Setting up the flierFEATHERING THE WINGS—SETTING UP THE FLIER AT ST. JOHN'S, N. F.
FEATHERING THE WINGS—SETTING UP THE FLIER AT ST. JOHN'S, N. F.
FEATHERING THE WINGS—SETTING UP THE FLIER AT ST. JOHN'S, N. F.
Adjusting the bracing wiresTHE LAST TOUCHES—ADJUSTING THE BRACING WIRES
THE LAST TOUCHES—ADJUSTING THE BRACING WIRES
THE LAST TOUCHES—ADJUSTING THE BRACING WIRES
By Friday evening the last coat of dope was dry, and nothing had been overlooked. The only articles missing were some life-saving suits, which we were expecting from the United States. Long afterwards we discovered that these had been delivered to the Bank of Montreal, where the officials, believing that the case contained typewriters, stored it in their cellars.
Alcock and I went to bed at 7 P. M. on Friday while the mechanics remained all night with the machine, completing the filling of the tanks and moving it to the position chosen for the start. We were called before dawn, and joined them on the aërodrome at 3:30 A. M. on June the fourteenth.
A large black cat, its tail held high in a comical curve, sauntered by the transatlantic machine as we stood by it, early in the morning; and such a cheerful omen made me more than ever anxious to start.
Two other black cats—more intimate if less alive—waited in the Vickers-Vimy. They were Lucky Jim and Twinkletoe, our mascots, destined to be the first air passengers across the Atlantic. Lucky Jim wore an enormous head, an untidy ribbon and a hopeful expression; whereas Twinkletoe was daintily diminutive, and, from the tip of her upright tail to the tip of her stuffed nose, expressed surprise and anxiety. Other gifts that we carried as evidence of our friends' best wishes were bunches of white heather.
"Strong westerly wind. Conditions otherwise fairly favorable."
Such was the brief summary of the weather conditions given us at 4 A. M. by the meteorological officer. We had definitely decided to leave on the fourteenth, if given half a chance; for at all costs we wanted to avoid a long period of hope deferred while awaiting ideal conditions.
At early dawn we were on the aërodrome, searching the sky for a sign and asking information of Lieutenant Clements, the Royal Air Force weather expert. His reports were fairly favorable; but a hefty cross-wind was blowing from the west in uneven gusts, and everybody opined that we had better wait a few hours, in the expectation that it would die down.
Meanwhile, Alcock ran the engines and found them to be in perfect condition. Neither could any fault be found with the gray-winged machine, inert but fully loaded, and complete to the last split-pin.
It was of the Standard type of Vickers-Vimy bomber; although, of course, bombs and bombing gear were not carried, their weight being usefully replaced by extra storage tanks for gasoline. One of these, shaped like a boat, could be used as a life-saving raft if some accident brought about a descent into the sea. Thistank was so placed that it would be the first to be emptied of gasoline. The fittings allowed of its detachment, ready for floating, while the machine lost height in a glide. We hoped for and expected the best; but it was as well to be prepared for the worst.
To make communication and coöperation more easy, the seats for both pilot and navigator were side by side in what is usually the pilot's cockpit, the observer's cockpit at the fore-end of the fuselage being hidden under a stream-lined covering and occupied by a tank.
The tanks had been filled during the night, so that the Vickers-Vimy contained its full complement of eight hundred and seventy gallons of gasoline and forty gallons of oil. We now packed our personal luggage, which consisted only of toilet kit and food—sandwiches, Caley's chocolate, Horlick's Malted Milk, and two thermos flasks filled with coffee. A small cupboard, fitted into the tail, contained emergency rations. These were for use in case of disaster, as the tail of the aëroplane would remain clear of the waves for a long while after the nose had submerged. Our mascots, also, were in this cupboard.
The mail-bag had been taken on board a dayearlier. It contained three hundred private letters, for each of which the postal officials at St. John's had provided a special stamp. For one of these stamps, by the way, eight hundred and seventy-five dollars was offered and refused on the Manchester Exchange within two days of the letter's delivery. They are now sold at about one hundred and twenty-five dollars apiece, I believe.
We breakfasted, and throughout the morning waited for a weakening of the wind. As, however, it remained at about the same strength and showed no signs of better behavior, we made up our minds to leave at mid-day.
We had planned to get away in an easterly direction, for although we should thus be moving with the wind instead of into it, the machine would face down-hill, and owing to the shape of the aërodrome we should have a better run than if we taxied towards the west. The Vickers-Vimy was therefore placed in position to suit these arrangements.
