The Way of the Air 4

The Way of the Air 4

CHAPTER III

 

THE INITIAL FLIGHT

 

 

Once in the Service, the R.N.A.S. man may be selected for one of three

branches of flying, namely, seaplane, aeroplane--which, incidentally,

is far preferable to any other branch, and holds forth more opportunities

of active service--and kite balloon, probably the safest and most

comfortable job of the war, but dull--deadly dull.

 

For the sake of those of my readers who do not know of the captive

kite-balloon, I will here briefly explain. It is a queer sausage-shaped

craft, that is tethered to a steam-winch on the ground somewhere

beneath it by means of a stout steel cable. Usually situated some five

or six miles behind the firing-line, the basket of the balloon will

only hold two observers at one time. It is connected to the big guns by

telephone, and is useful for the direction of artillery fire, which it

does by telling the men at the guns whether their shells are falling

over, under, or to the left or right of the target that they are aiming

at.

 

The first day in the life of the “new hand” at the Service school is

not always the pleasantest of memories. He discovers that, from a man

of parts, he has suddenly been converted into a very junior sub, and is

at the beck and call of every member of the mess, with as much or more

gold braid on the sleeve of their uniform.

 

For the first few days he is allowed to wander round at his own sweet

will, in order to get the hang of things. To him the matter of greatest

importance are the machines, for very often he has never even seen an

aeroplane at close quarters, and should he be foolish enough to ask

absurd questions, he will always find some one ready with a fitting

answer.

 

He will be told wondrous stories of the time the machines will remain

in the air, the breakneck speed at which they will travel, and of the

enormous height to which they will climb.

 

The next most important thing to the actual flying is a thorough

knowledge of wireless telegraphy, for without a wireless instrument

on board an aeroplane is little better than useless to the army in

the field; and, having got the wireless set on board, the pilot or

the observer--whosesoever duty it is--must be able to send messages,

clearly and distinctly, on the Morse key.

 

A good tip to the youngster thinking of taking up flying for a

profession is to buy a copy of the Morse code, and learn it off by

heart. Then to get a “buzzer” or a Morse key (both of which can be

obtained for the sum of 5_s._ 6_d._), and to teach himself to read by

sound.

 

In Service circles the dot and the dash of the Morse code are known

as “iddy” and “umpty,” respectively. It is a simple matter to learn

to send and to receive wireless signals; but to know how to erect and

dismantle a wireless set, and to have a sound knowledge of the theory

and the working of the thing, and to be able to take to pieces or to

repair at a moment’s notice, any portion of the instrument that may get

out of order, is a more difficult matter.

 

That requires several months to acquire, but the “Quirk” will be given

a useful, though somewhat “short,” course under an expert wireless

operator before he is expected to know these things.

 

At last the great day arrives when he goes for his first trip up aloft.

After donning a leather coat, and trousers to match, a skull cap and

goggles, he is ready for the fray, and sits himself gingerly beside

what at the first seems to him to be a particularly violent and a

particularly ill-disposed individual with a simple wonderful flow of

language, an instructor in a “box-kite.” Then the engine is set going.

 

The instructor bawls some remark into his ear, which, for the life

of him, he cannot catch. A long and rapid journey across the bumpy

ground, a weird sensation of rising into space and he is up in the air

at last. Then the machine gets into the “bumps”; she dips, and drops,

and sways, first to one side and then to the other, until the poor

unfortunate individual begins to wonder if he will ever get safely to

the ground again.

 

There is a pandemonium of noise. The wind rushes by his face at an

alarming rate. He feels himself perspiring all over, and particularly

in the palms of his hands. He grips the nearest available object, as a

drowning man would clutch at a straw. With every fresh plunge and dip

he increases that grip.

 

The instructor shouts at him at the top of his voice, but he hears

nothing; only the racing engine and the whistle of the wind. And then

for the first time he ventures to look over the side. Could that

curiously-scattered collection of pigmy buildings, long, ribbon-like

roads, and distant, narrow, gleaming line of railway line be the earth?

 

He decides that it is, and is at last beginning to feel comfortable,

when the machine begins to heel over violently; it is the worst shock

that he has yet had. He grips with both hands as tight as he is able,

shuts his eyes, and waits for the worst. By the time his eyes are open

again the machine--by what seems to him to have been a miracle--has

righted itself and is flying smoothly through the air. Never before

has the world appeared so beautiful nor so diminutive in size.

