Photo, Topical.PLATE XIV.—BIPLANE CIRCLING A PYLON.The machine seen above, a Maurice Farman, is taking part in an air-race at Hendon, and is “banking” heavily as it rounds one of the wooden towers that mark the course.
Photo, Topical.
PLATE XIV.—BIPLANE CIRCLING A PYLON.
The machine seen above, a Maurice Farman, is taking part in an air-race at Hendon, and is “banking” heavily as it rounds one of the wooden towers that mark the course.
Naval and military airmen predominate at the schools; but there are many civilians, also, who come to learn to fly. Some of them, after they are skilled, become professional pilots, being employed by an aeroplane company to demonstrate its machines: others, having money to invest, will buy one or two craft and start a flying school of their own; others again, after purchasing a machine, will take it abroad with them and give exhibition flights, visiting places if possible where aviation has not been seen before. Some men, adopting this plan in early days, had experiences which were the reverse of pleasant. High winds blew occasionally, thus preventing them from flying upon the day arranged; whereupon the spectators, having come long distances perhaps to see a man ascend, were so furious at their disappointment that they broke from their enclosures and wrecked the aeroplane in its tent. It happened sometimes, too, that a man—rendered foolhardy by the clamour of a crowd—would ascend when conditions were dangerous, and be blown to the ground and killed. But large sums of money were to be made by demonstration flights, and so pilots were found ready to run grave risks—ascending often from cramped and awkward grounds, and making flights over localities upon which, had their motors failed, they would have found no safe alighting point.
Among those who meet at a flying school—instructors, pupils, and mechanics—there is a feeling of friendly regard; and most men, after they have learned to fly, look back upon their training with a feeling of regret that it is ended. There is good fellowship in the adventures of the day—much laughter, too, at the mistakes which are made; and some of them, without doubt, prove distinctly amusing. It happens occasionally, for instance, that a pupil will, after being given control of a machine for the first time, lose his head completely in a panic, and do just the things which he has been instructed to avoid. In gliding down from a flight, for instance, the engine should be switched off; but sometimes thenovice—engrossed by his movements of the elevating lever—will forget all about his motor. Descending at a tremendous pace, and with the engine still running, he will strike the ground with a crash and crumple up his chassis; and then no one is more surprised than he is at what has occurred. It may happen also that a novice, when he is merely running a machine across the ground, will be seized by panic, or some form of mental paralysis. Perhaps he may fail to shift his rudder and so collide with some obstruction or another machine; or he may—as was the case with one pupil at a well-known school—simply sit helpless in his seat and allow his craft, with its motor running at full speed, to charge pell-mell into the fence which bordered the aerodrome. Then, standing up in the wrecked machine, and staring blankly at those who ran to him, he confessed that he had forgotten, utterly, each and all of the things he should have done.
There is an unconscious humour sometimes in a pupil’s remark after he has met with a mishap. One, attempting too steep a turn, side-slipped and fell with a crash, wrecking his machine completely. The instructor hurried to the spot, fearing he might be hurt; but he scrambled from the wreckage without a scratch. Then walking up to the instructor, he observed very gravely:
“I say, I’m so sorry: I’m afraid I’ve damaged your machine.”
But it was in the early days, more than at the present time, that learning to fly proved an adventure. Now it is a business, and one conducted so admirably that a pupil passes from stage to stage with a real pleasure. He knows, before he begins his tuition,exactly what his fee will be. If he wrecks an aeroplane, if he knocks a hole in the side of a shed, if he rushes full-tilt into another machine—all such misdemeanours mean nothing to him financially. But it should be mentioned, incidentally, that such wild deeds are mostly things of the past; such exploits, for instance, of that of the happy-go-lucky pupil who, after insisting upon being allowed to use a craft with an abnormally powerful motor, sprang into the air at his first attempt, and flew for nearly a mile in a wavering flight—landing eventually, strange to say, without in any way damaging himself or his machine. Experience now proves so valuable in the art of learning to fly, that even a clumsy pupil is safeguarded from accident. A serious mishap at a flying school is very rare. There are small breakages, of course; but any injury to pupil, or to anyone else connected with the school, is most satisfactorily averted: and this safety is gained by so carefully planning his course of instruction that the novice is doing always something that is well within his powers.