But soon we found that the gale was too strong for such a plan, and that we should have to "take off" into it. The mechanics dragged the machine to the far end of the aërodrome, so as to prepare for a westerly run.
This change was responsible for a minor setback. A sudden gust carried a drag-rope round the undercarriage, tightened one of the wheels against a petrol supply pipe, and crushed it. The consequent replacement wasted about an hour.
Still with hopes that the gale would drop during the early afternoon, we sat under the wing-tips at two o'clock and lunched, while conscious of an earnest hope that the next square meal would be eaten in Ireland.
The wind remaining obstinately strong during the early afternoon, we agreed to take things as they were and to lose no more precious time. At about four o'clock we wriggled into our flying-kit, and climbed into the machine. We wore electrically heated clothing, Burberry overalls, and the usual fur gloves and fur-lined helmets.
While Alcock attended to his engines I made certain that my navigation instruments were in place. The sextant was clipped to the dashboard facing the pilot, the course and distance calculator was clasped to the side of the fuselage, the drift-indicator fitted under my seat, and the Baker navigation machine, with my charts inside it, lay on the floor of the cockpit.I also carried an electric torch, and kept within easy reach a Very pistol, with red and white flares, so that if the worst should happen we could attract the attention of passing ships. The battery for heating our electric suits was between the two seats.
The meteorological officer gave me a chart showing the approximate strength and direction of the Atlantic air currents. It indicated that the high westerly wind would drop before we were a hundred miles out to sea, and that the wind velocities for the rest of the journey would not exceed twenty knots, with clear weather over the greater part of the ocean. This was responsible for satisfactory hopes at the time of departure; but later, when we were over mid-Atlantic, the hopes dissolved in disappointment when the promised "clear weather" never happened.
The departure was quiet and undramatic. Apart from the mechanics and a few reporters, few people were present, for the strong wind had persuaded our day-to-day sightseers from St. John's that we must postpone a start. When all was ready I shook hands with Lieutenant Clements, Mr. Maxwell Muller and other friends, accepted their best wishes for success,and composed myself in the rather crowded cockpit.
The customary signal-word "Contact!" exchanged between pilot and mechanics, seemed, perhaps, to have a special momentary significance; but my impatience to take the plunge and be rid of anxiety about the start shut out all other impressions that might have been different from those experienced at the beginning of each of the thousand and one flights I had made before the transatlantic venture.
First one and then the other motors came to life, swelled into a roar when Alcock ran them up and softened into a subdued murmur when he throttled back and warmed them up. Finally, everything being satisfactory, he disconnected the starting magneto and engine switches, to avoid stoppage due to possible short-circuits, and signaled for the chocks to be pulled clear. With throttles open and engines "all out," the Vickers-Vimy advanced into the westerly wind.
The "take off," up a slight gradient, was very difficult. Gusts up to forty-five knots were registered, and there was insufficient room to begin the run dead into the wind. What I feared in particular was that a sudden eddymight lift the planes on one side and cause the machine to heel over. Another danger was the rough surface of the aërodrome.
Owing to its heavy load, the machine did not leave the ground until it had lurched and lumbered, at an ever-increasing speed, over 300 yards. We were then almost at the end of the ground-tether allowed us.
A line of hills straight ahead was responsible for much "bumpiness" in the atmosphere, and made climbing very difficult. At times the strong wind dropped almost to zero, then rose in eddying blasts. Once or twice our wheels nearly touched the ground again.
Under these conditions we could climb but slowly, allowing for the danger of sudden upward gusts. Several times I held my breath, from fear that our undercarriage would hit a roof or a tree-top.
I am convinced that only Alcock's clever piloting saved us from such an early disaster. When, after a period that seemed far longer than it actually was, we were well above the buildings and trees, I noticed that the perspiration of acute anxiety was running down his face.
We wasted no time and fuel in circling roundthe aërodrome while attaining a preliminary height, but headed straight into the wind until we were at about eight hundred feet. Then we turned towards the sea and continued to rise leisurely, with engines throttled down. As we passed our aërodrome I leaned over the side of the machine and waved farewell to the small groups of mechanics and sightseers.
The Vickers-Vimy, although loaded to the extent of about eleven pounds per square foot, climbed satisfactorily, if slowly. Eight minutes passed before we had reached the thousand feet level.
As we passed over St. John's and Cabot's Hill towards Concepcion Bay the air was very bumpy, and not until we reached the coast and were away from the uneven contours of Newfoundland did it become calmer. The eddying wind, which was blowing behind us from almost due west, with a strength of thirty-five knots, made it harder than ever to keep the machine on a straight course. The twin-engine Vickers-Vimy is not especially sensitive to atmospheric instability; but under the then atmospheric conditions it lurched, swayed, and did its best to deviate, much as if it had been a little single-seater scout.
