Part 7

“A nine-ship SE-5 formation, commanded by Lieut. Blackburn, was attacking a DH4B, flown by Lieut. Maughan at about a 5,000 foot altitude and several hundred feet above the clouds. I was flying on the left of the top unit, Lieut. McAllister on my right, and Cadet Love leading. When we nosed down on the DH, I attacked from the left and Lieut. McAllister from the right. After Cadet Love pulled up, I continued to dive on the DH for a short time before pulling up to the left. I saw no other ship nearby. I passed above the DH and a moment later felt a slight jolt followed by a crash. My head was thrown forward against the cowling and my plane seemed to turn around and hang nearly motionless for an instant. I closed the throttle and saw an SE-5 with Lieut. McAllister in the cockpit, a few feet on my left. He was apparently unhurt and getting ready to jump.

“Our ships were locked together with the fuselages approximately parallel. My right wing was damaged and had folded back slightly, covering the forward right-hand corner of the cockpit. Then the ships started to mill around and the wires began whistling. The right wing commenced vibrating and striking my head at the bottom of each oscillation. I removed the rubber band safetying the belt, unbuckled it, climbed out past the trailing edge of the damaged wing, and with my feet on the cowling on the right side of the cockpit, which was then in a nearly vertical position, I jumped backwards as far from the ship as possible. I had no difficulty in locating the pull-ring and experienced no sensation of falling. The wreckage was falling nearly straight down and for some time I fell in line with its path and only slightly to one side. Fearing the wreckage might fall on me, I did not pull the rip cord until I dropped several hundred feet and into the clouds. During this time I had turned one-half revolution and was falling flat and face downward. The parachute functioned perfectly; almost as soon as I pulled the rip cord the riser jerked on my shoulders, the leg straps tightened, my head went down, and the chute fully opened.

“I saw Lieut. McAllister floating above me and the wrecked ships pass about 100 yards to one side, continuing to spin to the right and leaving a trail of lighter fragments along their path. I watched them until, still locked together, they crashed in the mesquite about 2000 feet below and burst into flames several seconds after impact.

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

PARIS, FRANCE--WITH AMBASSADOR HERRICK ON THE STEPS OF THE EMBASSY, JUST AFTER ARRIVAL IN PARIS]

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

LONDON, ENGLAND--THE WELCOME AT CROYDEN FIELD WHERE A MILLING MOB OF NEARLY HALF A MILLION HAD GATHERED]

“Next I turned my attention to locating a landing place. I was over mesquite and drifting in the general direction of a plowed field which I reached by slipping the chute. Shortly before striking the ground, I was drifting backwards, but was able to swing around in the harness just as I landed on the side of a ditch less than 100 feet from the edge of the mesquite. Although the impact of landing was too great for me to remain standing, I was not injured in any way. The parachute was still held open by the wind and did not collapse until I pulled in one group of shroud fines.

“During my descent I lost my goggles, a vest pocket camera which fitted tightly in my hip pocket, and the rip cord of the parachute.”

During the descent all the other planes broke formation and arched around us. Every ship within sight proceeded at full speed to the spot and before long the air was full of machines. Several of the De Havilands landed in the plowing and within half an hour two planes with extra parachutes were sent to take us back to Kelly. About an hour after the crash we had two new S.E.-5’s and were back in the air again.

The parachute is a marvelous invention, experimented with as early as the 16th century by Leonardo da Vinci.

The first parachute was built by a Frenchman in 1784. This parachute was a rigid structure covered with very strong paper and fabric. It was used in a jump from a building in Paris.

About a year later the same type of parachute was dropped from a hot-air balloon in England. Soon jumps began to be made from balloons with other types of rigid parachutes.

About 1880, Captain Thomas Baldwin made a name for himself by jumping from hot-air balloons with a chute which was a forerunner of the present type. He was the first really successful jumper, but success in those days was judged by how long a man lived in this profession.

In 1912, the first parachute jump from an airplane was made. The container was attached to the plane and the man who did the jumping pulled the parachute out as he fell.

The war really proved that the parachute is a life saving apparatus for use with airplanes. Early in 1918 the allied pilots reported that German pilots were using parachutes to escape from their planes whenever they were out of control or set on fire. This was the beginning of insistent demands on the part of our allied pilots for parachute equipment. The A.E.F. tried to produce a satisfactory parachute by combining the good feature of several chutes already in existence. All of these, however, were very bulky and heavy and hard to get on the plane.

