

merely to prepare forecasts and not to say when a machine should or

should not start, this decision being within the province of the pilot

and navigator concerned.

Considerable mystery surrounded the circulation of the false weather

reports which held back both Harry and Raynham, who were waiting for

favourable weather at St. Johns, with their petrol tanks filled and all

stores on board their machines.

It appears that these reports were entirely in disagreement with

those supplied by the Meteorological Department of the Air Ministry.

During one spell of 24 hours the conditions were ideal and almost

unprecedented for the time of year, the anti-cyclone area extending

all over the route; and had the airmen started through the coastal

fog they would have soon flown into bright skies and light winds. As

it was, misguided by false reports from unknown sources, Harry and

Raynham, greatly to the surprise of the Air Ministry, decided not to

start. After this happening the Air Ministry arranged to transmit their

reports by secret code and so prevent interference.

Naturally, before the matter was cleared up, Harry bitterly resented

the attitude of the Air Ministry which resulted in his receiving

communications containing implied criticisms of his failing to fly when

weather conditions were favourable; for during three successive days no

mid-ocean reports of any kind turned up. He could not be expected to

risk a start without such information, seeing that it had to be made in

the “foggiest place in the world.” Having once ascended, he

would not be able, in case of emergency, to regain the aerodrome, owing

to the fog, and off the coast he might have had to face sleet which, if

it accumulated on the wings, would soon have driven him into the sea.

April saw no change for the better, and Harry and Raynham continued

weather-bound throughout the last week. On Saturday, the 26th, the

fog was reported as spreading many miles out to sea. Raynham having

received many mascots, including a wooden parrot, “Emma,” which was

built into the cockpit of his machine, Harry was interrogated as to

what special charms he intended to carry. “I only believe in one

mascot,” he said, “and that is Grieve.” Grieve, on the other hand, was

carrying mascots such as white heather and a lady’s handkerchief.

With the pilots straining at the leash to get away, the navigators

made good use of every opportunity to improve their wireless skill. A

Marconi representative gave them daily tests in receiving, wireless

communication being maintained between the two aerodromes, eight miles

apart. “D.K.A.” was the wireless “call sign” of

Harry’s machine.

Chatting with the special correspondent of the _Times_, after running

his engine, Harry said: “It’s simply splendid; to hear it

makes me long to be up and off.” He said that he had arranged to

throw overboard his charts and maps with a message asking the finder to

forward them to the Royal Aero Club, London, as soon as he had crossed

the Irish coast. On the back of the charts would be written the time

of crossing the shore and other details for identification purposes.

The Ardath Tobacco Company, Ltd., announced the offer of an additional

prize of 2,000 guineas to be given to the winner of the _Daily Mail_

£10,000 prize for the first Atlantic flight.

During the week-end the weather conditions improved a little, but not

to a degree that would warrant the making of a start. That Harry did

not hope to start for at least ten days was apparent from his having

cabled to England, ordering a new wireless outfit to be sent by the

steamer _Digby_, which left Liverpool on April 28th.

Describing his preparations in order to avert ignition trouble, Harry

said he had four magnetos, set in a series independently of each other,

each giving a spark to the twelve cylinders, so that in the event of

one or two failing he would still have a reserve. Discountenancing any

idea of effecting repairs in the air, Harry said, “Once we leave

the ground, we must fly or fall.”

There was great activity on Monday evening, April 28th, when hopes

of a start were high. Harry replaced his four-bladed propeller by a

two-bladed one. For over three hours Raynham and Morgan stood by their

Martinsyde, waiting to seize a favourable opportunity to get away. At 6

o’clock they decided to abandon the attempt. Just as Raynham had

given orders for his machine to be housed for the night, Harry drove up

from his aerodrome. Some good-natured chaff was exchanged.

The Mayor of St. Johns, on April 30th, presented each of the airmen

with an address from the inhabitants, a cup being forwarded to each of

them later.

CHAPTER XVI

ONE THOUSAND MILES OVER THE ATLANTIC

Signalling Arrangements—Temperament—A Press Tribute—The

American Attempt—Just Before the Start—Parting Messages—The

Start—“Poor Old Tinsydes!”—Dropping the

Undercarriage—Out of Sight of Land in Ten Minutes—Over the

Fog—Four Hours Above a Sea of Clouds—Grieve’s Method of

Navigation—Weather Not as Forecasted—Taking the Drift through a

Hole in the Clouds—400 Miles Out—Cloud Banks and a Gale—After

5½ Hours—Over-heating Radiator—What was the Cause?—The Only

Possible Remedy—Is Effective at First—At 10,000 Feet—Giants of

Nature 15,000 feet High—A Side-wind that Became a Gale—Flying

“Crabwise”—Losing Height—Clouds, Darkness, and a

Doubtful Time—Nearly Down to the Sea—Dawn—Sea-sick—Looking

for a Ship—The _Mary_—The Rescue—Up to the Knees in the

Sea—Captain Duhn—Sighting St. Hilda and the Butt of Lewis—A

Famous Signal—“Is it Hawker?”—“Yes”—The

Navy’s Guests—The Civic Welcome at Thurso.

CHAPTER XVI

No attempt having been made in April, the best time was expected to

be between May 12th and May 19th, when the moon would be more or

less full; but Harry decided not to wait in the event of conditions

otherwise becoming suitable in the interim. The general idea throughout

the whole of the waiting period was to make a start between 5 p.m.

and 7 p.m. (Greenwich time). It was expected that the ocean would

be crossed about nineteen hours later. If he was able to proceed to

Brooklands according to his intention, Harry hoped to land there about

7 p.m. (Greenwich time), i.e., 8 p.m. summer time, on the day after the

start.

Grieve decided to take half-hourly sights during the passage, and,

if they arrived in time, smoke-bombs would be used for ascertaining

the drift over the ocean and to indicate to ships the position of the

aeroplane in case of emergency. The smoke-bombs were not expected to

arrive before May 8th In the event of a mishap occurring at night a

white parachute flare was to be used, not unlike the flares used by

the Zeppelins over London, and visible for miles. The white flare was

to be fired at once if the engine failed or if a forced descent from

any other cause were necessary. But the white flare or a wireless

“S.O.S.” was only to be used in an emergency when the need

for help was very urgent. A red flare was to be used for opening up

communication with a ship.

In an article on “Temperament,” published in _The Morning

Post_ on Friday, April 25th, 1919, Mr. H. Massac Buist wrote:

“Mechanical achievement has been pushed to such a pitch that

endurance on the part of pilot and crew is now demanded in the highest

possible degree, whereas many a brilliant aerial performance that

has attracted world-wide attention in the past has made the maximum

demands on nerve, but practically none at all on sheer physical

endurance, as instance looping-the-loop and suchlike feats. Even in

the war the average flight did not try the physical endurance of the

pilot in any high degree, the strain being instead on the nerve.

Of course, the requirements of the Service occasionally called for

prolonged efforts, but if all the flights made from the start to

the finish of the campaign are considered it will be found that the

vast majority occupied less than four hours. In the Transatlantic

enterprise, however, we have no competitor whose calculated speed

would enable him to make the aerial journey in less than 19½ hours

under the most favourable conditions.

“THE BEST PREPARATION.

“Yet it is not a matter of mere endurance, because the longest

over-water flight so far projected will be attempted in most cases

with machines not designed to alight on the water. In other words, on

setting out, each pilot will know that his life depends on nothing less

than absolute success, and is almost certainly forfeit if anything

goes wrong. That realisation represents the equivalent of the strain

of flying in war service, while the duration of the effort is the

multiplication of the strain. But the Transatlantic enterprise will

differ from war service in that the pilot himself will order himself to

start, whereas in war, no matter what betide, the individual has always

a realisation that a power outside himself has determined his destiny

and taken responsibility off him by giving him his orders, therefore

the issue is on the knees of the gods.