We crossed the coast at 4:28 P. M. (Greenwich time), our aneroid then registering about twelve hundred feet. Just before we left the land I let out the wireless aërial, and tapped out on the transmitter key a message to Mount Pearl Naval Station: "All well and started."
My mind merely recorded the fact that we were leaving Newfoundland behind us. Otherwise it was too tense with concentration on the task ahead to find room for any emotions or thoughts on seeing the last of the square-patterned roof-mosaic of St. John's, and of the tangled intricacy of Newfoundland's fields, woods and hills. Behind and below was America, far ahead and below was Europe, between the two were nearly two thousand miles of ocean. But at the time I made no such stirring, if obvious, reflections; for my navigation instruments and charts, as applied to sun, horizon, sea-surface and time of day, demanded close and undivided attention.
Withal, I felt a queer but quite definite confidence in our safe arrival over the Irish coast, based, I suppose, on an assured knowledge that the machine, the motors, the navigating instruments and the pilot were all first-class.
The Vickers-Vimy shook itself free from theatmospheric disturbances over the land, and settled into an even stride through the calmer spaces above the ocean. The westerly wind behind us, added to the power developed by the motors, gave us a speed along our course (as opposed to "air-speed") of nearly one hundred and forty knots.
Visibility was fairly good during the first hour of the flight. Above, at a height of something between two and three thousand feet, a wide ceiling of clouds was made jagged at fairly frequent intervals by holes through which the blue sky could be glimpsed. Below, the sea was blue-gray, dull for the most part but bright in occasional patches, where the sunlight streamed on it through some cloud-gap. Icebergs stood out prominently from the surface, in splashes of glaring white.
I was using all my faculties in setting and keeping to the prescribed course. The Baker navigating machine, with the chart, was on my knees. Not knowing what kind of weather was before us, I knelt on my seat and made haste to take observations on the sea, the horizon, and the sun, through intervals in the covering of clouds.
The navigation of aircraft, in its presentstage, is distinctly more difficult than the navigation of seacraft. The speed at which they travel and the influence of the wind introduce problems which are not easily solved.
A ship's navigator knows to a small fraction of a mile the set of any ocean current, and from the known speed of his vessel he can keep "dead reckoning" with an accuracy that is nearly absolute. In fact, navigators have taken their craft across the Atlantic without once having seen the sun or stars, and yet, at the end of the journey, been within five miles of the desired destination. But in the air the currents either cannot be, or have not yet been, charted, and his allowance for the drift resulting from them must be obtained by direct observation on the surface of the ocean.
By the same means his actual speed over the ocean may be calculated. He finds the position of his craft by measuring the angle which either the sun or a selected star makes with the horizon, and noting the Greenwich mean time at which the observation is made. If the bearings of two distinct wireless stations can be taken, it is also possible to find his definite position by means of directional wireless telegraphy.
When making my plans for the transatlanticflight I considered very carefully all the possibilities, and decided to rely solely upon observations of the sun and stars and upon "dead reckoning," in preference to using directional wireless, as I was uncertain at that time whether or not the directional wireless system was sufficiently reliable.
My sextant was of the ordinary marine type, but it had a more heavily engraved scale than is usual, so as to make easier the reading of it amid the vibration of the aëroplane. My main chart was on the Mercator projection, and I had a special transparent chart which could be moved above it, and upon which were drawn the Sumner circles for all times of the day. I carried a similar special chart for use at night, giving the Sumner circles for six chosen stars. To measure the drift I had a six-inch Drift-Bearing plate, which also permitted me to measure the ground speed, with the help of a stopwatch. In addition, I had an Appleyard Course and Distance Calculator, and Traverse tables for the calculation of "dead reckoning."
Take offIT WAS HARD TO FIND AN AËRODROME WITH SUFFICIENT "TAKE OFF"
IT WAS HARD TO FIND AN AËRODROME WITH SUFFICIENT "TAKE OFF"
IT WAS HARD TO FIND AN AËRODROME WITH SUFFICIENT "TAKE OFF"
SightseersSIGHTSEERS, IF LEFT TO THEMSELVES, WOULD HAVE WRECKED THE MACHINE
SIGHTSEERS, IF LEFT TO THEMSELVES, WOULD HAVE WRECKED THE MACHINE
SIGHTSEERS, IF LEFT TO THEMSELVES, WOULD HAVE WRECKED THE MACHINE
As the horizon is often obscured by clouds or mist, making impossible the measurement of its angle with the heavenly bodies, I had a special type of spirit level, on which the horizonwas replaced by a bubble. This, of course, was less reliable than a true horizon since the bubble was affected by variations of speed; but it was at least a safeguard. Taking into account the general obscurity of the atmosphere during most of the flight, it was fortunate that I took such a precaution, for I seldom caught sight of a clearly defined horizon.