During the summer of 1918, the U. S. Air Service officials appealed to Washington for good airplane parachutes. A large number of tests were made. Finally, after combining all the good points of foreign and American chutes, a satisfactory free type of parachute was developed. By free type I mean the kind of parachute which is entirely independent of the plane.

Stories often come out in the newspapers about parachutes that fail to open. What probably really happens is that men who make jumps from planes are killed before they are able to pull the rip cord which opens the parachute. In the past there was always a great deal of danger in testing out a new type of chute, but now they have been developed to such a high degree of efficiency that there are practically no fatalities. Each parachute that is used by the government is repacked every month and tested every six months.

Altogether, about 57 lives have been saved by parachutes in government service. In every instance the jump took place because of fog, engine failure while flying over unfavorable country, collision of planes or other very definite emergencies. They say in the service that any flyer who jumps to save his life becomes a member of the “Caterpillar Club.” This is because the parachute is made entirely of silk, and silk comes from caterpillars. All the 57 members of this club feel that their lives have been saved by the silkworm caterpillar!

There is a saying in the service about the parachute: “If you need it and haven’t got it, you’ll never need it again!” That just about sums up its value to aviation.

For two of the last days we were on tactical maneuvers with the other branches. Half of our number were assigned to defend the bombers and observation planes while the other half attacked them. When we met, a lively combat ensued and the air would be full of pursuit planes in every conceivable position, each trying to get on the tail of an enemy plane without being first shot down itself.

At night in the barracks we would argue about which side won the war, but whenever one of us would demonstrate to the enemy that he had been shot down in battle, another would interpose the claim that he had put the attacking ship out of commission several minutes previous to the combat.

When graduation day arrived eighteen of us remained of the hundred and four cadets who started the course at Brooks a year before. We were presented with our wings and commissioned second lieutenants in the Air Service Reserve Corps. That night we gave a farewell dinner in San Antonio and for the last time assembled together.

The next day we departed from Kelly.

VII

I JOIN THE AIR MAIL

I went by rail to St. Louis and took an O.X.-5 Standard out for a barnstorming trip in Illinois, Missouri and Iowa. The Post Office Department had just advertised a number of contract air mail routes for bid, one of which was between St. Louis and Chicago by way of Springfield, Ill. I decided to barnstorm around the country until it was determined which bidder would be assigned the contract. The Robertson Aircraft Corp. had placed a bid and offered me the position of chief pilot if they were successful in getting the contract.

After returning from Iowa I flew on several flying circus dates and made a few short cross country flights to nearby cities.

On June second, while testing a commercial plane built at Lambert Field, I was forced to make a second emergency jump. I had flown the ship for a few minutes the previous week and on this occasion was testing it for various maneuvers. I had completed everything except tailspins, but when I attempted a right spin the plane refused even to start, so after a second attempt with the same result I gave that up and tried one to the left. The ship fell in easily and, when I reversed the controls after a half turn, came out at once. I then put it into a second left spin and held the controls in a spinning position during two complete turns. When I reversed them they had no apparent effect and using the engine was of no assistance. After trying for fifteen hundred feet to bring the ship out of the spin, I rolled over the right side of the cockpit and, since I had jumped only about three hundred and fifty feet above the ground, I pulled the rip cord as soon as the stabilizer had passed. The chute opened quickly but while it was functioning, I had fallen faster than the spinning ship. On its next revolution the plane was headed directly towards the chute. How close it passed will never be known, for the risers leading up from my harness were twisted and swung me around as the ship passed. However, less than twenty-five feet intervened between the wing and my parachute.

I watched the plane crash in a grain field and turned my attention to landing. A strong wind was drifting me towards a row of high tension poles and it was necessary to partially collapse the chute in order to hasten the descent and land before striking the wires. I landed rather solidly in a potato patch and was dragged several feet and over a road before several men arrived and collapsed the chute. In addition to the strong wind and rough air, collapsing or “cutting” the chute so close to the ground had caused a very rapid descent, and my shoulder had been dislocated in landing.

In July I went on two weeks active duty at Richards Field, Missouri, where I instructed on Jennies and D.H.-4’s. In August I flew a Curtiss Oriole to Nevada, Missouri, to carry passengers during the Missouri National Guard encampment.