Matters were entirely different in the pioneer days; then a man was given a machine, after a little preliminary tuition, and allowed to do pretty much as he liked—with results, as may be imagined, which were sometimes remarkable. At one of the French schools, after making a short flight in a monoplane, a novice sprang from his machine before it had come to a standstill, and with his motor still running, although he had throttled it down. His idea was to bring the craft to a temporary halt by holding it back, and then to turn it round by swinging its tail—and with its engine still in operation—so that he might leap in again and fly backacross the aerodrome. This daring manœuvre, attempted because he had not as yet mastered the trick of circling while in the machine, was quite successful up to a point. Unfortunately, however, while holding to the side of the hull, and digging his heels into the ground to check the momentum of the craft, the pupil happened to push over the lever which controlled the motor. Accelerating rapidly, the engine drew forward the monoplane with a jerk; the pupil was thrown from his feet and fell prone, and the machine, without a guiding hand upon its levers, rushed across the ground and then rose into the air. An extraordinary flight it made, watched breathlessly by those who stood upon the aerodrome; first upwards, then downwards, and then sideways, until finally, losing its balance in a wavering turn, it fell with a crash and was destroyed.
The first thing one must do in learning to fly, is to become familiar with the position and movements of the levers of a machine; and these, as we have explained, are simple. Experience, indeed, after one method and another has been tried, has brought all systems so that they bear a resemblance to each other. In one machine a hand-wheel may be employed, in another perhaps a lever; but the idea underlying all of them is the same. It is that a pilot’s actions, while he balances his craft, should be natural and instinctive—that his lever should swing in the direction he would turn, were he controlling his machine by a movement of the body. Upon a typical school biplane, such as a pupil learns first to fly, he has only two levers with which he need concern himself. One, which he holds in his right hand, controls the rising and alighting and the balance of hismachine; the other, which is in the form of a bar upon which he rests his feet, swings the rudder and steers him from side to side. There are, in addition, convenient to his left hand, the switch and small throttle-lever which operate the motor. The simplicity of the control is shown byFig. 94. What the pupil does—as a first stage in his tuition—is to seat himself in the machine, while it stands at rest on the ground, and move the levers so that he becomes accustomed to their action.
Fig. 94.—Control of a School Biplane.
Fig. 94.—Control of a School Biplane.
After this, taking his turn one morning with others who are at the school, he seats himself behind the instructor and is borne into the air upon his first flight. In this—and in several subsequent ascents—he does nothing himself; he is merely a passenger. From his position behind the pilot, however, he can watch theformer’s movement of the levers as he rises, turns in the air, or descends; and this gives the pupil an idea as to how far and how quickly a lever must be shifted to gain a controlling effect. He sees that delicacy is required, chiefly, in the handling of an aeroplane; and it surprises him to observe that a movement of a few inches one way or another is all the pilot need make with his lever. Apart from watching such controlling actions he becomes accustomed, in these trial flights, to the sensation of being in the air. It is necessary above all else, that he should learn to feel at home in an aircraft, and not be flurried by the speed at which it passes through the air, or by the strangeness of looking downward upon the ground from a machine in flight. It is important, too, that he should learn to gauge distances and speed. These, when an aeroplane is in question, are apt to prove deceiving; it is very necessary, for instance, that the novice should be able to estimate how far his craft will travel in a descent, after he has stopped his engine and is gliding, before it comes in contact with the ground.
Sometimes, through a failure to judge correctly what distance his machine will glide before alighting, a pupil may find himself in an awkward position. In one case, for example, switching off his motor while some distance above the sheds at an aerodrome, the novice began to plane down, intending to land in the centre of the ground. But he found as he descended that he had misjudged his height, and was likely to over-shoot the mark. He steepened the glide, but it was of no avail; his machine had been much higher, when he stopped his motor, thanhe had imagined; and now, instead of alighting where he had planned, he found himself sweeping rapidly across the aerodrome, still some distance from the ground, and with trees and other obstructions looming before him. Down he came till he was about 30 feet from the grass; but his craft—being a biplane and lightly loaded—seemed almost to resist his efforts to bring it to earth, and still skimmed through the air in a graceful glide. He saw now that he could not land in time—that, even if he managed to touch ground before reaching the end of the aerodrome, his craft would run on, by reason of its impetus, and collide with a fence and trees. There seemed only one thing to do—start the motor again, rise above the trees, and circle round and attempt another landing. But then the pupil—still sweeping nearer danger—had an unpleasant surprise: the engine, when he turned the switch, refused for some reason to start. He fumbled for a second or so, but it was no good; and now he was rushing upon the trees. Swinging his rudder in a panic, he attempted to turn. But the pace of the machine had lessened; and, there being no motive-power behind it, the abruptness of the turn robbed it suddenly of its forward speed. It wavered, came to a standstill in the air, and then side-slipped heavily, falling upon one wing-tip, and becoming an almost total wreck. But the pupil, although shaken, was not injured.