I could legitimately congratulate myself on having collected as many early observations as possible while the conditions were good; for soon we ran into an immense bank of fog, which shut off completely the surface of the ocean. The blue of the sea merged into a hazy purple, and then into the dullest kind of gray.
The cloud screen above us, also, grew much thicker, and there were no more gaps in it. The occasional sun-glints on wing-tips and struts no longer appeared.
Thus I could obtain neither observations on the sun, nor calculations of drift from the seas. Assuming that my first observations were satisfactory, I therefore carried on by "dead reckoning," and hoped for the best. From time to time I varied the course slightly, so as to allow for the different variations of the compass.
Meantime, while we flew through the wide layer of air sandwiched between fog and cloud, I began to jot down remarks for the log of the journey. At 5:20 I noted that we were at fifteen hundred feet and still climbing slowly, while the haze was becoming ever thicker and heavier.
I leaned towards the wireless transmitter, and began to send a message; but the small propeller on it snapped, and broke away from the generator. Careful examination, both at the time and after we landed, showed no defect; and I am still unable to account for the fracture. Although I was too occupied with calculations to pay much attention to moods or passing thoughts, I remember feeling that this cutting off of all means of communication with the life below and behind us gave a certain sense of finality to the adventure.
We continued eastward, with the rhythmic drone of the motors unnoted in supreme concentration on the tense hours that were to come.
For a time Alcock and I attempted short conversations through the telephone. Its earpieces were under our fur caps, and round our necks were sensitive receivers for transmitting the throat vibrations that accompany speech. At about six o'clock Alcock discarded his earpieces because they were too painful; and for the rest of the flight we communicated in gestures and by scribbled notes.
I continued to keep the course by "dead reckoning," taking into account height, compass bearing, strength of wind, and my previous observations. The wind varied quite a lot, and several times the nose of the Vickers-Vimy swayed from the right direction, so that I had to make rapid mental allowances for deviation.
The results I made known to Alcock by passing over slips of paper torn from my notebook. The first of these was the direction: "Keep her nearer 120 than 140."
The second supplied the news that the transmitter was useless: "Wireless generator smashed. The propeller has gone."
Throughout the evening we flew between a covering of unbroken cloud and a screen of thick fog, which shut off the sea completely. My scribbled comment to the pilot at 5:45 was: "I can't get an obs. in this fog. Will estimate that same wind holds and work by dead reckoning."
Despite the lack of external guidance, the early evening was by no means dull. Just after six the starboard engine startled us with a loud, rhythmic chattering, rather like the noise of machine-gun fire at close quarters. With a momentary thought of the engine trouble which had caused Hawker and Grieve to descend in mid-Atlantic, we both looked anxiously for the defect.
This was not hard to find. A chunk of exhaust pipe had split away, and was quivering before the rush of air like a reed in an organ pipe. It became first red, then white-hot; and, softened by the heat, it gradually crumpled up. Finally it was blown away, with the result that three cylinders were exhausting straight intothe air, without guidance through the usual outlet.
The chattering swelled into a loud, jerky thrum, much more prominent than the normal noise of a Rolls-Royce aëro-engine. This settled down to a steady and continuous roar.
Until we landed nothing could be done to the broken exhaust pipe, and we had to accept it as a minor disaster, unpleasant but irremediable. Very soon my ears had become so accustomed to the added clamor that it passed unnoticed.
I must admit, however, that although my mind contained no room for impressions dealing with incidents not of vital importance, I was far from comfortable when I first observed that a little flame, licking outward from the open exhaust, was playing on one of the cross-bracing wires and had made it red-hot. This trouble could not be lessened by throttling down the starboard engine, as in that case we should have lost valuable height.
The insistent hum of the engines, in fact, made the solitude seem more normal. The long flight would have been dreadful had we made it in silence; for, shut off as we were from sea and sky, it was a very lonely affair. At thisstage the spreading fog enveloped the Vickers-Vimy so closely that our sheltered cockpit suggested an isolated but by no means cheerless room.
Moisture condensed on goggles, dial glasses and wires when, at about seven, we rose through a layer of clouds on the two thousand foot level. Alcock wore no goggles, by the way, and I made use of mine only when leaning over the side of the fuselage to take observations.
