Part 8

“After flying west for fifteen minutes and seeing no break I turned southwest hoping to strike the edge of the fog south of the Illinois River. My engine stopped at 8:20 P.M., and I cut in the reserve. I was at that time only 1,500 feet high, and as the engine did not pick up as soon as I expected I shoved the flashlight in my belt and was about to release the parachute flare and jump when the engine finally took hold again. A second trial showed the main tank to be dry, and accordingly a maximum of twenty minutes’ flying time left.

“There were no openings in the fog and I decided to leave the ship as soon as the reserve tank was exhausted. I tried to get the mail pit open with the idea of throwing out the mail sacks, and then jumping, but was unable to open the front buckle. I knew that the risk of fire with no gasoline in the tanks was very slight and began to climb for altitude when I saw a light on the ground for several seconds. This was the first light I had seen for nearly two hours, and as almost enough gasoline for fifteen minutes’ flying remained in the reserve, I glided down to 1,200 feet and pulled out the flare release cable as nearly as I could judge over the spot where the light had appeared. This time the flare functioned but only to illuminate the top of a solid bank of fog, into which it soon disappeared without showing any trace of the ground.

“Seven minutes’ gasoline remained in the gravity tank. Seeing the glow of a town through the fog I turned towards open country and nosed the plane up. At 5,000 feet the engine sputtered and died. I stepped up on the cowling and out over the right side of the cockpit, pulling the rip cord after about a 100-foot fall. The parachute, an Irving seat service type, functioned perfectly; I was falling head downward when the risers jerked me into an upright position and the chute opened. This time I saved the rip cord. I pulled the flashlight from my belt and was playing it down towards the top of the fog when I heard the plane’s engine pick up. When I jumped it had practically stopped dead and I had neglected to cut the switches. Apparently when the ship nosed down an additional supply of gasoline drained to the carburetor. Soon she came into sight, about a quarter mile away and headed in the general direction of my parachute. I put the flashlight in a pocket of my flying suit preparatory to slipping the parachute out of the way if necessary. The plane was making a left spiral of about a mile diameter, and passed approximately 300 yards away from my chute, leaving me on the outside of the circle. I was undecided as to whether the plane or I was descending the more rapidly and glided my chute away from the spiral path of the ship as rapidly as I could. The ship passed completely out of sight, but reappeared in a few seconds, its rate of descent being about the same as that of the parachute. I counted the five spirals, each one a little further away than the last, before reaching the top of the fog bank.

“When I settled into the fog I knew that the ground was within 1,000 feet and reached for the flashlight, but found it to be missing. I could see neither earth nor stars and had no idea what kind of territory was below. I crossed my legs to keep from straddling a branch or wire, guarded my face with my hands and waited. Presently I saw the outline of the ground and a moment later was down in a cornfield. The corn was over my head and the chute was lying on top of the corn stalks. I hurriedly packed it and started down a corn row. The ground visibility was about 100 yards. In a few minutes I came to a stubble field and some wagon tracks which I followed to a farmyard a quarter mile away. After reaching the farmyard I noticed auto headlights playing over the roadside. Thinking that someone might have located the wreck of the plane I walked over to the car. The occupants asked whether I had heard an airplane crash and it required some time to explain to them that I had been piloting the plane, and yet was searching for it myself. I had to display the parachute as evidence before they were thoroughly convinced. The farmer was sure, as were most others in a 3-mile radius, that the ship had just missed his house and crashed nearby. In fact, he could locate within a few rods the spot where he heard it hit the ground, and we spent an unsuccessful quarter hour hunting for the wreck in that vicinity before going to the farmhouse to arrange for a searching party and telephone St. Louis and Chicago.

“I had just put in the long distance calls when the phone rang and we were notified that the plane had been found in a cornfield over two miles away. It took several minutes to reach the site of the crash, due to the necessity of slow driving through the fog, and a small crowd had already assembled when we arrived. The plane was wound up in a ball-shaped mass. It had narrowly missed one farmhouse and had hooked its left wing in a grain shock a quarter mile beyond. The ship had landed on the left wing and wheel and skidded along the ground for 80 yards, going through one fence before coming to rest in the edge of a cornfield about 100 yards short of a barn. The mail pit was laid open and one sack of mail was on the ground. The mail, however, was uninjured.

“The sheriff from Ottawa arrived, and we took the mail to the Ottawa Post Office to be entrained at 3:30 A.M. for Chicago.”