A novice, in landing from a flight, has not only to gauge just where his machine will touch ground, but must estimate also how far the craft will roll upon its running wheels before it comes finally to astandstill. One beginner, alighting correctly but rather too near the rails of an aerodrome, found that his machine ran forward till it struck them, and then turned a somersault, pinning him down within his machine, but not causing him any injury. On some aircraft nowadays, so as to control this movement over the ground after alighting, a form of brake is fitted between the landing-wheels, which can be lowered by the pilot from his seat, and digs a steel prong into the ground, bringing a powerful checking influence upon the machine. A device of this kind is illustrated inFig. 95. Such a means of stopping a machine is often very necessary, particularly in cross-country flying, for a pilot may land, say, upon a sloping field, and find that his craft is running downhill quite beyond his control, and threatening to collide either with a wall or fence.
Fig. 95.—Ground-brake for aeroplane.A.A. Running wheels of chassis; B.B. Axle-rods; C. Brake; D. Prong which plunges into the ground; E. Wire which operates brake.
Fig. 95.—Ground-brake for aeroplane.
A.A. Running wheels of chassis; B.B. Axle-rods; C. Brake; D. Prong which plunges into the ground; E. Wire which operates brake.
After he has flown several times as a passenger, and watched all that his instructor does while in the air, the pupil reaches the second stage of his tuition;and in this he is seated alone in a machine, and allowed to drive it here and there across the aerodrome. The biplane is adjusted, as a rule, so that it will not fly; and this process of the training—which is called “rolling” at the schools—is to enable a novice to handle his craft neatly while on the ground, to learn to steer to right or left, to keep it when necessary upon a straight course, and to accustom himself to the starting and stopping and control of his engine. This practice is important. With his motor giving just sufficient power to make the controls of the machine effective, but not enough to lift it into the air, the pupil “rolls” from one side of the aerodrome to the other; then he turns by a movement of his rudder, which swings the tail of the machine, and returns again to his starting-point, striving always to keep his craft from swinging sideways. He finds, while making these long, straight runs, that the machine shows a tendency, if the controls are untouched, to swerve a little to the left; and this is caused by the influence of the propeller, which is revolving to the left. But the inclination may be checked quite easily by a movement of the rudder to the right.
With a school biplane, adapted for its work, a novice may soon learn to steer while on the ground; but with some other types of machine—notably a fast monoplane—“rolling” is by no means easy. A racing craft, for instance, when it is moving across the aerodrome, needs most expert handling: even the smallest error of judgment in the use of the rudder may send it whirling round upon itself in a violentturn—rather like an angry bird; while if the pilot attempts to swerve too abruptly, in avoiding any obstacle before him, the machine may reel sideways and overturn—and, seeing that it is travelling at a speed greater than that of an express, the resulting smash may be a serious one.
“Rolling” accomplished, and a facility gained with his control levers, the pupil is subjected to his first real test. Again alone in the machine, and with the instructor watching him from the sheds, he attempts a short, straight flight. There is nothing ambitious about this journey through the air; those on the aerodrome, in fact, call it a “hop.” What the pupil does is to accelerate his motor, attain a flying speed, and very cautiously move his elevator until he is skimming through the air a few feet above the ground. Then, after flying a short distance in this way, he pushes forward his lever and descends. He attempts no turns; rises no height in the air; the idea, indeed, is to learn the art of ascending and alighting with the least possible risk. Occasionally, and more often in the early days, a novice has shown an abnormal skill. One, ascending for the first time and ignoring the advice of his instructor, passed straight away from the aerodrome, rising as he flew, and disappeared above a clump of trees, his landing wheels almost brushing their tops. His instructor, and the officials of the ground, were naturally perturbed; particularly when, a minute or so later, the pupil was seen to be returning towards the aerodrome, flying now so low that he could not hope to clear the trees. Towards them he came, making no attempt to turn, and those who watched feared a fatal smash. But then an extraordinary thing happened. Despite the fact that he was an utter novice, and had made no flight like this before, the pupil steered coolly for a gap between two trees, and although there was barely room for his wing-tips, and he actually brushed against the branches upon one side, he managed to pass through safely and landed upon the aerodrome without mishap. When the instructor and others came over to him, expressing their astonishment, he appeared surprised that his performance should have provoked comment. Quite calm and unmoved, he seemed to think he had done nothing at all peculiar; although, as a matter of fact, such a flight between two trees—with practically no margin for error—would have been a feat considered perilous even by an experienced airman.