Emerging into the air above the clouds, I looked upward, and found another stretch of cloud-bank still higher, at five thousand feet. We thus remained cut off from the sun. Still guided only by "dead reckoning," the Vickers-Vimy continued along the airway between a white cloud-ceiling and a white cloud-carpet.
I was very anxious for an opportunity to take further observations either of the sun or of the stars, so as to check the direction by finding our correct position. At 7:40 I handed Alcock the following note: "If you get above clouds we will get a good fix[1]to-night, and hope for clear weather to-morrow. Not at any risky expense to engines though. We have four hours yet to climb."
The altimeter was then registering three thousand feet.
All this while I had listened occasionally for wireless messages, as the receiver was still in working order. No message came for us, however, and the only sign of life was when, at 7:40, I heard somebody calling "B. M. K." Even that small sign of contact with life below cheered me mightily.
Throughout the journey we had no regular meals, but ate and drank in snatches, whenever we felt so inclined. It was curious that neither of us felt hungry at any time during the sixteen hours of the flight, although now and then I felt the need of something to drink.
The food was packed into a little cupboard behind my head, on the left-hand side of the fuselage. I reached for it at about 7:30, and, deciding that Alcock must need nourishment, I passed him two sandwiches and some chocolate, and uncorked the thermos flask. He made use of only one hand for eating and drinking, keeping the other on the control lever.
We happened upon a large gap in the upper layer of clouds at 8:30. Through it the sun shone pleasantly, projecting the shadow of the Vickers-Vimy on to the lower layer, over whichit darted and twisted, contracting or expanding according to the distortions on the cloud-surface.
I was able to maintain observation on the sun for some ten minutes. The calculations thus obtained showed that if we were still on the right course the machine must be farther east than was indicated by "dead reckoning." From this I deduced that the strength of the wind must have increased rather than fallen off, as had been prophesied in the report of the meteorological expert at St. John's. This supposition was borne out by the buffetings which, from time to time, swayed the Vickers-Vimy. Up till then our average speed had been one hundred and forty-three knots.
I got my observations of the sun while kneeling on the seat and looking between the port wings. I made use of the spirit level, as the horizon was invisible and the sextant could therefore not be used.
Later, I caught sight of the sea for a few brief moments, and at 9:15 I wrote the following note to Alcock: "Through a rather bad patch I have just made our ground speed 140 knots, and from the sun's altitude we must be much further east and south than I calculated."
I continued to keep a log of our movements and observations, and at 9:20 P. M. made the following entry: "Height 4,000 feet. Dense clouds below and above. Got one sun observation, which shows that dead reckoning is badly out. Shall wait for stars and climb. At 8:31 position about 49 deg. 31 minutes north, 38 deg. 35 minutes west."
The clouds above remained constant, at a height of about five thousand feet. I was eager to pass through them before the stars appeared; and at nine-thirty, when the light was fading, I scribbled the inquiry: "Can you get above these clouds at, say, 60°? We must get stars as soon as poss."
Alcock nodded, and proceeded to climb as steeply as he dared. Twilight was now setting in, gradually but noticeably. Between the layers of cloud the daylight, although never very good, had until then been strong enough to let me read the instruments and chart. At ten o'clock this was impossible without artificial light.
For my chart I now used an electric lamp. I switched on a tiny bulb which was placed so as to make the face of the compass clear in the dark, all the other fixed instruments beingluminous in themselves. For my intermittent inspection of the engines I had to flash the electric torch over either side of the cockpit.
The clouds, both above and below, grew denser and darker. One could see them only as indefinite masses of nebulousness, and it became more and more difficult to judge how near to or how far from them we were. An entry in my log, made at 10:20, says, "No observations, and dead reckoning apparently out. Could not get above clouds for sunset. Will wait check by stars."
An hour later we had climbed to five thousand two hundred feet. But still we found clouds above us; and we continued to rise, so as to be above them in time for some early observations on the stars.
It was now quite dark; and as we droned our isolated way eastward and upward, nothing could be seen outside the cockpit, except the inner struts, the engines, the red-glowing vapor ejected through the exhaust pipes, and portions of the wings, which glistened in the dim moonglimmer.
I waited impatiently for the first sight of the moon, the Pole Star, and other night-time friends of every navigator.
[1]Position.
[1]Position.
Midnight came and went amid sullen darkness, modified only by dim moonlight and the red radiance that spurted from the motors' exhaust pipes.
By then we must have climbed to about six thousand feet, although my log shows no record of our height at this stage. Meanwhile, we were still between upper and lower ranges of cloud banks.