 

For another five minutes or so the instructor flies to and fro above

the aerodrome, then down goes the machine, much to the astonishment and

alarm of the bewildered “quirk,” who suddenly finds the earth rushing

up to meet him. How he fears that moment when a landing must be made,

and how relieved he feels when he realizes there is nothing in it in

the least degree terrifying.

 

Very gently the aeroplane skims on to the landing-ground, like a

seagull lighting in the crest of a wave, and all is over; he is safe

back again on Mother Earth. Silent and subdued, he clambers out of the

aeroplane. How did he enjoy it? “Very much indeed,” he answers in a

husky whisper, and the instructor turns his head away and smiles. He

has taken “quirks” up before.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV

 

THE PERILS OF THE AIR

 

 

For the first few trips up aloft the beginner is always accompanied

by an instructor. First he is taken up as a passenger, and his

only duty is to sit in the observer’s seat and do nothing. Then

gradually he is allowed to fly the machine himself. This he does in a

double-control--that is to say, an aeroplane with two sets of controls,

one of which the instructor makes use of and the other is in his own

hands.

 

He is taught that every movement of the control must be slow and gentle,

otherwise the machine is sure to lose its stability--balance--and go

crashing to the ground below; that an inch too much with the rudder-bar

will invariably mean a “spin,” or a too jerky movement on the

control-bar a “pancake” or a “nose-dive.”

 

Getting off from the ground is a comparatively simple matter; but the

moment of first entering the air is the most dangerous and trying of

all. Should the engine fail, the chances are a hundred to one that the

machine will crash into a hedge, or a tree, or land in a valley. The

“bumps” are most frequent over houses and buildings, and particularly

so on a dull morning, when the sun is breaking through the clouds,

which send the craft plunging and tossing in all directions. This is

the test that will show if a man is a good pilot or no.

 

Once clear of the “bumps,” the first thing to be done is to get

“height.” With a ship at sea the safest sailing is in mid-ocean, far

from the land. In a similar manner, the greater the altitude the safer

is the flying.

 

When near the ground, the air-pilot has very little choice in

landing-places and very little time to prepare for a landing. The

higher up he is, the greater range of country he has to choose from,

and the more time he has to regain control of his machine.

 

At a rough estimate, one may say that at a height of 500 feet he has

only an area of a square half-mile to land in; at 1000 a mile; 2000

two miles; 5000 five miles; 10,000 ten miles, and so forth. Some few

months ago a pilot at Brooklands flew up to a height of about 15,000

feet, shut his engine dead off, and glided down into Hendon aerodrome a

distance of just over twenty miles.

 

Having got clear of the “bumps,” the next danger is the clouds, which

have a very strange effect on the stability of the craft. They should

always be avoided when possible. Fog is a very terrible element to

encounter in mid-air, and the sensation of being fog-bound is the worst

that the human brain can conceive. Nothing in sight, with the blinding

fog on either side, and not knowing any moment that he will not be

colliding with some high points of the earth, the air-pilot positively

dreads the fog.

 

The writer remembers well the case of an airman fog-bound last winter

at an aerodrome near London. For two hours he was flying up and down,

up and down, over the aerodrome, without being able to find it. The

spectators on the ground could hear the hum of his engine distinctly,

but could not see him, and neither could he see them. Eventually, with

the aid of landing-flares and Verey’s lights, he was able to land; but

for weeks afterwards was a nervous wreck, and could not fly again for

nearly a month.

 

After several trips with the instructor, and having satisfied that

individual that he has gained sufficient knowledge of flying, the

“quirk” is allowed to take up a machine by himself.

 

At first he flies it up and down, over the aerodrome, then gradually

gets on to left and right hand turns, and then to landing the machine.

 

Now, landing is the most difficult feat of all in flying; it requires

both good judgment and good nerves. Before landing the pilot must

discover the direction of the prevailing wind. This he can do by

watching the smoke of a high chimney, or of the locomotive of a railway

train. Having discovered the direction of the wind, he must land dead

against it, otherwise the machine will be caught in a sudden gust and

toppled over.

 

For a day or two he will be kept on “landing” practice, and then he