PLATE XV.—VIEW FROM A CRAFT ASCENDING.In this picture the machine has only just left the ground, and its occupants, peering down as it rises slantingly, see the spectators below grow smaller and more remote.
PLATE XV.—VIEW FROM A CRAFT ASCENDING.
In this picture the machine has only just left the ground, and its occupants, peering down as it rises slantingly, see the spectators below grow smaller and more remote.
Once he can make a short, straight flight and land neatly, the pupil is ready to attempt a turn while in the air. A half-turn to the left is first essayed, and for the reason that it is more easily accomplished than a swing to the right. This is due to the fact that the engine and propeller, revolving to the left, tend naturally to incline a craft in that direction. The pupil finds as he turns that he must—in addition to putting over the rudder—move the ailerons at his wing-tips; and he needs to make this movement because the biplane, while it is in the act of swinging, begins to heel inwards. The outer plane-ends of a machine, when it is forced thus upon a turn, have indeed a natural inclination to “bank,” or rise. This is because, as the craft swings, the outer wing-tips move more rapidly through the air than do those upon the inside of the turn; they exercise, for the moment, therefore, a greater lifting power; and the result is that, with this sudden and extra “lift,” they force up the outer side of the machine. On a very rapid turn, if this movement went unchecked, a machine might heel to such an angle that it slipped inwards and fell to the ground; but there is no fear of this if the pilot, moving over his hand-lever, draws at the ailerons upon the side of the craft that is tilting down. This causes the plane-ends to rise, and the machine swings upon a normal path.Fig. 96shows a school biplane making a “banked” turn. A certain amount of “banking” is necessary when turning; it helps a craft to incline smoothly and prevents it from skidding outwards, as it might do were its planes not heeling to the swing. Any pronounced degree of “banking” must not, however, be indulged in by a pupil. In even an acute “bank,” to a skilled pilot, there is no element of risk; experience has told him, in a way nothing else could, just what angle may be safe, or whatnot; but the beginner, remembering that any steep inclination of his planes may cause a side-slip, must not venture so to heel his craft. Sometimes, becoming over-bold, a novice may “bank” steeply once or twice without mishap; but then perhaps, while attempting to repeat the manœuvre he had made before, he may pass without knowing it over the danger-line, and find his craft slipping helplessly beneath him. If flying quite near the ground, as probably he will be, the mishap may mean a crumpled wing and nothing worse; and it will serve the purpose of teaching him a greater caution.
Fig. 96.—Banked turn on a biplane.A.A. Represent the ailerons, which are drawn down by the pilot to prevent the machine from heeling too far inwards.
Fig. 96.—Banked turn on a biplane.
A.A. Represent the ailerons, which are drawn down by the pilot to prevent the machine from heeling too far inwards.
Although, under favourable conditions, a modern machine requires little control, and though he meets with few difficulties when he is learning to fly, a pupil must remember always that no liberties can be taken while he is in the air; every instant he is aloft he needs caution. The greatest of the world’s airmen—the Wrights, say, or Bleriot or Farman—never lost for one moment what may be termed their respect for the air. A man who is haphazard or careless should not turn to aviation; he is a danger to himself, and to others also.
After making turns to the left, until he can accomplish them with ease, the novice attempts a similar manœuvre to the right; but he needs to remember, while at this stage of his tuition, that a turn must never be attempted while a machine is ascending. If this mistake is made, and a craft is swung sideways while its planes are inclined at a steep angle to the air, it may lose its forward speed and slide tail-first towards the ground.
When turning to the right, as soon as he attempts this manœuvre, the pupil finds that his craft has atendency to rise: this is due to the gyroscopic effect of engine and propeller, which are revolving in the opposite direction to the turn. To counteract the influence, however, which is slight, the pilot should move his elevator so that it is in the position for a descent. The machine, if he does this, will resist the gyroscopic motion and maintain an even keel. In early days, when little was known about this gyroscopic influence, a turn to the right was considered difficult and even dangerous, and there were men who would not attempt it if they could avoid doing so. But nowadays, thanks to greater knowledge and experience, the right-hand turn proves as easy almost as a similar movement to the left.
