The Way of the Air 6

The Way of the Air 6

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.

 

 

WORK OF THE SEAPLANE

 

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 coasts for 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 himself up 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 portions can 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 message can 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 passant_ it 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 something which 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.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VII

 

A ZEPPELIN CHASE

 

 

“X or Y airships participated in the attack on Great Britain last

night; Z raiders were brought down.” Hard official words these, that,

read in the cold black and white of print, fail entirely to bring to

the reader’s mind a true sense of the danger and the nerve-racking

conditions under which this novel form of warfare is fought out.

 

Let us imagine, if we can, the difficulties the aeroplane pilot

has to face. It is dark--pitch dark--sky and earth are alike

indistinguishable. Flying at the best of times contains a more than

comfortable element of danger, and in the darkness this danger is

accentuated. The darkness deprives the air pilot of all sense of

direction and of locality, greatly hampers him in the maneuvering of

his craft, and renders unpleasantly possible a collision with another

aeroplane on similar errand bent.

 

Starting out, there are a hundred and one small details to be attended

to, as the testing of the engine, the trying of elevators and ailerons,

and the examination of the petrol and oil tanks, in order to ascertain

if there is a sufficiency of both to last a two or three hour trip.

All this to be performed in the dark, with the engine screeching

loud, so that a man may not hear a word, and the attendant mechanics

indistinguishable in the gloom.

 

Fortunately for the pilot, a small dry-cell electric lighting set is

installed in the body of every machine, and by this means the pilot is

able to distinguish his instruments--a most necessary adjunct to safe

flying--the altimeter, which records the height, “revmeter,” which

indicates the speed of the engine and the compass, more necessary than

any other instrument for night flying. Getting off from the ground is by no means a pleasant sensation. There

are hangars, high roofs, and chimney-stacks waiting to be collided

with, patches of thin and rarefied air, which will bump the machine

down as much as thirty feet at a time; the ever present danger of

engine failure, necessitating a descent to the darkened earth beneath,