CHAPTER VISEAPLANES
The seaplane, as its name implies, is used solely for flying over tracts of water. It is identical in shape with the aeroplane, but with minor variations. It is considerably heavier than the aeroplane in weight, and is more of the formation of the boat, though following the same “streamline” principles as the aeroplane.
The engine-power varies from 70 to 150 horse-power, but the machine is much slower in transit and in climbing even than several of the lesser horse-power land machines. The fuselage, or body, is like a flat-bottomed boat, in the bows of which are the engine and the propeller. Immediately in the rear of the engine are the pilot’s and observer’s seats, side by side, and not, as in the aeroplane, the one behind the other. Again, in place of the wheels of the landing chassis of the aeroplane are two boat-shaped floats; these are hollow in formation, very heavy, and extremely fragile. When landing the seaplane on a rough sea, the part of the machine most liable to break up is the float.
With regard to the actual flying of the craft, where a mere touch of the control is capable of maneuvering the aeroplane up from the ground, it requires the grip of a Sandow’s developer to lift a heavy seaplane off the surface of the sea. Similarly, while maneuvering in the air, the movements must always be of the gentlest nature, considerable muscular force is required to bank (turn) and climb the seaplane.
Landing is the most difficult and delicate maneuver in flying; it is a tricky performance to land an aeroplane, but it is doubly so to land a seaplane. Should the surface of the sea be the least bit choppy or rough, there is a grave risk of the floats breaking open, and the machine turning turtle, or diving down through the sea and precipitating the pilot to a watery grave.
The work of the seaplane may be placed in two categories: first, work from the shore, when a landing-station, bordering on the sea, is used as a base; and, secondly, flying at sea, when the craft is taken out on board a parent vessel, and flights are commenced from the middle of the ocean. With regard to the former, the work is for the most part of a defensive nature, as that of driving off invading enemy craft, and patroling the coastsfor enemy submarines. The work at sea is principally scouting for fleets, for a seaplane observer, at an altitude of 5000 feet, has a range of view ten times greater than the look-out man of any battleship or cruiser.
In this latter case, flights are usually terminated and commenced from the sea surface, alongside the parent ship; and when the craft are no longer in use they are lifted on board by means of a large crane and stowed away on a specially constructed deck.
From the point of view of interest, aeroplane work is preferable to that of the seaplane. Nothing more boring and dreary can be imagined than a long flight over an interminable stretch of blue water; the aeroplane pilot does, at least, have an everchanging contour of hills and valleys, rivers and woods, towns and villages beneath him, whereas the seaplane man’s view is confined to sea, sky and horizon, with perhaps an occasional passing ship.
One seaplane pilot of my acquaintance, in order to relieve the monotony, always took his dog, a staid and wise-looking Scotch terrier, with him. That dog can lay claim to holding the record among dogs of the world, for he has now flown considerably over 2000 miles. His method of aviation is peculiarly his own, for, once the machine has started and got under way, he curls himselfup in the body of the fuselage and goes into a sound sleep, from which he does not wake until the engine stops again.
Seaplane flying in these days is beset with dangers of many kinds.
As an example, I will attempt to portray the average day’s work of a seaplane pilot on active service, somewhere in the North Sea.
A scene of unusual activity is revealed by the breaking dawn, lat. “X,” long. “Y.” The sea is calm, the rising sun giving it that peculiar grayish-green tint, over which the early morning mist hangs like a pall. Through the mist can be seen the hazy, blurred outlines of the Fleet: squat, lumpy monitors, slim and graceful cruisers, sharp-nosed destroyers, submarines that hang, as it were, on to the surface of the water. Great towering battleships, dignified and stately, look down upon the smaller fry with apparent disdain. Far in the rear there is what at first appears to be an ordinary smug-funneled tramp steamer; but a glimpse of the huge crane and queer, elongated shapes along her decks reveals the seaplane carrier.