When the wreck was inspected a few days later it was discovered that a mechanic had removed the 110 gallon gasoline tank to repair a leak and had replaced it with an 85 gallon tank without notifying anyone of the change. Consequently instead of being able to return to our field at Peoria, Ill., and clear visibility, I ran out of fuel while still over the fog bank.

The circumstances surrounding my fourth emergency parachute jump were almost similar to those of the third. I took-off from the Lambert-St. Louis Field at 4:20 P.M., made a five minute stop at Springfield, Ill., an hour later to take on mail, and then headed for Peoria. Weather reports telephoned to St. Louis earlier in the afternoon gave flying conditions as entirely passable. About twenty-five miles north of Springfield darkness was encountered, the ceiling had lowered to around 400 feet and a light snow was falling. At South Pekin the forward visibility of ground lights from a 150 ft. altitude was less than half a mile, and over Pekin the town lights were indistinct from 200 ft. above. After passing Pekin the plane was flown at an altimeter reading of 600 feet for about five minutes, when the lightness of the haze below indicated that it was over Peoria. Twice I could see lights on the ground and I descended to less than 200 feet before they disappeared from view. I tried to bank around one group of lights, but was unable to turn quickly enough to keep in sight.

After circling in the vicinity of Peoria for 30 minutes, I decided to try and find better weather conditions by flying northeast towards Chicago. I had ferried a ship from Chicago to St. Louis in the early afternoon, at which time the ceiling and visibility were much better near Chicago than anywhere else along the route. Enough gasoline for about an hour and ten minutes’ flying remained in the gas tank, and 20 minutes in the reserve, hardly enough to return to St. Louis even had I been able to navigate directly to the field by dead reckoning and flying blind the greater portion of the way. The territory towards Chicago was much more favorable for a night landing than that around St. Louis.

For the next half hour the flight northeast was at about 2000 feet altitude and then at 600 feet. There were now numerous breaks in the clouds and occasionally ground lights could be seen from over 500 feet. After passing over the light of a small town a fairly clear space in the clouds was encountered. I pulled up to about 600 feet, released the parachute flare, whipped the ship around to get into the wind and under the flare which lit at once. Instead of floating down slowly, however, it dropped like a rock. I could see the ground for only an instant and then there was total darkness. Meantime the ship was in a steep bank, and being blinded by the intense light I had trouble righting it. An effort to find the ground with the wing lights was in vain as their glare was worse than useless in the haze.

When about ten minutes of gas remained in the pressure tank and still not the faintest outline of any object on the ground could be seen, I decided to leave the ship rather than attempt to land blindly. I turned back southwest toward less populated country and started climbing in an attempt to get over the clouds before jumping. The main tank went dry at 7:50 P.M. and the reserve twenty minutes later. The altimeter then registered approximately 14,000 feet, yet the top of the clouds was apparently several thousand feet higher. Rolling the stabilizer back, I cut out the switches, pulled the ship up into a stall and was about to go over the right side of the cockpit when the right wing began to drop. In this position the plane would gather speed and spiral to the right, possibly striking the parachute after its first turn. I returned to the controls, righted the plane and then dove over the left side of the cockpit while the air speed registered about 70 miles per hour and the altimeter 13,000 feet. The rip cord was pulled immediately after clearing the stabilizer. The Irving chute functioned perfectly. I left the ship head first and was falling in this position when the risers whipped me around into an upright position and the chute opened. The last I saw of the DH was as it disappeared into the clouds just after the chute opened. It was snowing and very cold. For the first minute or so the parachute descended smoothly and then commenced an excessive oscillation which continued for about five minutes and which could not be checked. The first indication of the nearness of the chute to the ground was a gradual darkening of the space below. The snow had turned to rain and, although the chute was thoroughly soaked, its oscillation had greatly decreased. I directed the beam from my 500 ft. spotlight downward, but the ground appeared so suddenly that I landed directly on top of a barbed wire fence without seeing it. The fence helped to break the fall and the barbs did not penetrate my heavy flying suit. The chute was blown over the fence and was held open for some time by the gusts of wind before collapsing.