“Such qualifications afford the additional confidence that comes

of resource. One does not, of course, mean merely that the pilot helps

to rig the machine—all Service pilots are trained to that extent—or

that he touches ignition or throttle lever while the engine is running

through a bench test; instead, one means that the pilot one would

naturally look to successfully to perform a feat of this sort, other

things being equal, is a man like Harry Hawker and Sidney Pickles, who

year after year before there was a war, through the war, and after it,

takes a hand in the building of the experimental machines of the firm

employing him and puts them through all their tests, as well as the

standard products of the given firm—work which, regarded in all its

phases, represents taking as big risks per annum in peace time as are

taken by any soldier in war service, since in an experimental stage

none can really foretell what is going to happen when the first of a

new type aircraft is taken into the air.

“THE TYPICAL AUSTRALIAN ATTITUDE.

“The most consistently successful types of men at this work taken

over a long spell of years are perhaps those represented by a group of

three young Australians, Hawker, Pickles, and Busteed, who came over

here determined to realise their dreams of lives of adventure in the

air on the distinct understanding that there was plenty of money in the

venture. As one student of human nature remarked:

“They don’t want the Archbishop of Canterbury to hold a

special service for them before they get off the ground; they are not

going to die until they have done everything mortal man can to prevent

it; if they do die, they will take it to be absolutely as natural a

process as to be born; and, in the meantime, instead of wasting their

time collecting mascots and inventing fancy names for the machines

they fly they prefer to do as much of the building of them as time and

opportunity allow, and they see to it that the financial side of the

business is so fixed up that they will not be leaving spots of poverty

behind them.

“Undoubtedly that touch of self-reliance which we associate

pre-eminently with the Australian temperament will go a long way

towards securing success in such efforts as the race across the

Atlantic.

“Among our home-bred pilots of the same class, too, we have many

men who have acquired this habit of clear-thinking in essentials, of

eliminating emotionalism from their temperament, and of always taking

off their shirts to get right down to their job. Occasionally a man who

is not of that temperament may score a notable success; but if an eye

be kept on the performance of flying feats year after year, and the

average of each man’s achievement, it will be found that the man

whose name for consistent achievement year after year advances with the

progress of the science of flight is one with ‘no frills about

him.’

“WHAT MAKES FOR SUCCESS.

“It is right that the thing should be so. These men follow on the

lines of those masters by whose enterprise flight is alone possible.

The late Wilbur Wright was a plain man, and his brother Orville remains

so to this hour. They found that they had to know, and to do so much

that there was no time for social life as such, even if they had had

the temperament for it, which they had not.

“You do not find Hawker and Company lounging about in clubs

in the intervals between their big aviation undertakings, for the

sufficient reason that they give themselves no intervals of leisure,

because they are always busy working for money, which they know how to

look after when they get it. A result is that they never get overawed

at the prospect of any one of their aerial feats. Each is to them

merely part of the ordinary day’s work, imposing no more strain

than any other day’s work. For instance, I recollect some years

ago the effect exercised on one of the best aero engine mechanics in

the country on first coming in contact with Hawker:

“‘I tell you ’ow it is with that there ’Arry

’Awker, sir; he’s my fancy for anythink every time.

It’s like this: we were standin’ there down the Solent

chattin’, and that there Tommy Sopwith was remarkin’

as nobody’ adn’t looped-the-loop on a seaplane, and

mentioned a matter of 40 quid for the man as did it first on one of

his machines. ’Awker, who was standin’ by, got ’im

to confirm it; then went across to his machine and started up the

engine. There wasn’t what you might call more than a couple of

’andfuls of water where it was moored; but he just bumped and

splashed it into a flight, and a couple of minutes after he looped

over our ’eads twice. That’s ’Arry ’Awker;

no ‘alf measures, no stintin’; and it was the first time

a seaplane had looped-the-loop. Then he brought ’er down and

walked straight up to Tommy Sopwith, ’olding out ’is

’and for the boodle—that’s ’Arry ’Awker, too.

‘E’s there and the goods ’as to be there. I tell

you, sir,‘e’s my fancy every time.’”

The fact of no attempt having been possible in April probably accounted

for the comparative silence of the Press during the first days of May.

The public was beginning to doubt whether the flight would be possible

in the then immediate future. Nevertheless, Harry was by no means

idle. Among other things, with Raynham, he was busy looking for a more

suitable starting-ground, but, as most of the country was under the

plough, their efforts met with no success. Meanwhile, the Americans

were rapidly completing arrangements to make their now famous attempt

to cross the ocean, _via_ the Azores, in three flying-boats, with the

aid of several warships as guides and refuges in case of emergency.

These machines made their start at 10 p.m. (Greenwich time) on May

16th, but Harry was still delayed by weather on that day. The American

route bore distinctly southward, whereas the British route was slightly

northward.

When Lieut.-Com. Read in one of the American seaplanes had reached

the Azores, and so accomplished two-thirds of his journey across the

ocean, Harry and Raynham felt keenly that the blue riband of aerial

navigation was slipping not only from their hands but also from Great

Britain. Nevertheless, they were wise enough to know that to throw

precaution to the winds was to court disaster and so yield to the rival

nation. The last four days before Harry’s start were very trying

for him under such circumstances. He was continually in touch with the

weather office, only to hear of raging storms on his route and fair

weather on the Azores route. At one time he seriously contemplated also

flying to the Azores, but the difficulty of the petrol supply ruled

this out.

In spite of many preoccupations, Harry and Grieve passed a few hours

of the last few days of their sojourn at St. Johns by indulging in

motor-drives, while Raynham played golf and Morgan kept watch on the

weather bureau.

THE START

On the morning of the 18th there came a change. The _Atlantic_ was

brought out of her hangar, the petrol tanks were quickly and carefully

filled, every drop being passed through a perfectly clean strainer.

Oil and water tanks were filled and the machine thoroughly looked over

and the engine tested. While Harry busied himself with such operations

Grieve was seeing that all maps, charts, flares, smoke-bombs, and other

impedimenta were in order. The mail bag having been divided between

Harry and Raynham, the letter from the Governor of Newfoundland to

His Majesty, the one from the Prime Minister of Newfoundland to the

Rt. Hon. D. Lloyd George, and another from the people of Newfoundland

to the people of England, fell to Harry’s lot to be carried. In

addition to letters for Lord Northcliffe, the _Daily Mail_, the _Daily

Express_, and others, he also had a letter from the French Consul to

be delivered to the French Ambassador in London. He was also entrusted

with the medal of the American Joan of Arc Statue Society, for delivery

to the British Museum. Some dates, chocolates, and a flask of brandy

for use in emergency were included in the commissariat sufficient for

three days.

Harry arrived at the final decision to start not only for the reason

that the weather was better, although not perfect, but also because

owing to the progress made by the American flying-boats there was a

likelihood of his missing a chance of getting a British machine over

first. The moon was well on the wane, and any further delay would

probably have meant another matter of weeks. One American machine was

already known to have reached the Azores, and reports were current

to the effect that two others had as well. The night before starting

Harry and Raynham both agreed to set out if the weather looked at all

promising, and on the morrow they received fewer weather reports than

on any previous occasion.

At 3.5 p.m. Harry and Grieve were getting into their flying clothes.

Ten minutes later Harry waved his arm and the chocks were pulled away.

As he sped down the field he heard the rising cheers of the spectators,

which were soon drowned by the engine’s roar.

Before leaving, Harry was feeling particularly confident. “I have

a perfect machine for the trip,” he said, “and the engine

is the best in the world. I am confident that we shall get across.

The great problem is to find Ireland, but I have every confidence in

Grieve.” Grieve’s parting message to friends assembled

about the machine was, “See you in London.”