At a quarter past twelve Alcock took the Vickers-Vimy through the upper range, only to find a third layer of clouds, several thousand feet higher. This, however, was patchy and without continuity, so that I was able to glimpse the stars from time to time.
At 12:25 I identified through a gap to north-eastward Vega, which shone very brightly high in the heavens, and the Pole Star. With their help, and that of a cloud horizon that wasclearly defined in the moonlight, not far below our level, I used the sextant to fix our position.
This I found was latitude 50° 7´ N. and longitude 31° W., showing that we had flown 850 nautical miles, at an average speed of 106 knots. We were slightly to the south of the correct course, which fact I made known to Alcock in a note, with penciled corrections for remedying the deviation.
Most of my "dead reckoning" calculations were short of our actual position because, influenced by meteorological predictions based on the weather reports at St. John's, I had allowed for a falling off in the strength of the wind, and this had not occurred. Having found the stars and checked our position and direction, the urgent necessity to continue climbing no longer existed. Alcock had been nursing his engines very carefully, and to reduce the strain on them he let the machine lose height slowly. At 1:20 A. M. we were down to four thousand feet, and an hour later we had dropped yet four hundred feet lower.
Sir John AlcockTHE TRANSATLANTIC MACHINE—A VICKERS-VIMY WITH ROLLS-ROYCE ENGINES
THE TRANSATLANTIC MACHINE—A VICKERS-VIMY WITH ROLLS-ROYCE ENGINES
THE TRANSATLANTIC MACHINE—A VICKERS-VIMY WITH ROLLS-ROYCE ENGINES
The clouds overhead were still patchy, clusters of stars lightening the intervals between them. But the Vickers-Vimy, at its then height, was moving through a sea of fog, whichprevented effective observation. This I made known to the pilot in a message: "Can get no good readings. Observation too indefinite."
The moon was in evidence for about an hour and a half, radiating a misty glow over the semi-darkness and tinging the cloud-tips with variations of silver, gold and soft red. Whenever directly visible it threw the moving shadows of the Vickers-Vimy on to the clouds below.
Mostly I could see the moon by looking over the machine's starboard planes. I tried to sight on it for latitude, but the horizon was still too indefinite.
An aura of unreality seemed to surround us as we flew onward towards the dawn and Ireland. The fantastic surroundings impinged on my alert consciousness as something extravagantly abnormal—the distorted ball of a moon, the weird half-light, the monstrous cloud-shapes, the fog below and around us, the misty indefiniteness of space, the changeless drone, drone, drone of the motors.
To take my mind from the strangeness of it all, I turned to the small food-cupboard at the back of the cockpit. Twice during the night we drank and ate in snatches, Alcock keeping a hand on the joystick while using his other totake the sandwiches, chocolate and thermos flask, which I passed to him one at a time.
Outside the cockpit was bitter cold, but inside was well-sheltered warmth, due to the protective windscreen, the nearness of the radiator, and our thick clothing. Almost our only physical discomfort resulted from the impossibility of any but cramped movements. It was a relief even to turn from one motor to the other, when examining them by the light of my electric torch.
After several hours in the confined quarters, I wanted to kick out, to walk, to stretch myself. For Alcock, who never removed his feet from the rudder-bars, the feeling of restiveness must have been painfully uncomfortable.
It was extraordinary that during the sixteen hours of the flight neither Alcock nor I felt the least desire for sleep. During the war, pilots and observers of night-bombing craft, their job completed, often suffered intensely on the homeward journey, from the effort of will necessary to fight the drowsiness induced by relaxed tension and the monotonous, never-varying hum of the motor—and this after only four to six hours of continuous flying.
Probably, however, such tiredness was mostlyreaction and mental slackening after the object of their journeys—the bombing of a target—had been achieved. Our own object would not be achieved until we saw Ireland beneath us; and it could not be achieved unless we kept our every faculty concentrated on it all the time. There was therefore no mental reaction during our long period of wakeful flying over the ocean.
We began to think about sunrise and the new day. We had been flying for over ten hours; and the next ten would bring success or failure. We had more than enough petrol to complete the long journey, for Alcock had treated the engines very gently, never running them all out, but varying the power from half to three-quarter throttle. Our course seemed satisfactory, and the idea of failure was concerned only with the chance of engine mishap, such as had befallen Hawker and Grieve, or of something entirely unforeseen.