After rolling the chute into its pack I started towards the nearest light. I soon came to a road, walked about a mile to the town of Covell, Ill., and telephoned a report to St. Louis. The only information I could obtain in regard to the crashed plane was from one of a group of farmers in the general store, who stated that his neighbor had heard the plane crash but could only guess at its general direction. An hour’s search proved without avail. I left instructions to place a guard over the mail in case the plane was found before I returned and went to Chicago for another ship. On arriving over Covell the next morning I found the wreck with a small crowd gathered around it, less than 500 feet back of the house where I had left my parachute the night before. The nose and the wheels had struck the ground at the same time, and after sliding along for about 75 feet it had piled up in a pasture beside a hedge fence. One wheel had come off and was standing inflated against the wall on the inside of a hog house a hundred yards further on. It had gone through two fences and the wall of the house. The wings were badly splintered, but the tubular fuselage, although badly bent in places, had held its general form even in the mail pit. The parachute from the flare was hanging on the tailskid.

There were three sacks of mail in the plane. One, a full bag from St. Louis, had been split open and some of the mail oil-soaked but legible. The other two bags were only partially full and were undamaged.

It was just about at this time, or shortly after, that I first began to think about a New York-Paris flight. But before discussing the events leading up to that flight, it might be well to say a few words about the future possibilities of commercial aviation.

In comparing aviation to other forms of transportation it should be born in mind that the flying machine has been in existence less than twenty-five years. The Wright Brothers made their first flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, in 1903. Yet in 1927 air liners are operating regularly over long distances and under all conditions.

The first airplane was a frail machine capable of operation only in good weather. Even with the utmost care, flying in the early days of aviation was a dangerous profession at best.

Today the properly operated commercial airline compares favorably in safety with any other means of transportation.

Shipping has reached its present stage after thousands of years of development. Railroads, less than a century ago, stopped their trains at night on the grounds that operation in darkness was unsafe. Automobiles, after nearly forty years of progress, are still dependent on good roads.

The airplane, in less than quarter of a century, has taken its place among the most important methods of travel and now, where time is paramount and territory inaccessible, it stands at the head of its competition.

Development up to the present time has been largely military. The cost of aeronautical engineering and construction has been so great that commercial companies have not been able to afford to experiment with their own designs. While the airplane was still an experiment the financial returns from aeronautical projects were only too often less than the cost of operation. Consequently the early development was largely sponsored by the government, with the result that the planes were designed for use in warfare rather than for safety and economy of operation. Extreme safety, in the military machine, must be sacrificed for maneuverability. Economy of operation was replaced by military design.

Commercial aviation, in the United States, has been retarded in the past by lack of government subsidy, but the very lack of that subsidy will be one of its greatest assets in the future. A subsidized airline is organized with the subsidy as a very large consideration. The organization exists on the subsidy and its growth is regulated by the subsidy. Years will be required before the point of independence is reached and the receipts become larger than the expenditures.

On the other hand, an airline organized without regard to an external income is in a position to expand along with the demands for service. If the traffic becomes great enough to require more or bigger planes, a larger profit ensues, instead of an increased subsidy being required or the fare being raised to hold down the demand.

The airplane has now advanced to the stage where the demands of commerce are sufficient to warrant the building of planes without regard to military usefulness. And with the advent of the purely commercial airplane comes an economy of operation which places operating organizations on a sound financial basis.

Undoubtedly in a few years the United States will be covered with a network of passenger, mail and express lines.

Trans-Atlantic service is still in the future. Extensive research and careful study will be required before any regular schedule between America and Europe can be maintained. Multi-motored flying boats with stations along the route will eventually make trans-oceanic airlines practical but their development must be based on a solid foundation of experience and equipment.

IX

SAN DIEGO--ST. LOUIS--NEW YORK

The trans-Atlantic non-stop flight between New York and Paris was first brought into public consideration by Raymond Orteig who, in 1919, issued a challenge to the Aeronautical world by offering a prize of $25,000 to the first successful entrant. Details of the flight were placed in the hands of the National Aeronautic Association and a committee was appointed to form and administer the rules of the undertaking.

I first considered the possibility of the New York-Paris flight while flying the mail one night in the fall of 1926. Several facts soon became outstanding. The foremost was that with the modern radial air-cooled motor, high lift airfoils, and lightened construction, it would not only be possible to reach Paris but, under normal conditions, to land with a large reserve of fuel and have a high factor of safety throughout the entire trip as well.

I found that there were a number of public spirited men in St. Louis sufficiently interested in aviation to finance such a project, and in December 1926 I made a trip to New York to obtain information concerning planes, motors, and other details connected with the undertaking.