Reaching the stage when he can turn with facility either right or left, the pupil combines these manœuvres in a single flight, and learns also to stop his motor while in the air and descend in a glide. The point to be remembered in making avol-planéis that, when its motor is stopped, the only force which keeps an aeroplane moving is that of gravity. If it stands still in the air its planes are inoperative, and it falls. So, as he switches off the motor, the airman must push forward his elevating lever, tilt down the front of his machine, and set it gliding earthward; and, if the speed of his glide is maintained, the craft is perfectly controllable. The actual landing is a matter of skill. Just before his craft touches ground, the novice must tilt back his elevating plane; this checks the glide, raises the front of the machine, and brings his wheels into a smooth contact with the ground. Should such a checking movement not be made—and some nervous pupils have been known to forget it—a machine may strike ground sharply, atan awkward angle, and damage its chassis. The landing-gear of a school biplane is, however, made specially strong, and will resist a heavy shock.
Now the pupil is ready for his official tests. These are conducted by the Royal Aero Club, which has officials at the aerodrome. Two posts are fixed in the ground, not more than 500 metres (547 yards) apart, and round these the pupil must fly, altering the direction of his flight at each turn, so that he is making in the air a series of figures of eight. Two such flights is he called upon to make, each of a distance of 5 kilometres (3 miles 185 yards); and he is asked also to ascend 100 metres (328 feet), and from this altitude descend with his motor stopped. In alighting from each of his tests the pupil must, so as to show his judgment of distance and speed, bring his machine to rest within 160 feet of a mark upon the aerodrome that is indicated to him. The representatives of the Aero Club, when these trials are completed, send to headquarters their official report; and the committee of the club, after considering this and finding it in order, issues to the pupil a numbered certificate, which contains his photograph for purposes of identification and a printed list of the rules which, as a duly qualified pilot, he must now observe. Once he has gained his certificate—or “ticket” as it is called at the aerodrome—the pupil ceases indeed to be a novice, the period of his tuition ends, and he becomes entitled to take part in the races at Hendon, or in any other contests that may be organised under the jurisdiction of the Club.
Naturally, even when he has gained his certificate, the pilot has much to learn. The passing of his tests does not imply, for instance, that he is a flyer of experience,able to grapple instantly with any difficulty that may arise. What the granting of his certificate does actually show, is that he has learned how to handle an aeroplane, and may be relied upon to make no elementary mistakes. The art of cross-country flying is still a closed book to him; and to this, as a rule, he next turns his attention, first making short trips near the aerodrome, and then increasing gradually the length and boldness of his flights. Then he must learn to combat a wind, and to steer by his maps and compass; he must, in fact, teach himself to be an all-round man. And none of these stages must be gone through hurriedly. In aviation, more than in any other art in the world, the whole of a man’s knowledge must be dependable and sound.
Machines and alighting grounds—The cost of flying—An imaginary tour—The sensations of a passenger—How laws will be framed to govern flight—Aerial smugglers and spies.
The joys of aerial touring are such that it is difficult to do them justice. Free from the earth and its obstructions, free from police traps and dust, and the noise and traffic of the roads, the aerial tourist wings his way—serenely and with ease, a panorama spread below and upon either hand, and with a wine-like freshness in the air. Who would be chained to a road, winding here and there, when he might pass high above the earth upon the aerial highway? The day is already dawning when, housing his aircraft say at Hendon as a convenient starting-point, the most modern of travellers will tour regularly by air, using a plane as he would a motor-car, and throwing himself with zest into the new amusement that is offered him.
Prejudices of course die hard; there are still the occasional accidents which are reported in the daily press; still there is the lurking notion that because a flying craft passes through the air and not upon the ground, it canneverbe safe. But facts must speak, and are speaking; and daily, and almost hourly, this mountain of prejudice is being moved. For every mishap that happens men are now flying many thousands of miles, and flying not only in safety, but with comfort and pleasure. Nor do craft any longer collapse while in the air, nor motors fail constantly; nor does the wind hold those terrors that it did at first. Touring aircraft that are both scientific and airworthy may be obtained, and as a practical means of transit from point to point—speedier and more pleasant than the motor-car—the aeroplane now finds frequent use. The pleasure use of planes is encouraged, also, by their growing comfort. Pilots and passengers sat formerly upon bare, open seats exposed to the rush of air: but a modern touring craft has a neatly enclosed body, like that of a motor-car with padded seats, and screens to protect its occupants from the rush of wind. How snug it is within the hull of a latest-type machine may be seen fromFig. 97. Of course the air tourist, like the motorist, needs some objective for his day’s journey—some place to which hemay fly and alight, and at which he may house his machine; and here and there even to-day, at the dozen or more flying grounds dotted about England, such facilities may be found; even, for instance, at Lanark, in far-off Scotland. But France is still greatly ahead of us in this respect—and Germany too: they have, already, a very large number of air-stations, and are adding to them rapidly. All that is needed, to form an alighting spot, is a suitable stretch of open land with some sheds, a repair shop, a telephone, and one or two mechanics in attendance. The establishment of such landing grounds for the aerial tourist, which would correspond to the halts of the motorist, will form one of the next great developments of flying. Like stations on a railway, or garages upon a main road, will be the landing-points for aeroplanes; no growth in touring can be expected without them.