Speaking of landing without the undercarriage, Harry said, “I

expect to make a perfectly good landing, and have no fear of badly

crashing the machine.”

It will be remembered that Harry had changed his propeller. He

believed that the four-bladed type put an undue strain on the engine.

Furthermore, without the landing chassis the machine would land on

running skids integral with the base of the fuselage. Assuming he could

land with the two blades horizontal it was conceivable he could land

and do no damage at all, whereas with four blades the propeller would

be bound to fracture and possibly lead to other damage.

Harry considered the question of weight to be of the utmost importance.

Before starting he lifted Grieve’s bag and enquired whether he

could not dispense with his pyjamas, as he would have a long sleep at

the end of his journey.

Harry and Grieve boarded the machine without feeling in the least

bit “nervy.” After getting into his seat, Harry asked,

“How about old Tinsydes? Tell Raynham I’ll greet him at

Brooklands.”

At 6.48 p.m. summertime (5.51 Greenwich or 3.15 St. Johns) on Sunday,

May 18th, 1919, Harry and Grieve set out to cross the Atlantic from St.

Johns to Ireland, and, if possible, to Brooklands, in a single non-stop

flight. The weather conditions had been reported to be fairly good all

the way across the ocean, and the days had been lovely at St. Johns

for over a week. Visiting the Meteorological Office at noon, Harry

remarked, “Hang the weather! I go this afternoon, though it leads

me to the Pacific.” Three hours later they were completing the

final preparations, after having lunched at Glendinning’s Farm

with some local friends. At 3.15 p.m., having warmed up the engine,

Harry opened up and sped down the starting slope at Mount Pearl for

the last time. He covered almost the whole length of the ground before

rising, and only just cleared the fence at the lower end. It was only

by exercising more skill than is usually required in starting that he

was able to keep the machine straight while going over the not too even

ground. As it was, he took off in a direct line.

Everything at the start went well, as Harry intended it should. Getting

off the ground was necessarily difficult, as owing to the direction of

the wind and the dimensions of the ground it was essential to steer a

diagonal course over the aerodrome.

During the run of 300 yards the machine lurched hazardously, bumping

over the field until it struck a hummock and lifted. The wings took the

air at a low swinging start, but did not swerve a hair’s breadth

from the chosen course.

Three minutes later Harry was soaring above the western outskirts

of St. Johns, climbing steadily the while. With the sun shining on

her wings, the aeroplane _Atlantic_ was a glorious sight for those

who had the good fortune to see her from below. Steering a steady

course, ascending E.N.E., Harry passed over Pleasantville Lake and

Raynham’s aerodrome at Quidi Vidi at 2,000 feet, six miles

from the start. Looking down, he could see Raynham and his machine

surrounded by a big crowd of townsfolk.

Harry remarked, “Look at old Tinsydes with a crowd round

him!” To which Grieve, who was too preoccupied to look, replied,

“We’ve got the bulge on him.”

They continued on over Bolands Hill, a rocky promontory 600 feet high

separating St. Johns from the open Atlantic, where Harry could plainly

discern a dozen white mountains—icebergs—having no terrors for this

ship of the air. At 1,500 feet above Bolands Hill, having decided that

all was well, he slipped the undercarriage. So lessened in load by

four hundredweight, and with diminished air resistance, the _Atlantic_

began to climb with appreciably greater speed. Five minutes later she

was about 4,000 feet up, flying eastward, steady as a rock, and just

passing out of sight of those who were watching with powerful glasses.

As the undercarriage was being projected earthwards by gravity, Harry

thought of the stimulating effect it would have on Raynham.

As the machine passed out of sight of land at 3.35 p.m., about ten

minutes from the start, the signalman at the marine lookout on the

hills above St. Johns reported that it was flying in a north-easterly

direction.

When the start was made at Mount Pearl the weather was perfect, at any

rate locally, although a fog-bank at sea was visible. There was a light

north-westerly wind and a cloudless sky locally. The conditions were

described by Harry as “not yet favourable, but possible.”

The machine climbed very well, and after about ten minutes, when

it passed out of sight of land, Harry encountered the thick fog

of the Newfoundland Banks. Fortunately they had no difficulty in

climbing above this, although naturally they lost sight of the sea, a

circumstance which was, if anything, a little disconcerting. Above them

the sky was clear. Grieve just managed to get one drift reading before

they passed out of sight of the breaking waves.

For the first four hours after leaving St. Johns the clouds and fog

above which they passed were level-topped like a sea and gave a

perfect horizon for the celestial observations on which Grieve’s

navigation depended.

The following account of the process of navigating the machine was

given to _The Daily Mail_ before the start by Grieve:

“Navigation of aircraft across the Atlantic must necessarily be

of the rough and ready type, but as it is of vital necessity to ensure

success every means must be taken of finding one’s position and

making most use of the air currents met with.

“Of course the machine might get across by steering a compass

course, allowing for the various winds, supplied from the limited

knowledge of the meteorologists. But few reports of the surface winds

are available, leaving large spaces on the chart of the weather in

which conditions can only be guessed, while the upper air currents are

absolutely unknown.

“Should the navigator allow for a beam wind of 30 miles an hour

when the opposite exists he will be 60 miles out of his reckoning at

the end of one hour, and soon altogether out of the weather system he

is expecting on the direct route.

“The only method of checking positions and finding the course

and speed made good over the sea is by astronomical observations and

obtaining the positions by wireless from ships _en route_. In the

latter case the ships keep regular narrow lanes and may not be met

with, as it would be virtually impossible to keep in their track, and

unless one should pass over them and be seen by them their positions

would be valueless.

“My intention is to rely chiefly on astronomical positions

which I shall obtain by sextant and work out by a diagram invented

by my instructor, Commander Baker. The altitude of the sun, taken

about every hour, will give me a line of position at the time of

the observation. When the sun is on the prime vertical the line of

position will be the longitude; when on the meridian the latitude.

At other times two observations at a good interval, with the run

in that time, will give me a position. To obtain this run the

‘drift’ must be known, and I hope to get this by dropping

smoke-bombs by day and light-bombs by night and observing the true

path of the machine past them through the ‘drift’

indicator.

“For night work I have a diagram to facilitate working the

sights of six stars, each of which, in combination with the Pole

Star, or each with the other, in certain conditions, will give me a

good position. The chief difficulty in getting astronomical positions

will be to see the necessary horizon. Should it be visible it will be

necessary to know the dip of it, which is approximately the square

root of the height of the machine obtained by the altimeter, an

instrument in the cockpit indicating the height in feet above the

sea-level.

“If I am above the clouds I must judge the height above them and

use them for my horizon, which will give useful, if only approximate,

results. As a matter of fact, the whole navigation must be considered

as an approximation, but as Ireland is large and there are no

dangers in the air to keep clear of, I do not anticipate any serious

difficulty in making a landfall, given good conditions.”

As regards the weather during the flight, it was not at all as they

expected. They anticipated a north-easterly wind for a short way out,

backing to the north-west, with a small depression, on the south side

of which they expected to pass and thereby get into favourable winds,

first westerly and then south-westerly, as they approached Ireland. In

actual fact they encountered northerly winds.

At about 7 o’clock Greenwich time, about an hour after the start,

the sea was visible through a hole in the fog for just a few seconds.

They were then at 4,000 feet and climbing. Grieve, by observing the

breaking waves through the drift indicator, was able to calculate

the drift of the machine as 10 degrees to the right of their course,

precisely the same as when he made his previous calculations just

before they passed above the fog.

Until 10.15 p.m. Greenwich time they steered a true east course, not

magnetic east. Meanwhile Grieve took sights every half hour, and at

10.15 he estimated that they were 400 miles from St. Johns and had

maintained an average speed of 91 miles per hour. They reckoned to be

then in the track of the steamships, to keep to which the course was

altered to North 73 East true.