In connection with any important flight there are a number of questions which must be decided at the start, among the most important of which are the type of plane and the number of motors to be used. A monoplane, although just coming into general use in the United States, is much more efficient than a biplane for certain purposes due to the lack of interference between wings, and consequently can carry a greater load per square foot of surface at a higher speed. A single motored plane, while it is more liable to forced landings than one with three motors, has much less head resistance and consequently a greater cruising range. Also there is three times the chance of motor failure with a tri-motored ship, for the failure of one motor during the first part of the flight, although it would not cause a forced landing, would at least necessitate dropping part of the fuel and returning for another start.

The reliability of the modern air-cooled radial engine is so great that the chances of an immediate forced landing due to motor failure with a single motor, would in my opinion, be more than counterbalanced by the longer cruising range and consequent ability to reach the objective in the face of unfavorable conditions.

After careful investigation I decided that a single motored monoplane was, for my purpose, the type most suited to a long distance flight, and after two more trips to the east coast and several conferences in St. Louis, an order was placed with the Ryan Airlines of San Diego, California, on February 28, 1927, for a plane equipped with a Wright Whirlwind J. 5. C. 200-H.P. radial air-cooled motor and Pioneer navigating instruments including the Earth Inductor Compass.

I went to San Diego to place the order and remained in California during the entire construction of the plane.

The personnel of the Ryan Airlines at once caught the spirit of the undertaking, and during the two months of construction the organization labored as it never had before. Day and night, seven days a week, the structure grew from a few lengths of steel tubing to one of the most efficient planes that has ever taken the air. During this time it was not unusual for the men to work twenty-four hours without rest, and on one occasion Donald Hall, the Chief Engineer, was over his drafting table for thirty-six hours.

I spent the greater part of the construction period working out the details of navigation and plotting the course, with its headings and variations, on the maps and charts. After working out the track on the gnomonic and Mercators charts, I checked over the entire distance from New York to Paris with the nautical tables. The flight from San Diego to St. Louis and from St. Louis to New York was comparatively simple, and I took the courses directly from the state maps.

From New York to Paris I worked out a great circle, changing course every hundred miles or approximately every hour. I had decided to replace the weight of a navigator with extra fuel, and this gave me about three hundred miles additional range. Although the total distance was 3610 miles, the water gap between Newfoundland and Ireland was only about 1850 miles, and under normal conditions I could have arrived on the coast of Europe over three hundred miles off of my course and still have had enough fuel remaining to reach Paris; or I might have struck the coastline as far north as Northern Scandinavia, or as far south as Southern Spain and landed without danger to myself or the plane, even though I had not reached my destination. With these facts in view, I believed the additional reserve of fuel to be more important on this flight than the accuracy of celestial navigation.

For the flight from San Diego to St. Louis and New York I carried maps of the individual states and one of the United States with the course plotted on each. For the flight from New York to Paris I had two hydrographic charts of the North Atlantic Ocean containing the great circle course and its bearing at intervals of one hundred miles. In addition to these charts, I had a map of each state, territory and country passed over. This included maps of Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, Ireland, England and France. Also a map of Europe.

I expected to be able to locate my position approximately on the coast of Europe by the terrain. Ireland is somewhat mountainous; England rather hilly on the southern end; France is a lowland along the coast; Spain is mountainous. Therefore the coastline should indicate the country, and my accurate position could be obtained by the contours of that coastline and by the position of towns, rivers and railroads.

During the time of construction it was necessary to arrange for all equipment to be carried on the flight; including equipment for emergency use in a forced landing. After the first few hours there would be enough air in the fuel tanks to keep the ship afloat for some time. I also carried an air raft which could be inflated in several minutes and which could weather a fairly rough sea.

In addition to food for the actual flight, I carried five tins of concentrated Army rations each of which contained one day’s food and which could be made to last much longer if necessary. I carried two canteens of water; one containing a quart for use during the actual flight and the other containing a gallon for emergency. In addition to this water, I had an Armburst cup which is a device for condensing the moisture from human breath into drinking water. The cup is cloth covered and contains a series of baffle plates through which the breath is blown. The cup is immersed in water and then removed and blown through. The evaporation of the water on the outside cools the cup walls and baffle plates on which the breath moisture collects and runs down to the bottom of the cup.

The following is a list of the equipment carried on the flight:

2 Flashlights 1 Ball of string 1 Ball of cord 1 Hunting Knife 4 Red flares sealed in rubber tubes 1 Match safe with matches 1 larger needle 1 Canteen--4 qts. 1 “ --1 qt. 1 Armburst Cup 1 Air Raft with pump and repair kit 5 Cans of Army emergency rations 2 Air cushions 1 Hack saw blade