Fig. 97.—Driving-seat of a touring plane.A. Raised wind-screen; B. Instrument board; C. Hand lever; D. Rudder bar; E. Pilot’s seat.
Fig. 97.—Driving-seat of a touring plane.
A. Raised wind-screen; B. Instrument board; C. Hand lever; D. Rudder bar; E. Pilot’s seat.
It is not so expensive as some might imagine to tour by air. A man may, for an expenditure of £1200, buy a two-seated 80-h.p. monoplane, or a biplane seating three people; and the running expenses, for such craft as these, should represent a figure of about 5-1/2d. per mile. Then upon a tour, say, of three months, covering a distance of 4000 miles, there would be incidental expenses to reckon with, as follows: £36 for the services of a mechanic; £12 for garaging; £50 for repairs; and £10 as insurance against any third-party risks. In the future, of course, when machines are built in large numbers, and standardised in their output like cars, the cost of flying will be reduced greatly; but even to-day, with aerial touring in its infancy, a man need not be a millionaire to enjoy it. And one must,when cost is being considered, remember the sheer thrill that is experienced by the man who flies, and the invigoration of the air, say, at 3000 feet, which acts as a pure, splendid tonic for those who have jaded nerves. There is, too, the wonderful bird’s-eye view which may be obtained by those in an aeroplane. They see the land below them, stretching for mile after mile till it is shrouded in delicate mist; moving away slowly, appearing far-distant and quite remote, and yet revealed in all its detail—roads seem like ribbons, railways like tiny glistening threads, and rivers and lakes shining mirror-like. The day will soon dawn upon which, secure from any haunting fear of accident, the tourist will sweep up in his machine at Hendon, sail smoothly to the sea-coast, thence to some beauty spot inland, and so on till he has toured the kingdom.
Already, granted he has a suitable machine, a man may roam the air pleasantly in England; and it may prove of interest to picture such a tour—with the airmen leaving Hendon early, just as the first summer’s mist has gone, and the sun is mounting to another glorious day. There are, let us say, three of you in the party; and you are ready, after a cup of hot and welcome coffee, to take your seats within the machine—which stands waiting upon the grass, its planes glinting in the sun. Mechanics have appeared from the sheds as your motor-car approached, and the pilot of the machine, wearing his flying garb, has come forward with a greeting; and now, while you are finishing your coffee, the mechanics have filled the fuel tanks and, under the supervision of the pilot, given a final glance here and there.
“Ready?” the airman questions; then with a smile he orders: “all aboard!”
You climb up into the hull of the craft, and find yourselves in neat, armchair seats, which prove extremely comfortable. Then, after a final word to the mechanics, the pilot mounts to his place before you—his driving-seat being in the bow of the machine.
Now he calls an order, and the mechanics walk behind the machine; then, breaking upon the stillness of the morning, comes the roar of the motor. You feel the machine strain suddenly forward; but it is held back; and for a moment or so there is nothing but the harsh clamour of the engine. Then, watching the pilot, you see him turn slightly in his seat and raise an arm; and at the same instant there is a movement of the craft. You glance over the side of the hull, and see that the ground has begun to race away sternwards. The swift, steady forward impulse continues; there is a rush of wind past the hull; and then, the transition from earth to air being so gentle that it is imperceptible, and before your senses can register an impression, the machine has glided free of the ground, and is in actual flight. It is not until your eyes, still turned downward, see that the aerodrome with its sheds has begun to sink away below, that you realise you are in the air.Plate XVshows how people who may be waving you farewell, appear when viewed from an aircraft that is ascending.