The visibility became very bad. In front and to the right and left,

above and below, were heavy cloud-banks which formed dark, ominous

gorges, or chasms, through which they flew, feeling very, very small

and insignificant in comparison with such giants of Nature. That the

prospects were not bright was soon proved when they drove into a heavy

storm with rainsqualls. A strong northerly gale drove them steadily

out of their course and the dense masses of cloud impeded accurate

navigation.

It was a lucky stroke of fortune that the engine and all other vital

components of the machine survived this bad weather during this early

stage as they advanced into night skies.

After flying for five and a half hours, Harry noticed that the

temperature of the cooling water in the radiator began to rise. The

effect of this, while not appreciable at the moment, was likely to be

complex unless the cause, some defect in the circulation, could be

remedied. It was, of course, impossible for either Harry or Grieve

actually to inspect the likely source of the trouble, and any effort

to eliminate it had to be made, if at all possible, by manœuvring the

machine.

It was about 11 p.m. Greenwich time (i.e., midnight, summer time) when

the defect became apparent. Grieve was busy taking sights while Harry

was piloting and watching. The clouds were now exceptionally thick,

and Harry recalled that he had only once seen the sea since he was ten

minutes’ distant from St. Johns. And he had now been flying for

just on six hours.

The moon had not yet risen and it was well-nigh impossible to discern

anything. Flying at 10,000 feet, Harry could just make out innumerable

clouds, many of them terrible, ominous-looking peaks extending

upwards to about 15,000 feet. Having to go round the clouds, it was

difficult to steer a good course, and he could not really afford to

waste time and petrol in making any deviations from a truly straight

course. Furthermore, he and Grieve, side-by-side, were feeling not too

comfortable bodily. The cane ring forming the neck of Harry’s

suit, which kept his neck free, was jumping about. Grieve frequently

had to replace it, and his fingers became frost-bitten, as it could

not be done with gloves on. Otherwise they did not suffer from cold,

although it was freezing hard. As they forged ahead the temperature

of the water in the radiator rose from 168 degrees F. to 176 degrees

F. in the space of a few minutes. At the latter temperature it stayed

practically constant for a couple of hours or more.

It was at 1.30 a.m. that they realised the great extent of their drift

owing to the strong north wind. Taking sights regularly had become

impossible owing to the clouds having broken up and ceased to provide a

level horizon. Grieve managed to get a Pole Star down to a flat piece

of cloud, and discovered with no little surprise that they were about

150 miles south of their intended course. Harry therefore turned more

northward to counteract this drift. Nevertheless, half an hour later

they were still drifting southward and not making their course, and so,

realising that the strength of the gale must be terrific, they had to

force the machine still more northward up to latitude 50 degrees and

into the track of the ships.

Harry was somewhat concerned when Grieve told him that their drift was

equivalent to a side wind of 20 miles per hour, but this did not deter

him from sticking to the job. The effect of a strong side wind would of

course mean having to travel “crabwise” in order to keep

to the course, a proceeding which must lessen their forward speed.

Both pilot and navigator came to the decision that there must be a

cause for this abnormally high temperature in the radiator, which

persisted, and, if it continued, was likely to jeopardise their chances

of success, owing to all the water being ultimately boiled away. Harry,

having concluded that some obstruction had got into the water-filter

between the radiator and the water-pumps, knew that the only possible

means of removing it was by switching off the engine and diving down

steeply in the hope that this would clear the refuse in the filter.

This he actually did, and the result was for the time being successful.

But after another hour, by which time they were about 800 miles out

from St. Johns, the trouble recurred. The weather was still no better

and the clouds very high. Repeatedly Harry switched off and dived, but

the obstruction would not clear itself now. Every such dive entailed

losing several hundred feet in height, and it is not surprising,

therefore, that they gave up the diving process. Each time, after

climbing, the water began to boil; and so after getting to 12,000

feet they agreed to maintain that altitude for the latter half of the

journey. These episodes of the choking radiator had not yet given

them to doubt their being successful in making the crossing. They had

got above most of the clouds now, and, with the moon coming well up,

they could keep a good course. The fact that by closing the throttle

a little they were able to nurse the engine and keep the water from

boiling, although done at the expense of a little speed, ensured for

them every confidence that all would be well. Thus, with the engine

throttled, they cruised along at a constant height of 12,000 feet for

about four hours more until they came up against more of those very,

very high black clouds significant of unknown, unexplored wastes of the

Atlantic vault. They had encountered a depression which had travelled

north from the Azores.

So thick were these new clouds that it was almost impossible to get

between them. They extended upwards to an altitude of 15,000 feet,

3,000 feet higher than the machine, and the only thing to be done was

to get above them.

Once, twice, thrice did Harry try to get above those clouds; and as

many times steam belched forth ominously from the radiator and was

turned to ice. The radiator trouble having thus prevented a very

necessary and desirable manœuvre that would otherwise have been

possible, Harry could only go down into the abyss and find the bottom

of the enveloping clouds. Incidentally, the glide gave the water system

an opportunity to cool down.

Having glided down to about 6,000 feet, they entered an even darker

region than that from which they had just descended, due, of course, to

the presence of more clouds above them cutting off the light.

Climbing being out of the question, down they went to 1,000 feet only

above the water before they could see to fly. While they dived through

the clouds their engine was stopped, and when Harry opened up the

throttle it refused to restart. Only when they were within a few feet

of the water did it pick up by a lucky chance after Harry had given

up hope of its recovery. In fact Harry had hit Grieve on the head to

warn him to desist from pumping-up, which might result in his suffering

a broken arm when they struck the water. At that moment the engine

started. It was a very narrow escape. There they were greeted by those

delightful signs of the sun just getting up, one of the real joys of

Nature which has delighted the eyes of most flying-men. Again they

set their course, but that water would not be kept from boiling. It

was then that they agreed to “play for safety,” as Harry

himself expressed it.

At 5 a.m. two stars enabled Grieve to determine their position as

being directly on their course and about 950 miles from St. Johns,

representing an average speed of about 85 miles per hour. No more

sights were possible, owing to the clouds and the approach of daylight.

When they came down low to look for ships about 6 a.m. their position

was estimated by Grieve as 50 degrees north, 29 degrees 30 minutes

west; and they pursued a more northerly course to get well on to the

steamship route.

The hour of dawn was the one hour in twenty-four in which flying always

seemed to hold the greatest charm for Harry, as indeed I believe it

always has done for most aviators; and on this occasion, after having

flown through a black night _above_ one desolate waste whose secrets

may never be unfolded and _ahead_ into another which had never before

been explored by man, as one can well appreciate, Harry was overjoyed

on beholding the first signs of the dawn of May 19th, 1919. That he and

Grieve almost immediately began to have an eye for the refuge of a ship

only goes to prove the serious nature of the radiator trouble. But for

those high clouds which, coupled with the doubtful cooling system, had

forced them to yield most of their advantageous height, they might have

been able to continue on further than they did at a moderate cruising

speed with the engine throttled. But although they covered almost

two-thirds of the journey, the chance of their being able to complete

it under any circumstances had become practically negligible owing to

the loss of water due to several hours of overheating.

Mentally both Harry and Grieve were comfortable, but an attack of

seasickness upset Harry a bit. While flying a couple of miles above the

dark ocean they did not attempt to probe in their minds the secrets

of regions four, five, perhaps six miles below them. Even had they

done so, such thoughts could scarcely have had a demoralising effect

on souls like theirs. The fallibility of a machine, against which no

man can have absolute insurance, was all that robbed them of the joy

of completing their intention. Theirs was a successful failure, and

beyond perhaps additional monetary reward (which to Harry was never an

unimportant consideration), had they had the good fortune to make the

direct flight, I do not believe they would have commanded one iota more

respect than they did when they returned to the world at large, as from

the dead.