Four o’clock in the morning. Though it is summer, the weather is cold and raw, the chilly breeze bites knife-like through one’s clothes, fingers are all thumbs—rather a disillusion of the joys of flying. The engine stops, and coughs and splutters as if in protest at this extraordinary behavior.Compass, maps, instruments are missing; the petrol tanks are unfilled, or the oil has been forgotten.
At last, creaking and groaning, the crane is lowered, and fixed to the craft. A few hoarse commands, and she is swung off the deck and dropped gently on to the sea, and off she goes, bound on a reconnaissance trip or target-registering. First taxi-ing far across the open sea, clear of the Fleet. What a delightful sensation this is, skimming the water like a seagull, dipping and bowing gracefully; but it is quite another story when the sea is rough, and the swell threatens every moment to break up the floats and submerge the craft. At last up into the air, 200, 300, 500, 1000 feet, circling round the now, seemingly, stationary Fleet; how still and quiet they appear down below there!
The seaplane is usually a much slower craft to climb than the aeroplane, and some time elapses before a decent altitude is reached. The observer busies himself plotting out the course, testing the wireless gear, and preparing his report.
Scouting is the object of the flight, and scouting implies, for the most part, keeping a weather eye open for suspicious craft, enemy battleships, cruisers, destroyers and enemy submarines, the latter more easily distinguishable from a height, when the bed of the sea in the more shallow portionscan be read like an open book, sandbanks standing out most prominently from the surrounding azure blue.
Target-registering, on the other hand, consists of following, or rather attempting to follow, a damnably perverse raft, on which a large target is lashed, at which the heavy guns of the Fleet are firing from a distance of from fifteen to twenty miles, and the observer wirelessing back the results of their attempts, also entering the same in his report.
To the uninitiated this report would at first sight appear slightly less understandable than a Chinese love letter or a Greek play. It is divided into columns; first there is the time of the entry, next the height at which the machine was flying, the approximate position, and, last, the nature of the observation. For example: 11.55 a.m. 6000 feet. Lat. 90, long. 70:6. Large two-funneled steamers, apparently merchantmen, observed proceeding in a south-westerly direction.
If the matter is of an urgent nature it is sent back to the Fleet immediately by wireless, surely the most valuable asset to aviation that exists, and without which aerial scouting and reconnaissance work would be almost useless. The apparatus is light and extremely compact, consisting of one or two Morse keys and an aerial. The range of action—that is to say, the distance that a messagecan be either sent or received—is not very great, but such as it is, is invaluable. In a word, wireless in the Navy is as near perfection as it is possible for a new science to be.
The observer makes a sudden movement with his hand in a south-westerly direction. Far down on the distant horizon is the long black sleuth-like form of an enemy destroyer. The wireless is soon busy ticking the gladsome news to the Fleet, now far in the rear. More and yet more black shapes appear, and then our own destroyers come up, dashing through the sea, at well over thirty knots an hour, leaving a line of churning white foam in their track. The enemy catch sight of them and then turn north at full pelt, our own in hot pursuit, until for fear of floating mines—it is a favorite trick of the Hun sportsman, when pursued to drop mines behind him, in the hope that they will strike the enemy ships—our own destroyers come back crestfallen and downhearted.
En passantit may be said that a seaplane battle is very similar to a fight between two aeroplanes, though usually more slowly fought out, and hence longer in duration. Such feats as “looping” or sudden nose-dives are generally impossible.
The morning’s work is now completed, the recall signal is received via the wireless, and the great bird turns for home, not, however, without sighting several merchantmen and somethingwhich appears to be the periscope of a German submarine, but which, however, proves on closer inspection to be floating wreckage.
The British Fleet comes nearer into view, first the different shapes and sizes of the varying craft, then the funnels, then the masts, the rigging and the crew aboard. Throttling down his engine, the pilot sinks gradually lower and lower, and lands on the smooth surface of the water—strange to say a more difficult and more tricky feat than to come down on the solid earth for reasons too numerous to mention in this short chapter.
Another long “taxi” across the water to the side of the seaplane carrier, the creaking crane comes sliding out again, is fixed to the craft, which is hauled aboard, and stowed away until further required.