Something entirely unforeseen did happen. At about sunrise—3:10 A. M. to be exact—when we were between thirty-five hundred and four thousand feet, we ran into a thick bank that projected above the lower layer of cloud. All around was dense, drifting vapor, which cut offfrom our range of vision even the machine's wing tips and the fore end of the fuselages.
This was entirely unexpected; and, separated suddenly from external guidance, we lost our instinct of balance. The machine, left to its own devices, swung, flew amok, and began to perform circus tricks.
Until we should see either the horizon or the sky or the sea, and thus restore our sense of the horizontal, we could tell only by the instruments what was happening to the Vickers-Vimy. Unless there be outside guidance, the effect on the Augean canal in one's ears of the centrifugal force developed by a turn in a cloud causes a complete loss of dimensional equilibrium, so that one is inclined to think that an aëroplane is level even when it is at a big angle with the horizontal. The horizontal, in fact, seems to be inside the machine.
A glance at the instruments on the dashboard facing us made it obvious that we were not flying level. The air speed crept up to ninety knots, while Alcock was trying to restore equilibrium. He pulled back the control lever; but apparently the air speed meter was jammed, for although the Vickers-Vimy must have nosed upwards, the reading remained at ninety.
And then we stalled—that is to say our speed dropped below the minimum necessary for heavier-than-air flight. The machine hung motionless for a second, after which it heeled over and fell into what was either a spinning nosedive, or a very steep spiral.
The compass needle continued to revolve rapidly, showing that the machine was swinging as it dropped; but, still hemmed in as we were by the thick vapor, we could not tell how, or in which direction we were spinning.
Before the pilot could reduce the throttle, the roar of the motors had almost doubled in volume, and instead of the usual 1650 to 1700 revolutions per minute, they were running at about 2200 revolutions per minute. Alcock shut off the throttles, and the vibration ceased.
Apart from the changing levels marked by the aneroid, only the fact that our bodies were pressed tightly against the seats indicated that the machine was falling. How and at what angle it was falling, we knew not. Alcock tried to centralize the controls, but failed because we had lost all sense of what was central. I searched in every direction for an external sign, and saw nothing but opaque nebulousness.
The aneroid, meantime, continued to registera height that dropped ever lower and alarmingly lower—three thousand, two thousand, one thousand, five hundred feet. I realized the possibility that we might hit the ocean at any moment, if the aneroid's exactitude had been affected by differences between the barometric conditions of our present position and those of St. John's, where the instrument was set.
A more likely danger was that our cloud might stretch down to the surface of the ocean; in which case Alcock, having obtained no sight of the horizon, would be unable to counteract the spin in time.
I made ready for the worst, loosening my safety belt and preparing to salve my notes of the flight. All precautions would probably have been unavailing, however, for had we fallen into the sea, there would have been small hope of survival. We were on a steep slant, and even had we escaped drowning when first submerged, the dice would be heavily loaded against the chance of rescue by a passing ship.
And then while these thoughts were chasing each other across my mind, we left the cloud as suddenly as we had entered it. We were now less than a hundred feet from the ocean. The sea-surface did not appear below the machine,but, owing to the wide angle at which we were tilted against the horizontal, seemed to stand up level, sideways to us.
Alcock looked at the ocean and the horizon, and almost instantaneously regained his mental equilibrium in relation to external balance. Fortunately the Vickers-Vimy maneuvers quickly, and it responded rapidly to Alcock's action in centralizing the control lever and rudder bar. He opened up the throttles. The motors came back to life, and the danger was past. Once again disaster had been averted by the pilot's level-headedness and skill.
When at last the machine swung back to the level and flew parallel with the Atlantic, our height was fifty feet. It appeared as if we could stretch downward and almost touch the great white-caps that crested the surface. With the motors shut off we could actuallyhearthe voice of the cheated ocean as its waves swelled, broke, and swelled again.
The compass needle, which had continued to swing, now stabilized itself and quivered toward the west, showing that the end of the spin left us facing America. As we did not want to return to St. John's, and earnestly wanted toreach Ireland, Alcock turned the machine in a wide semi-circle and headed eastward, while climbing away from the ocean and towards the lowest clouds.
Sunrise made itself known to us merely as a gradual lightening that showed nothing but clouds, above and below. The sun itself was nowhere visible.
We seemed to be flying in and out of dense patches of cloud; for every now and then we would pass through a white mountain, emerge into a small area of clear atmosphere, and then be confronted with another enormous barrier of nebulousness.
The indefiniteness of dawn disappointed my hopes of taking observations. Already at three o'clock I had scribbled a note to the pilot: "Immediately you see sun rising, point machine straight towards it, and we'll get compass bearings." I had already worked out a table of hours, angles and azimuths of the sun at its rising, to serve as a check upon our position;but, as things happened, I was obliged to resume navigation by means of "dead reckoning."