They decided to fly diagonally south-east and then south-west across

their course to see if they could find a ship, knowing that they would

be unable to go on indefinitely boiling away the water. For two and a

half hours they carried out these tactics, in sight of the very rough

ocean and with their machine pitched and rolled about by a tempestuous

north-east wind described by Harry as “half a gale.” There

were heavy rainsqualls, between which were clear spaces in which Harry

endeavoured to keep. But these spaces became smaller and finally

visibility had almost gone. At last Harry’s eyes were gladdened

by the sight of a ship close to them on the left. Both the ship and

the aeroplane were more or less in the fog, with low clouds above, and

Harry and Grieve were almost over the ship before they saw her. At a

height of 400 feet they flew alongside, firing three Vérey lights as

signals of distress.

While flying so low down between the rough sea and low clouds the

_Atlantic_ was bumped about very badly. As Grieve said, “It was

like being in a small motor-boat in a heavy sea.”

It was at about 6 o’clock on the Monday morning that the second

mate and the helmsman of the _Mary_ sighted the aeroplane. The sea was

rough and a stiff breeze was blowing, and the conditions for launching

a boat were getting worse instead of better. So much so, in fact, that

Captain Duhn did not think he could have saved them an hour later.

Harry was very cheered when he first saw the _Mary_, for he had been

looking about for a ship for over two hours and had been violently

seasick the while. Grieve also was thankful and relieved when he saw

the ship.

The machine floated well. The engines held the air, as well as the

spaces in the petrol tanks and the wings.

They flew to and fro above the ship several times until they saw men

on deck, after which they went ahead about two miles and made a very

good “landing,” although a heavy sea was running, with

waves about 12 feet high which swept over the wings intermittently.

Apart from waves breaking over it, the machine floated well on an even

keel and was generally well out of the water. As they saw the steamer

approaching they released their lifeboat in case the aeroplane should

break up and sink, as it showed signs of doing. Their life-saving suits

kept them more or less dry while the crew of the _Mary_ were putting

out their boat, which operation took fully an hour and a half. The

vessel was only about two hundred yards from the aeroplane.

After they touched the water, Harry and Grieve found themselves

standing in the cockpit, up to their knees in water.

Waves were “sloshing” under the upper planes of the

machine, the nose of which was heading into the wind. Sometimes waves

dashed right over the top planes. Harry was indeed amused by the

sight of the first big wave striking the under-surface of the top

plane, which until then had been dry and shining. It lifted them right

out of the water, and the trailing edge of the top plane broke away

completely. The sun was hazy, and low driving clouds were prevalent.

Having launched their own little boat in case they should need it in

the event of the _Atlantic_ going under, they spent the interim until

their rescue in discussing as to the possibility of the _Mary_ having

appliances whereby they could salve the aeroplane.

After much difficulty the boat succeeded in reaching them, and they

were taken aboard and the boat was drawn to the _Mary_ by a line. It

was impossible for them to salve anything from the aeroplane, and they

arrived on board the _Mary_, which rolled heavily, without boots or

caps, and Grieve without a coat. They were exceedingly sorry to have to

leave valuable instruments and mail on board the _Atlantic_.

As the ship’s boat came up to them it banged heavily into the

aeroplane and they hopped aboard at once. The _Mary_ slung out a rope

with which they were hauled to her. Grieve, being a naval man, was

spokesman when they first got on board. He went on the bridge and asked

Captain Duhn if he could salve the machine. Captain Duhn regretted he

could not, and remarked on their narrow escape. Grieve’s log was

washed from his pocket while they were in the water, with the exception

of one page of rough notes. The _Mary_ was on a course from the Gulf of

Mexico to Pentland Firth, and was crossing the main steamship route,

which is only a few miles broad.

The total distance over which they had flown without a stop was

approximately 1,050 miles at an average speed of about 80 miles per

hour, approximately the distance which Harry covered in stages at a

much lower speed in the Round-Britain Seaplane Circuit in 1913.

Altogether, before being picked up, they had been 14½ hours out from

Newfoundland, it being 8.30 a.m. on Monday, Greenwich time (9.30 summer

time), when they boarded the _Mary_. There they met Captain Duhn, whose

English was good. He told them he had feared they would sink before his

boat could pick them up. As they went on the bridge with him, he said,

“Another hour and you would have gone down.” He thought

Harry and Grieve were Americans, and seemed very nonchalant. As Harry

said, “We were struck by the casual manner in which he took the

whole business, as if it were an everyday affair to take airmen out of

the Atlantic.” Naturally the first enquiries, Harry and Grieve

made were as to their bearings and the likelihood of their meeting a

ship that day or the next and being in the main route of shipping.

The _Mary_ carried no wireless and they were anxious to let friends

know of their safety. When they went on board, Captain Duhn considered

there were good prospects of seeing a ship with wireless at any moment.

But as the day wore on the storm increased in violence and they had

to heave to, only making about a knot in a northerly direction. This

course took them away from the shipping route and lessened their

chances of being able to communicate.

Neither Harry nor Grieve were the slightest bit excited either at the

start or when rescued. As Harry put it: “When we started we felt

it was a ‘cert’—100 to 1 on.” And Grieve, “We

had been waiting so long, we felt callous about the whole thing.”

They were pretty well “done up” when they got on board, and

feeling seasick, in preference to taking food they had a good sleep.

Grieve woke up first and went on the bridge.

Grieve’s seat was not absolutely side-by-side with Harry’s,

but was just a little behind, Harry’s left shoulder being in

front of his navigator. Grieve was thereby able to move about to the

extent of kneeling down to look at the drift indicator, to stand up

to take observations, or to move forward a little for working the

wireless. This probably accounted to some extent for Harry being in

need of sleep, since he had not had such freedom to move about.

Captain Duhn thought they were Americans—in fact Harry jokingly

remarked that he rather thought Captain Duhn was a little disappointed

that they were not. Harry told the Captain he would like the

opportunity of making another attempt, and he pointed out the advantage

the Americans had over him in the shorter oversea distances and the

assistance of the American warships, although he personally would not

have appreciated such assistance, which detracted from the value of

the performance. When they had rested and made themselves “at

home,” Harry and Grieve passed away much of their time on board

reading English books which Captain Duhn had.

[Illustration:

_Photo by_] [_Newspaper Illustrations, Ltd._

HARRY AND GRIEVE LEAVING BUCKINGHAM PALACE AFTER HAVING BEEN DECORATED

BY THE KING. ALTHOUGH A CIVILIAN, HARRY RECEIVED THE FIRST AIR FORCE

CROSS—A SERVICE DECORATION.

[_Facing p. 244._

]

On Sunday morning, May 25th, almost one week after starting, they

sighted St. Kilda and later on the Butt of Lewis, when communication

with the mainland became possible. It was a beautiful morning, with

the sea as smooth as ever off this exposed coast. Shortly after 10

o’clock, heading for the Butt of Lewis, Captain Duhn, after running

up signal flags reading “_Mary_,” began sounding the syren. With the

weather so fine as it was, this could not but attract the attention of

the coastguards. As the vessel drew nearer the shore, Captain Duhn,

acting on Harry’s instructions, ran up the signal, “_Communicate by

Wire_,” which had the desired effect of intimating to the coastguards,

Chief officer William Ingham and Leading Seaman George Harding,

that an important message would follow which they must transmit to

headquarters by telegraph. The next signal run up was the international

signal for “_Saved Hands_,” and this was then replaced by the symbol

indicating that the following signals would be spelt. Up went the

flags “_S.O.P._,” followed by “_A.E.R._” and after another interval by

“_O.P.L._,” and finally “_A.N.E._” It was when they received the last

syllable that the coast-guardsmen were thrilled with the knowledge

that they had good news of men whom the world had given up as lost.