While at Nevada I received a proposition to fly in a circus in Colorado and, as there was no immediate prospect of starting work on the mail route, I accepted and when the encampment ended I flew the Oriole back to St. Louis and took a train west.

On arriving at the field a few miles east of Denver, I discovered the plane I was to fly to be the same Lincoln Standard that Lynch and I had flown to Montana three years before. We did a little barnstorming along the eastern slope of the Rockies preliminary to the start of our flying circus. We had contracted to exhibit before a number of fairs in Colorado and there was nothing barred in the exhibitions. We put on everything the committee was willing to pay for. At the smaller places we used only one plane, but at the more important exhibitions two were required.

We flew to the town where a fair was taking place about one day before we were to exhibit. In that way everything was in readiness for the circus and the next morning there was no delay in our performance.

We started with wing-walking. The performer would climb out of the cockpit and walk along the entering edge of the wing to the outer bay strut, where he climbed up onto the top wing, and stood on his head as we passed the grandstand. After finishing his stunts on the wing he would go to the landing gear and from there to the center section, where he sat while the plane looped and did Jenny Immelmans. From the center section he went to the tail and then, unless it was an unusual occasion, the wing-walking exhibition was over.

After wing-walking came the breakaway. This was accomplished by fastening a cable to the landing gear. The performer went out to the wing tip, fastened his harness to the loose end of the cable and to all appearances fell off the wing. No one on the ground could see the cable and a breakaway always produced quite a sensation. Iron loops were clamped along the cable for use in climbing back up.

One of our feature attractions was the plane change. A rope ladder was attached to the wing of a plane and as one ship flew past the grandstand with the performer standing near the tip of the top wing, a second plane with the ladder attached, passed over the first, so that the ladder was in easy reach of the performer. We usually made two fake attempts to effect the change and actually counted on the third for success. In this way the feat looked more difficult.

A parachute was attached to the opposite wing from the rope ladder. After the plane change was completed, the performer jumped off with the chute and the show was over.

In the evening we made a night fireworks flight. A series of candles, which when lighted emitted a trail of fire for several hundred feet behind the ship, was attached to each wing. After these candles had burned out, two magnesium flares started burning, lighting up the country below well enough to read a book very clearly. The display was set off by an electric battery in the cockpit.

When the plane reached an altitude of two or three thousand feet, a number of bombs were dropped to attract attention; then the switch was thrown in to start the trails and colored lights, and the ship looped and shunted around the comet-like trail of fire.

Our greatest difficulty in night flying lay in lighting the landing fields from which to operate. Sometimes a number of cars were on the field and I landed and took-off across the beams of their headlights. Under such conditions the ground was well illuminated and landing very simple. On other occasions there would not be more than one car available and in one instance, on a dark night, I took-off and landed by the light of a pocket flashlight which one of the men flashed constantly while I was in the air, to enable me to keep track of the landing field.

At one town in Colorado, we were booked for a fireworks exhibition to be given between darkness and midnight. We had been barnstorming during the day and on our way to this town we ran short of lubricating oil. By the time we had replenished our supply it was too late to get in before dark, and I had never landed at that town before. The owner of the plane, however, was sure that he could easily locate the landing field, even in darkness. He had been there many times and he knew that the field was “right next to the golf links.”

We arrived over the town and after circling a few times, I throttled the motor and shouted “Where’s the field?”

The reply was immediate and full of confidence, “Right next the golf links.”

“Well, where are the golf links?”

“I don’t know!”

I was up against another of the very amusing but equally serious incidents in barnstorming life. We were over strange territory on a dark night and with a rapidly diminishing fuel supply. It was imperative to land within a very few minutes, yet it was not possible to tell one field from another, and even the line fences were not visible.

I flew around until the outline of a strawstack appeared in the field below us. This field was outlined on one side by the lighter color of the pasture adjoining it and a number of trees were discernible along the end. There was no way of telling whether it contained posts or ditches, but we had no alternative, and I landed beside the strawstack in the center.

A hasty examination of the field showed it to be suitable for night flying and we hailed the first car passing for a ride into the town. We had difficulty in locating our fireworks and, as the stores were all closed, still more time was lost before we obtained the bailwire, nails and boards used in building the framework for the flares and candles and attaching it to the plane.