A remark written in my log at twenty minutes past four was that the Vickers-Vimy had climbed to six thousand five hundred feet, and was above the lower range of clouds. For the rest, the three hours that followed sunrise I remember chiefly as a period of envelopment by clouds, and ever more clouds. Soon, as we continued to climb, the machine was traveling through a mist of uniform thickness that completely shut off from our range of vision everything outside a radius of a few yards from the wing-tips.
And then came a spell of bad weather, beginning with heavy rain, and continuing with snow. The downpour seemed to meet us almost horizontally, owing to the high speed of the machine, as compared with the rate of only a few feet per second at which the rain and snow fell.
The snow gave place to hail, mingled with sleet. The sheltered position of the cockpit, and the stream-lining of the machine, kept us free from the downfall so long as we remained seated; but if we exposed a hand or a face abovethe windscreen's protection, it would meet scores of tingling stabs from the hailstones.
When we had reached a height of eight thousand eight hundred feet, I discovered that the glass face of the gasoline overflow gauge, which showed whether or not the supply of fuel for the motors was correct, had become obscured by clotted snow. To guard against carburetor trouble, it was essential that the pilot should be able to read the gauge at any moment. It was up to me, therefore, to clear away the snow from the glass.
The gauge was fixed on one of the center section struts. The only way to reach it was by climbing out of the cockpit and kneeling on top of the fuselage, while holding on to a strut for balance. This I did; and the unpleasant change from the comparative warmth of the cockpit to the biting, icy cold outside was very unpleasant. The violent rush of displaced air, which tended to sweep me backward, was another discomfort.
I had no difficulty, however, in reaching upward and rubbing the snow from the face of the gauge. Until the storm ended, a repetition of this performance at fairly frequent intervalscontinued to be necessary. There was, however, scarcely any danger in kneeling on the fuselage as long as Alcock kept the machine level.
Every now and then we examined the motors; for on them depended whether the next four hours would bring success or failure. Meantime, we were still living for the moment; and although I was intensely glad that four-fifths of the ocean had been crossed, I could afford to spare no time for speculation on what a safe arrival would mean to us. As yet, neither of us was aware of the least sign of weariness, mental or physical.
When I had nothing more urgent on hand, I listened at the wireless receiver but I heard no message for us from beginning to end of the flight. Any kind of communication with ship or shore would have been welcome, as a reminder that we were not altogether out of touch with the world below. The complete absence of such contact made it seem that nobody cared a darn about us.
The entry that I scribbled in my log at 6:20 A. M. was that we had reached a height of nine thousand four hundred feet, and were still in drifting cloud, which was sometimes so thickthat it cut off from view parts of the Vickers-Vimy. Snow was still falling, and the top sides of the plane were covered completely by a crusting of frozen sleet.
The sleet imbedded itself in the hinges of the ailerons and jammed them, so that for about an hour the machine had scarcely any lateral control. Fortunately the Vickers-Vimy has plenty of inherent lateral stability; and, as the rudder controls were never clogged by sleet, we were able to carry on with caution.
Alcock continued to climb steadily, so as to get above the seemingly interminable clouds and let me have a clear sky for purposes of navigation. At five o'clock, when we were in the levels round about eleven thousand feet, I caught the sun for a moment—just a pin-point glimmer through a cloud-gap. There was no horizon; but I was able to obtain a reading with the help of my Abney spirit level.
This observation gave us a position close to the Irish coast. Yet I could not be sure of just where we were on the line indicated by it. We therefore remained at eleven thousand feet until, at 7:20 A. M., I had definitely fixed the position line. This accomplished, I scribbled the following message and handed it across to the pilot:
"We had better go lower down, where the air is warmer, and where we might pick up a steamer."
Just as we had started to nose downward, the starboard motor began to pop ominously, as if it were backfiring through one of its carburetors. Alcock throttled back while keeping the machine on a slow glide. The popping thereupon ceased.
By eight o'clock we had descended from eleven thousand to one thousand feet, where the machine was still surrounded by cloudy vapor. Here, however, the atmosphere was much warmer, and the ailerons were again operating.
Alcock was feeling his way down gently and alertly, not knowing whether the cloud extended to the ocean, nor at what moment the machine's undercarriage might touch the waves. He had loosened his safety belt, and was ready to abandon ship if we hit the water. I myself felt uncomfortable about the danger of sudden immersion, for it was very possible that a change in barometric conditions could have made the aneroid show a false reading.