Having delivered this message, Captain Duhn put out to sea, again,

and was just going beyond signalling range when he saw on shore

the flags asking “_Is it_.” Returning towards the shore, he read,

“_H-A-W-K-E-R_.” Up went his reply, “_Yes_.” The form of signal was

made out by Grieve, who was conversant with the code.

Off Loch Erribel the _Mary_ was met by the British destroyer

_Woolston_, sent out from Scapa Flow by Admiral Fremantle to take them

aboard. Harry and Grieve therefore bade farewell to Captain Duhn and

thanked him for the great kindness they had received at his hands.

Captain Duhn described Harry and Grieve as a couple of unusually

amiable and pleasant fellows in whose company it was a pleasure to be.

Harry and Grieve did not converse a great deal during the flight,

although the noise from the engine was comparatively quiet, most of

it being carried away behind them through a long exhaust-pipe. Their

conversation was mostly carried on by signs. Grieve would hold up the

vacuum flask when he wanted to know if Harry required a drink. They had

an inter-communicating telephone, which they rarely used. As Grieve put

it, they were too busy to talk much.

Sometimes they communicated by writing. One of Grieve’s messages read,

“We didn’t have much to spare taking-off,” referring, of course, to

their only just clearing the boundary of the starting-ground at Mount

Pearl. He wrote all the compass bearings during the flight and held

them up for Harry to read. Grieve used the clouds for his horizon

simply because they saw more clouds than sea. In fact, with one

exception it was nothing but clouds until they were forced down almost

to the water during the last two or three hours. But the weather did

not hinder them, and Harry was convinced that but for the radiator

trouble he would have won through.

Speaking after the flight of their means of communication with ships,

Grieve said that the first wireless fitted was tried during their

test flight at St. Johns, when the exciter of the generator burnt

out owing to the too great speed of the small windmill or air-driven

“propeller.” They therefore had to discard this set, which

they replaced at once by a small “Boy Scout” plain aerial

set, designed to give a radius of about 25 miles. Their long wait at

St. Johns gave them time to receive from England a new set slightly

different from the original one, and more powerful than the “Boy

Scout” set, for it had a range of 250 miles. They were unable

to give this a preliminary test in the air, however, because they

preferred not to risk any more test flights on such a small aerodrome

as they had. When they got in the air they found the spark to be

very feeble, and only a small ampèrage could be raised, owing to the

windmill or “propeller” in this case being too small.

Nevertheless, they felt they had enough power in their transmitter to

communicate with any ships within moderate range, and they tapped out

messages every half hour, with the object of letting the outside world

know that they were still in the air. But no acknowledgment of these

messages was ever received during or after the flight. When the engine

was throttled down, during the last few hours to keep the temperature

of the water as low as possible under the adverse circumstances in

which it was circulating, the speed of the machine was not enough to

drive the wireless windmill.

Nevertheless, the S.O.S. call was tapped out at intervals of 15 minutes

in case the spark should happen to operate. Fortunately Grieve never

intended to rely on the wireless for navigating purposes other than

to check positions occasionally by communicating with any ships which

they might pass above. Previously to the flight, ships were asked by

wireless from St. Johns to make known their position in the event of

their seeing an aeroplane by day or a red Vérey light at night. Harry

and Grieve saw no vessel other than the _Mary_, and therefore fired no

lights until then. Ships that reported having seen red lights in the

sky before then probably saw the red glow from the exhaust-pipe of the

machine as she passed in the night in and out between the clouds.

Exactly half the petrol carried, 170 gallons, was used, an equal amount

remaining in the tanks when the machine took the water.

One of the conclusions arrived at by Grieve was that future navigation

in the air undoubtedly lies with directional wireless, once that is

perfected.

They spent Sunday night, a week after their romantic departure from St.

Johns, on Admiral Fremantle’s flagship, H.M.S. _Revenge_, and

on Monday morning, having received an Admiralty pass to London, they

transferred to the destroyer F.O.8, which took them from Scapa Flow to

Thurso in about 45 minutes. It being low tide, it was impossible for

the destroyer to go into harbour, and so Harry and Grieve were rowed

ashore by half-a-dozen bluejackets, once again to set foot on home soil

at Scrabster Pier, whence the late Lord Kitchener had departed on his

ill-fated voyage in the _Hampshire_. The sun shone gloriously, and away

in the distance could be discerned the blue outline of the Orkneys.

As they reached the landing-stage cheer upon cheer rolled forth from

those who had assembled to meet them. Provost and Mrs. MacKay, with

members of the Thurso Town Council, several naval officers and men, and

townsfolk, had motored out to Scrabster, where everybody and everything

was _en fête_. Provost MacKay was the first to greet Harry and Grieve.

Addressing them, he said:

“Mr. Hawker, in the name of the people of Thurso I offer you

and Commander Mackenzie-Grieve a welcome, not only to Thurso, but

to the shores of Britain. Throughout the length and breadth of the

land, and of every land, to-day the news of your safe deliverance is

ringing, and hearts everywhere are rejoicing. It is true that you have

not achieved what you so gallantly set out for, but to-day you need

not worry over that, because you have indeed achieved great things.

The names of Hawker and Grieve will live for ever in the annals of

Atlantic flight. You have brought a new lustre to the daring, the

endurance, and the intrepid spirit of our race. Your countrymen greet

you warmly and proudly as heroic pioneers and sportsmen. From the

moment of your departure from St. Johns the world has been on tension

for news of you; expectation gave way to anxiety, and then anxiety to

gloom, but happily all fears and forebodings are to-day dispelled.

The world-wide joy over your pluck and safety is so great because the

sense of relief is so great. It was at this landing-stage that Lord

Kitchener said farewell to the land he loved, and now we shall also

know it and mark it as the place of wonderful welcome to two brave

sons of Empire.”

Harry, on behalf of Grieve and himself, expressed his heartfelt thanks

for this warm greeting, with the modesty and brevity which were so

characteristic of him on such occasions. Provost MacKay then introduced

the members of the Town Council and other Thursonians, after which Mrs.

MacKay invited them to her house for luncheon, an invitation which they

were happy to accept.

In the Provost’s car they drove through the beflagged streets,

where many people, including parties of bluejackets, had foregathered.

At North Bank House they enjoyed a quiet luncheon with Provost and Mrs.

MacKay, Sir Archibald and Lady Sinclair, of Ulbster, and the senior

naval officer, Lieut. Weir, and his wife. They were feeling very fit

and their complexions were sunburnt. Briefly Harry recounted their

experiences, telling of the cloud-banks, the clogged radiator pipe, the

descent nearly to the water, the rough seas and tempestuous winds, and

the sighting of the _Mary_ and their gallant rescue.

Harry and Grieve were much amused by some of the newspapers which

Provost MacKay showed them, containing their obituary notices. Grieve

was particularly touched by a photograph purporting to be that of his

wife, for he was not married! Before driving to the station Harry and

Grieve spoke of the warmth of the hospitality they had received, not

only at Thurso, but also at Scapa on the previous evening with the

Grand Fleet.

During the luncheon, crowds assembled outside Provost MacKay’s

residence, and at the station Thurso had never before seen such a

throng. Cheers were ringing on all sides, handshakes, cameras, and

autograph books were the order of the day. Thurso was _en fête_ as

never before.

CHAPTER XVII

MY OWN REMINISCENCES OF THE ATLANTIC FLIGHT

I Wait for News—The Americans Start—I Hear Harry has Started—And

I Put Out the Flags—No News Next Morning—Fate is Unkind and

Brings a False Report—Which, Contradicted, Delivers a Paralysing

Blow—No Further News—“All Hope Abandoned”—Good

News—Peace of Mind Once More—Everybody Happy—The King Telegraphs

Congratulations—I Go to Meet Harry at Grantham—Harry’s

Triumphal Progress to Grantham—Together Once More—Harry

Rides a Horse Through London—“Escape” from the

R.Ae.C.—Celebrations at Ham—Fireworks at Hook.