Down, as though drawn by some giant, unseen hand, sinks the surface of the land; and you yourself, save for the wind which comes whistling past the hull, might be suspended motionless in the air. Smooth, seemingly quite effortless, is the progress of the machine; and theair aloft is—well, such air as, for sheer exhilaration, you have never breathed before; and, although it has an early-morning chill, you are shielded by the snug, covered-in body of your craft. The machine as it thrusts its way forward, is rising steadily—now 500, now 1000 feet; and as you fix your eyes again upon the pilot, you see that he is making a turn. He is in fact swinging his craft so as to steer for Kempton Park, where a tall chimney forms a landmark for many miles; and the reason for the manœuvre is this: you are bound, as a first flight, for the aerodrome by the sea which has been established at Shoreham; but to fly there straight from Hendon would mean passing above London, and this by aerial law is not allowed. For the safety of the public, indeed, all flights over towns are prohibited, it being held that there might be danger, for those below, from the fall or collapse of a machine. So pilots make detours round areas that are populated; and your steersman, having no desire to infringe the rules, points his bow south-west and soon covers the fourteen miles to Kempton Park. Round the chimney to which he has been flying you make your turn; then he corrects his course due south and steers steadily for the sea-coast, still rising gently; while around and below—like a scene from fairyland—lies the panorama of the landscape.
Photo, F.N. Birkett.PLATE XVI.—THE GRAHAME-WHITEAEROBUS.This machine, which is seen above with Mr. Grahame-White at the steering wheel, holds a world’s record for weight-lifting, having flown for 19 minutes at Hendon, carrying nine passengers. The craft has a wing-span of 60 feet, and is driven by a motor of 100 horse-power.
Photo, F.N. Birkett.
PLATE XVI.—THE GRAHAME-WHITEAEROBUS.
This machine, which is seen above with Mr. Grahame-White at the steering wheel, holds a world’s record for weight-lifting, having flown for 19 minutes at Hendon, carrying nine passengers. The craft has a wing-span of 60 feet, and is driven by a motor of 100 horse-power.
A flight of 40 miles now lies before you. The motor throbs rhythmically, the altitude is 3000 feet, and your craft sways a little sometimes, ever so slightly, as it encounters a gust of wind. Below lies Surrey, with its commons, parks, and woods; and the effect of your height is now peculiar. You have a fixed delusion that the aeroplane is standing still, and that you are moving neither forward nor sideways; and yet your speed, as a matter of fact, is more than 50 miles an hour, and the sea-coast creeps nearer mile by mile. This illusion, this strong belief that you are motionless, is due to your height above the ground. Looking down upon the earth, from an altitude of several thousand feet, you have no near object by which you can gauge your speed. It is the same when one glances from the window of an express, and catches sight of some distant hill. Even in a train running at sixty miles an hour, if you watch a landmark that is remote, it will seem that your pace is slow; and yet if you note the telegraph poles close beside the track, you see that they are flying past your carriage window.
Soon, after peering steadily ahead, your pilot turns towards you with a call: “Look—the sea!”
Your eyes follow the direction of his outstretched arm, and there, faint upon the sky-line but quite distinct, and reflecting the glint of the sun, lie the waters of the Channel. The land at its brink is only dimly visible at first: there is a slight sea-mist; but soon, as your craft speeds closer, the wide sweep of the coast is open to your view. Westward lies Selsey Bill, at the extremity of a stretch of shore which juts boldly to the sea; and then from west to east, as you turn your head, you follow the line of the coast until Beachy Head, standing clear-cut and distinct, caps to the eastward this fine-drawn curve. You call an inquiry, and your pilot points ahead: almost in the centre of the bay, at a point where a glint of water, seen a little way inland, reveals the location of Shoreham Harbour, lies the aerodrome that is your goal.
Fig. 98.—Hendon to Shoreham, 55 miles.
Fig. 98.—Hendon to Shoreham, 55 miles.
Quite soon, still driven smoothly by your motor, you hover above the alighting point; and then moving over a little switch upon the dashboard before him, the airman cuts off his power. The booming drone of the engine dies away, and at the same moment you feel the craft tilt forward, and see the aerodrome below, fringed by the roofs of its sheds. And, in the sudden stillness which has fallen, you hear the wail of the wind, shrieking past your struts and planes. Down quite gently glides the craft, and you see a movement of little figures near some sheds; then you touch ground without shock, and the machine runs forward a short distance and halts. This stage of your flight is shown inFig. 98.
The pilot glances at a little clock that is fixed on his dashboard; then stands up to stretch his limbs.
“Just over an hour,” he says. “Not so bad. With the 14 miles to Kempton Park and then the 41 here—that makes 55. She’s been doing a steady 50 an hour.”
Now a little group surrounds the machine, and calls up questions about your flight.
“What sort of a trip, old man?” queries a brother pilot of the driver of your craft.
“Is the wind steady up above?” asks a young man in a flying helmet, who is one of the pupils of the flying school.