It was nearly midnight when the ship was at last ready for the display. Only one car remained on the field. We ran this machine out beside the strawstack and placed it in a position to show up on one side of the stack, in addition to throwing most of its light on the field. I was about to take-off when the headlights on the car became so dim that they were entirely useless. One of the men had a pocket flashlight and I took-off while he threw its beam on the strawstack.

It was eleven-forty when I left the ground and eleven-fifty seven when the last flare had burned out. Our contract had been fulfilled with three minutes to spare.

I located the field by the flashing of the spotlight and levelled off and landed by its beam.

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

BRUSSELS, BELGIUM--WITH CROWN PRINCE LEOPOLD DURING THE OFFICIAL RECEPTION]

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

LONDON, ENGLAND--WITH H. R. H. THE PRINCE OF WALES AND LORD LONSDALE (LEFT) IN THE ROYAL BOX AT THE DERBY BALL]

If the position of a light is known and the field is fairly level, it is not necessary to see the ground, but a plane can be stalled in and landed on the darkest night. Pilots often bring their ships down when only the outline of a field is visible. For this reason it is imperative that no obstructions such as farm machinery, or live stock, be allowed to remain on a landing field at night.

Locating a strange flying field by its position in relation to an equally strange golf course, is just one of the many instances in a pilot’s life where comedy goes hand in hand with the most serious situations.

In one instance, the story is told of a young pilot who had just learned to fly. He was taking the owner of his plane for a short flight and was demonstrating the various maneuvers he had learned. Finally he put the machine into a spin, but after several turns, discovered that he was not able to come out, and after trying vainly in every way he could remember hearing of from his instructor, he leaned forward in the cockpit and tensely informed his passenger that they were about to crash. Not realizing the seriousness of the situation, the owner replied, “What the ---- do you care, it’s not your ship!”

It was usually the case that a person inexperienced in the art of flying became quite disturbed over some trivial thing that was of little importance, yet was perfectly at home and enjoying life tremendously at a time when the pilot was straining every effort to avoid disaster.

People would argue indefinitely, trying to persuade one of us to overload the plane past its danger point by carrying more than two passengers at a time from a small field, and it was of no consequence to them whether the plane cleared the nearest trees by a safe margin, or stalled over the uppermost branches by inches. Explanations on our part were next to useless.

If we refused to overload the ship someone cited an example where a plane had carried several passengers at one time and it made no difference what kind of a machine it was, or how large an airport it was operating from. The fact that it carried more passengers than we did indicated that it was operated by a better pilot, and that our plane was not as safe to ride in.

We could struggle along close to the ground trying to get a little altitude and our passengers would have the time of their lives, waving at the people below, but let the motor start to miss, although the plane might be several thousand feet high, with several large fields in sight, and they would glance nervously back at the pilot wishing that they had never considered taking a ride in an airplane.

The International Air Races were to be held, that year, at New York during the first part of October and, since our fair contracts were over by the last of September, we decided to enter in the “On to New York” competition, which was for civilian planes only, and was decided by points given for distance, speed, number of passengers carried, and the size of the engine used.

We had our motor overhauled at Denver and expected to fly from there to San Francisco for the start. Some of the repair parts for the engine were delayed and we were several days late in leaving Denver. Even then it was only through night work and leaving a number of things undone that we got away. A fifty-gallon center section gasoline tank had been installed which, in addition to the regular fuselage tank, gave us a capacity of one hundred and seven gallons.

We installed the engine one night and idled it for several hours before daybreak in order to work in the bearings; then we took-off for San Francisco.

Our first stop was at Rawlins, Wyoming, where the highest field on the transcontinental air mail route is located. We refilled at Rawlins and made Evanston that night.

At Evanston we were starting the engine preparatory to taxi-ing over and tying down for the night, when our carburetor caught fire. In the haste to get started we had neither put a fire screen on the intake, nor a drain pipe down from the bowl. The engine was covered with oil and the gasoline overflowing from the bowl carried the flames down around it. Soon the entire nose of the ship was ablaze and although we shovelled earth over the motor, it appeared that the wings would soon catch fire. If the fabric began to burn, the ship was gone. I had just finished removing all loose equipment from the cockpit when a small hand extinguisher arrived and with its aid the fire was soon put out.

All of the ignition wire insulation was burned off but otherwise very little damage had been done.