CHAPTER XVII

After the first week of Harry’s absence the time passed fairly

quickly. I never left home for longer than two hours, and then I bought

newspapers in case Harry had started. Often I would have news about

seven in the evening to the effect that Harry was about to start. I sat

up until the news was contradicted. Never before had I taken such an

interest in the moon as during these few weeks. I knew every phase, and

when it reached the full I felt sure that Harry would be starting.

I was in town when I saw a placard saying that the Americans had

started, and I at once rushed to the nearest telephone box to find out

if any message had come through from Harry, as I knew he would not let

the Americans arrive first without a struggle; but the moon was waning

and the weather reports none too good.

On the night of May 18th I received a message to the effect that Harry

had left at 6.30. The first thing to do was to put out all the flags,

for he would be home on the morrow. But this did not take long, and,

when done, the time seemed to drag.

As the hours went by and darkness came on, the time passed even more

slowly for me. I remember I went to the window and stood there waiting

for the moon to rise; it was waning, but, despite that, seemed to make

the night less terrible. It was very cold, and I wondered whether it

was all worth while. I had written down each hour that Harry was to be

in the air, and hour by hour crossed them off.

When the papers arrived on the morrow they were full of the start

of the Atlantic flight, but gave no news beyond the precise time of

the start, as no wireless had been received. No message came for me

until about ten o’clock that night, after I had been down to

Brooklands expecting his arrival. The message, which was from the

Admiralty, told me that Harry had landed in the sea forty miles off

the mouth of the Shannon, and until two or three o’clock in the

morning the telephone unceasingly rang, bringing congratulations from

far and near. My brother, who had obtained special leave, remained up

all night and made himself comfortable by the telephone. The beginning

of the night found him receiving messages and returning thanks with

energy, but by one o’clock his tones lacked their initial

gusto, and by two o’clock they were hardly lucid. I went to bed

thoroughly happy and at peace, but I was too excited to sleep.

I was the first one down in the morning to get the papers. I opened the

_Daily Mail_ first of all, and the headlines I saw nearly blinded me.

I have since had to read worse news than I read that morning, but I do

not think I have ever felt so frantic and yet so completely hopeless as

when I saw the fatal words, “Hawker Missing—False Report of Fall

in the Sea.”

I believe at that moment I gave up all hope. Then I thought of almost

his last words to me before he left: “If things don’t go

quite right, never give up hope”; and as there seemed to be two

sides to the question whether he was alive or not, and no definite

proof of either, I decided, no matter what happened, to cling firmly to

the belief that he was alive.

Mrs. Sopwith, who came to see me about ten o’clock, helped me to

keep my resolution during the whole of the ensuing week. My brother

obtained leave to stay with me; and then it was a case of waiting. Day

after day passed with no news. Each morning, after reading the papers,

I went off to the Admiralty for any further news; and every day I saw

the papers getting less and less hopeful. Everyone seemed to put a time

limit on his, or her, hope. One said, “I will give them three

days,” while one more optimistic said, “A week.” When

I had waited a week I could almost feel that Harry was near, and on

Saturday I was perfectly sure that I had only one more day to wait.

On the 24th I received the following telegram:

“The King, fearing the worst must now be realised regarding the

fate of your husband, wishes to express his deep sympathy and that of

the Queen in your sudden and tragic sorrow. His Majesty feels that the

nation lost one of its most able and daring pilots to sacrifice his

life for the fame and honour of British flying.

“STAMFORDHAM. ”

But neither this nor Lord Northcliffe’s generous offer to make

provision for myself and Pamela changed my conviction that Harry would

turn up safe and sound.

On the Sunday morning I read in the papers that “all hope had

now been given up for the safety of the Atlantic airmen,” and I

recall thinking how silly “all hope” sounded, when they

could not know everyone’s hopes. I went to the little church

opposite, where prayers were offered for the safety of Harry and

Commander Grieve. I remember hurrying home because I thought the good

news had come; but it had not.

About an hour later I was told that the _Daily Mirror_ wanted me on the

‘phone with a message that could not be entrusted to anyone but

myself. They simply told me that Harry and Grieve had been picked up

by a Danish ship without wireless and had just signalled their message

with flags to the Butt of Lewis; and could they, as the first to convey

the news to me, send a representative down for a private interview at

once. What I answered I do not know—probably nothing—but I felt that

anyone could do what they liked then; I should be happy.

My brother and I rushed round to spread the good news. We went first

to the Sigrists’ bungalow on the Thames Ditton island, where I

had spent the previous day. They had already heard the news, and Fred

Sigrist rushed down the steps of his house saying, “What can I

do for you?” I replied, “Oh, jump in!” He at once

took a header, fully clothed, and swam up and down, shouting incoherent

messages to all and sundry on the island. By this time a lot of people

had collected, and we drank everyone’s health at Fred’s

expense. Then we went home, with everyone following us. When we

arrived at Hook a terrible vision of a dozen or more reporters met our

eyes. The _Daily Mirror_ man wanted his interview as promised, and the

others wanted to listen, which did not suit him. Anyway, we all shook

hands, there was no “interview,” and plenty was said next

morning in the papers.

By this time there was a large gathering of people, and although I

believe each of them had a cup of tea or a glass of something better,

there was little food in the house for such a crowd. I then went to the

special Thanksgiving Service which Mr. Wood, the curate-in-charge, had

arranged at Hook Church. It was a most beautiful service, and I was

much impressed by its simplicity and the feeling in the hearts of the

congregation.

On arriving home again I found a dinner had been arranged at the

Piccadilly Hotel, and we were to start, about thirty strong, just as we

were, the men-folk in boating flannels and the ladies in light summer

frocks. Perhaps we exceeded the speed limit, or the inspector who

operated a trap on Putney Hill thought we did, and we had to stop. My

brother and I were leading in the Sunbeam. When the police recognised

us (an enormous Australian flag attached to our radiator cap must have

given them some idea), they waved us on without complaining; and as we

passed, one of them said to me, “I’d feel like a bit of a

blind myself if I were in your shoes.”

We were a very jolly party, and it only needed Harry’s presence

to make it complete. When we arrived at the hotel the orchestra there

played “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and everyone

was very gracious. We dined, and, after visiting a few friends in

London, returned home.

After news of Harry’s safety was confirmed, I received the

following message from the King, by telegram:

“The King rejoices with you and the nation on the happy rescue

of your gallant husband. He trusts that he may be long spared to

you.”

From Queen Alexandra I received this telegram:

“With all my heart I wish you and the nation joy on the safety

of your gallant husband and his companion. I rejoice that a Danish

ship rescued his precious life.

“ALEXANDRA. ”

The next day I had appointed to go and see an Atlantic flight film

at the Majestic Cinema, Clapham. We arrived at the hour fixed, and I

thought there was a fire somewhere, as all the traffic was held up and

there were simply mobs of people. I could not believe that they had all

come to see us, but it seemed they had, and I am afraid they must have

been very disappointed. Someone gave me a beautiful bouquet, but before

I had gathered myself together it was taken away and then presented

to me again by the same charming lady. It appeared that the hitch was

caused by the cinema operator opposite falling off his cab just at the

critical moment when the bouquet was being presented, so it had to be

done all over again. I never saw the film version of this incident, but

it must have been funny.

From a flag-bedecked box we saw the film of the Atlantic flight. Mr.

Derwent Hall Caine said some very nice things about Harry, and added a

few about me for the sake of politeness.

The next morning I stayed in bed and amused myself opening the more

interesting of the correspondence. I received about 2,000 letters

before Harry came home—that was in two days—and I am afraid many did

not get opened for weeks.