Answering the eager questioners as best you can, you clamber down from the hull. Several aeroplanes, you now observe, are out upon the aerodrome, and here and there a novice is at work—either “rolling” his craft to and fro, or attempting a short, straight flight; and, even though it is still early, visitors may be seen near the sheds; they have motored out from Brighton to watch the practice flights.
But your chief concern, you find, is in the matter of breakfast; the air has given you an appetite that will not brook delay. A motor-car stands in readiness; so you take your seats and drive into Brighton, where you enjoy a leisurely meal. Then comes a drive along the sea-front in the beauty of the morning sun: and after this you return to the aerodrome, where the biplane stands waiting for its second flight. You have decided—wishing to remain by the sea—that you will fly on along the coast to Eastbourne, where there is another aerodrome at which you may alight. So, with a shout of farewell ringing in your ears, the big machine sweeps skyward—up swiftly and steadily, circling as she climbs; and then your pilot turns eastward, and you fly above the fringe of the sea. Along past Brighton the aircraft makes her way, and you note the people on the beach—looking no bigger than ants upon a path—as they stand in little groups and watch your progress. High above the piers the biplane flies, and you see the town lying mapped away inland, with the electric railway skirting the water’s edge. Then on swiftly, following the lineof the cliffs, a cool sea-breeze beating into your face. The earth below seems to fade into insignificance; far-distant, skirting the brink of the cliffs like a thin, white ribbon, you see a lonely road; and all the time, climbing higher and higher through the sunshine, your pilot forces his plane aloft Three thousand feet, four thousand feet—still you ascend; and soon the needle of the height recorder stands at 5000 feet. Newhaven is now below, with its river winding away inland; and a superb view, which includes water, sea, and land, is spread at your feet.
On you fly, with the machine swaying a little every now and then, as it encounters such wind eddies as are formed where sea meets land. With the heat increasing, these aerial disturbances grow marked, and your pilot swings more seaward, so as to avoid the influence of the swirls which rise upward above the cliffs. Beachy Head is quickly reached, with its lighthouse showing clearly. Now your pilot turns north-east, and quite soon you are over Eastbourne, and planing down to reach the flying ground. This second stage of your tour is shown inFig. 99. Again, when you have alighted, there is agreeting from airmen and their friends; then, while you examine some aeroplanes in their sheds, and discuss the pleasures of your trip with those about you, the pilot of your machine has made an overhaul and is ready again to take the air.
Fig. 99.—Shoreham to Eastbourne, 33 miles.
Fig. 99.—Shoreham to Eastbourne, 33 miles.
This time, still hugging the coast, you have decided to fly to Dover. Here at Whitfield, a mile or two out of the town, there is an excellent aerodrome, and the flight from Eastbourne is one of 52 miles. But a point to be remembered is that Dover, with its fortifications, which might be spied from the air, has now been declared out of bounds by aerial law, and no pilot—unless he obtains a permit—is allowed to fly nearer than within three miles of its castle. For a British aircraft, however, when bent upon a pleasure tour, there should be no difficulty in securing such an exemption as is required; and we will assume you have been granted one, and have a right to cross the harbour and pass the castle on the hill. Rising quickly, therefore, and with your motor running sweetly, you steer eastward from the aerodrome, and are soon at Bexhill. This gives place to Hastings as the coast sweeps below; and then you see Dungeness, 15 miles ahead, jutting out upon the sea. This reached, and left behind, and you have Dover ahead, with not more than 20 miles to fly; and your pilot, steering a course directly for his goal, takes you out several miles to sea, so that you observe Romney and Dymchurch lying away upon your left.
It is now that, turning a moment from his control-wheel, the airman points south-east across the Channel.
“Look!” he calls; “France!”
Distinctly, indeed, away upon the sky-line, you cansee the outline of the French coast; and as you look, Cape Grisnez, stretching its arm of land towards England, quite clearly takes the eye.
On, with the engine singing its sleepy song, the biplane speeds; and when you glance earthward again it is the Shakespeare Cliff that is passing away below; then Dover, with its steamboat pier and harbour works, lies directly beneath your feet. You see the square outline of the harbour hotel, looking like a doll’s house from some children’s game; and along a shining ribbon of rail, with a tiny jet of steam behind it, a little toy engine is busily shunting a miniature train. A second or so later, and the noise of the motor has ceased; then—rushing earthward in a long, swift, perfect glide—you reach your landing at Whitfield, and another stage, as seen inFig. 100, has been accomplished safely.