Mr. and Mrs. Sopwith and myself left for Grantham just before lunch,

and arrived with nearly an hour to wait for the train which was

speeding Harry down from Scotland. The station was closed to the public

and only R.A.F. cadets were allowed on the opposite platform. The

station-master was most charming, and had arranged for Harry to meet me

in his own little room on the platform.

While on board H.M.S. _Revenge_, Harry sent the following message,

_via_ Aberdeen, at 10.35 p.m. on Sunday, May 25th:

“My machine stopped owing to the water-filter in the feed-pipe

from the radiator to the water-cock being blocked up with refuse,

such as solder and the like, shaking loose in the radiator. It was no

fault of the motor [Rolls-Royce]. The motor ran absolutely perfectly

from start to finish, even when all the water had boiled away. I had

no trouble in landing in the sea. We were picked up by the tramp ship

_Mary_, after being in the water 1½ hours. We are going to London

from Thurso at 2 p.m. on Monday, arriving in London between 7 and 8

p.m. on Tuesday.”

The above message constituted the first public account as to the cause

of the failure.

To Harry, on the _Revenge_, Provost MacKay, of Thurso, sent the

following message:

“The people of Thurso heartily rejoice over your and

Mackenzie-Grieve’s safety, which is surely as wonderful as

your pluck. May I have the pleasure of meeting you and any others at

Scrabster (Port of Thurso) to-morrow and providing luncheon before the

departure of the afternoon train or of assisting you in any way?”

The progress of Harry and Grieve to London was nothing short of

triumphal and an experience in itself, apart from the actual flight

accomplished. After leaving Thurso, at Bonar Bridge station they met

with a rousing reception. The people there had turned out _en masse_,

and two pipers, McBain and Macdonald, played soul-stirring strains

while the crowd cheered and cheered again. As the train stopped, the

folks swarmed round the carriage door and Harry and Grieve shook hands

with as many as possible. There were several telegrams awaiting them at

this remote little station, an augury of what they might expect nearer

home. They took in a tea-basket here.

At Tain the excitement took a similar form. Here a council meeting

was specially adjourned, and the councillors proceeded to the station

to meet the train. Provost Maitland delivered a brief congratulatory

message. Harry’s radiant smile thoroughly captivated the people,

who cheered to the echo as the train passed out.

Similar expressions of the public joy occurred at every station between

Thurso and Inverness. At Brora most of the population, including the

school-children, were on the platform, and loud cheers greeted the

arrival and departure. At Invergordon the crowds on both sides of the

train were particularly large, and unbounded enthusiasm prevailed. At

Alness they were acclaimed by pipers, amid cheers. At Dingwall and

Beauly similar warm-hearted acclamations were offered.

At several places _en route_ ladies offered bouquets, and by the time

the train reached Inverness Harry’s compartment was rich in the

perfume of the lily of the valley.

There were many incidents of human interest on the journey. At one

point far up North Harry noticed a woman and her two kiddies waving at

the train from the door of a crofter’s cottage on the hillside.

He and Grieve both responded by waving their handkerchiefs until they

were out of sight. At some of the stations children came shyly forward

to shake hands and say, “Good luck.” Some were more bold,

and said, “You will do it yet.” Harry was completely won

by the warmth of the Highland welcome, and remarked later, “What

fine people!”

As the train came over the bridge into Inverness, the siren of a vessel

in harbour heralded their arrival. The station and the vicinity were

occupied by enormous crowds, and it was with the utmost difficulty

that Harry and Grieve were able to get, or rather be got, to the

Station Hotel. Speaking from the main staircase of the hotel, Provost

Macdonald, on behalf of the people of Inverness, said:

“We congratulate you very heartily on your brave attempt to

cross the Atlantic and more particularly on the marvellous escape you

have had. In 1913, when you, Mr. Hawker, passed Inverness, you did not

give us much of a chance of welcoming you, but we now have the chance,

and give you a real Highland welcome. We are delighted to see you, and

to congratulate you on your wonderful attempt to cross the Atlantic.

We are glad to know that you live to fly another day, and I hope that

before long you will win that great prize offered by the _Daily Mail_.

The proprietors of that newspaper have done a generous and patriotic

action in stimulating aviation—one that deserves the congratulations

of the whole country. We are all delighted to have you and Commander

Grieve with us. I hope that after you have had a needed rest you will

have another try at the Transatlantic flight, and, if you do, you

will have the best wishes of the people of Inverness that your second

attempt will be successful. I call for three cheers for Mr. Hawker and

Commander Grieve, and three more for Mrs. Hawker, who has never lost

faith in her husband’s safety.”

When the cheers had subsided, Harry said:

“I can assure you I feel very embarrassed under the present

conditions. I cannot help feeling in a sort of way that I am here

under false pretences in so far as I am not so good as people think

I am. The risk I ran was not so great as people think it was. It

was a perfectly straightforward thing, and not at all an attempt

of the do-or-die order.” (Amid cheers, somebody shouted,

“You’re too modest!”) “Under ordinary

conditions, there are hundreds of ships in the Atlantic without

wireless, and one might be picked up and be there for a fortnight

without anybody knowing about it. There was practically no risk at

all. I thank you very much indeed for your warm welcome and your good

wishes.”

Grieve was also called on for a “speech,” and said:

“I can only echo Mr. Hawker’s words. I deeply appreciate

your great and enthusiastic welcome, as I am a Scotsman myself.”

They were both called on to make a brief speech from the balcony of the

hotel as well. After supping with Provost Macdonald, they entrained for

Edinburgh and London.

In the small hours of the night, even at tiny stations, there were

little groups of people eager to catch a glimpse of the train as it

passed through, and long after Harry and Grieve were enjoying a sleep

they were passing stations where the train halted to the accompaniment

of bagpipes.

Perth was reached at 5 a.m., when one would have thought everybody

there would be fast asleep. But this was not so. The people were

there in thousands to cheer and watch the heroes of the hour for a

few moments. A bouquet was presented and, in acknowledging it, Harry

mentioned that he had had an excellent sleep from Inverness and was

feeling very fit.

As for the reception at Edinburgh, I cannot do better than reproduce

the account given by the _Evening News_ (London):

“... At Edinburgh, which has grown accustomed to the visits

of the great, there were the same scenes. The station platform was

crowded by 8 o’clock and there was a strong force of police on

duty to keep the way clear for passengers. When the train steamed

in there was a great murmur of excitement and craning of necks.

Hawker was at once surrounded by all kinds of official and unofficial

admirers. It was really marvellous, the number of solemn officials

who found it their duty to be very near Hawker as he came down the

platform. The cheers grew and grew till the whole station echoed with

them. Suddenly there was a rush through the barrier, and before the

police realised what was happening Hawker was raised shoulder high and

carried, smiling and a bit unstable, through the clamorous crowds. It

was an extraordinary scene of fervour and welcome. Then he disappeared

into the Station Hotel for breakfast. The same desire to see and

acclaim the hero was there, though it was more discreetly veiled, as

becomes a great hotel. It was wonderful, the number of people who had

left their newspaper and their handkerchief in the dining-room and in

the hall.

“I had a few words with Hawker in the hotel. I found him looking

the very picture of health, bright and youthful—as one could hardly

believe after his journey into the Atlantic and across Scotland. He

told me that already he had given the whole story of the flight. He

talked with the greatest enthusiasm of his journey through Scotland.

‘You would hardly believe,’ he said, ‘how kind and

appreciative they have been the whole way down. It has absolutely

astonished me.’ I asked him whether he thought he would ever

try the Atlantic again. One might have expected a very emphatic

negative to such a suggestion, but all Hawker could say was, ‘I

don’t know.’ He said it depended on the Sopwith firm,

seeming to suggest that his own personal experiences and tastes were

rather unimportant things.