Part 8

We were delayed twenty-four hours rewiring the engine and cleaning out the dirt shovelled on in the attempt to put out the fire.

After Rawlins we stopped at Salt Lake City, and from there we flew over the Great Salt Lake Desert to Battle Mountain, Nevada, where we spent the night.

We took off from Battle Mountain with full gas tanks and after following the passes until part of the fuel was consumed, and the load correspondingly lightened, we passed over the Sierra Nevada Range at eight thousand five hundred feet, and landed at Oakland, California. The same evening, without refilling, we flew over San Francisco Bay to Crissey Field.

The following day we took-off from Crissey Field on the start of our race to New York. One of the rules of the contest was that each plane should carry a log with the starting point and number of passengers carried attested to by two witnesses. By the time we had made out the log and serviced our plane, it was afternoon and darkness overtook us at Lovelocks, Nevada.

The next night was spent in Rawlins, Wyoming, after a stop at Salt Lake City for fuel.

We arrived in Rawlins with a valve blowing badly and were delayed a day in pulling the bank and grinding in another valve.

We were far behind our schedule due to the late start from Denver; the delay at Evanston, and again at Rawlins; but without further trouble we would still be able to reach New York on time. Another valve began blowing, however, soon after leaving Rawlins, and when we took-off from our next stop at Sidney, Nebraska, the motor had lost a number of revolutions.

We flew to Lincoln from Sidney and after taking the short remaining time into consideration, we decided to abandon the race and start barnstorming.

We overhauled the engine at Lincoln and worked over towards St. Louis, where we arrived about the end of October.

At St. Louis we decided to tie up for the winter and I began instructing students for the Robertson Aircraft Corporation on OX-5 Standards. The Corporation had been awarded the air mail contract but actual operation was not to start until the next spring, so during the winter months I spent my time instructing and test flying in their commercial service.

For the first time in my flying career I was to be in one plane longer than a few months, so in November, 1925, I enlisted in the 110th Observation Squadron of the 35th Division Missouri National Guard, and was commissioned a First Lieutenant soon afterward.

The squadron was stationed on Lambert Field. Every Sunday was spent in flying. We had a number of J.N. training planes and one T.W.-3 which was the commanding officer’s personal ship.

The organization was composed mainly of pilots who had flown during the war, but after the Armistice had gone back to civilian life. Their only method of keeping in training was by flying National Guard planes in their spare moments and attending camp two weeks each year.

Two nights and one day each week were devoted to military service by these officers and the enlisted men under them. Their pay was small and most of them lost more from neglect of their business than they received for their military services. The remuneration was hardly considered. However they joined the Guard for two reasons: first, because of the opportunity it offered to keep in flying training, and second, because they considered it a patriotic duty to keep fit for immediate service in case of National emergency.

Appropriations were not large and often insufficient but, although at times it required part of the squadron’s pay checks, the ships were kept in the air.

The National Guard squadrons offer an excellent opportunity for young men to get a start in aviation. Instruction is given each week, covering practically every branch of military aeronautics, and practical flying experience is obtained both in the air and on the ground under actual operating conditions. Each year a few members of the squadron are sent to the army schools at San Antonio for flying training, and upon returning these men take their places in the commissioned personnel of the organization.

The inauguration of our Air Mail service was to take place on April fifteenth, and as spring drew near we were kept busy making preliminary preparations. The De Havilands were to be completed and tested; a ground organization built up; the terminal airports decided upon and facilities for taking on and discharging the mail arranged for; in addition to the untold detail arrangements which go to make up the organization of a successful airline.

Contract air mail routes are located by the Post Office Department and are so arranged that the mail service can be improved by use of air transportation over other means of communication.

The route is opened for bid and the contract awarded to the lowest bidder who is responsible and in a position successfully to carry on operations.

The contractor can bid any amount up to three dollars per pound of mail and is paid by the pound for the actual amount carried over his route.

Our route, between St. Louis and Chicago was operated on a schedule which saved one business day over train service to New York. A letter mailed in St. Louis before three-thirty P.M. was rushed to Lambert Field by a fast mail truck, transferred to the plane which was waiting with engine turning over, landed on the Air Mail field at Maywood, Illinois at seven-fifteen, transferred to one of the Chicago-New York overnight planes, retransferred at Cleveland, Ohio, and was in the Post Office in New York in time for the first morning delivery.

An answer could be mailed at New York in the evening and be delivered in St. Louis before noon on the following day. If sent through the ordinary mail it would not arrive until one day later.

The advantages of air transportation are most apparent over long distances. The air mail flies from New York to San Francisco in thirty-six hours, whereas a train requires nearly four days to make the same trip.

The United States, through the efforts of the Post Office and the Department of Commerce, is being covered with a network of air mail routes, and it is only a matter of the public using this service before nearly every city in the country will be served by airlines.

VIII

TWO EMERGENCY JUMPS

By the first of April our organization was well under way and about a week before the inauguration day we took two planes over the route to make any final arrangements necessary.

On April fifteenth at 5:50 A.M. I took-off from the Air Mail Field at Maywood on the first southbound flight, and that afternoon we sent two ships north with the inauguration mail from St. Louis, Springfield and Peoria.

During the summer months most of our route was covered during daylight, but as winter approached the hours of night flying increased until darkness set in a few minutes after we left the field at St. Louis.

With night flying and bad weather our troubles began. Our route was not lighted at first and the intermediate airports were small and often in poor condition. Our weather reports were unreliable and we developed the policy of taking off with the mail whenever local weather conditions permitted. We went as far as we could and if the visibility became too bad we landed and entrained the mail.

One of the worst conditions we met with was in flying from daylight into darkness. It was not difficult to fly along with a hundred foot ceiling in the daytime, but to do so at night was an entirely different matter, and after the night set in, if the weather became worse, it was not possible to turn around and return to daylight.

With all of our difficulties, however, the mail went through with surprising regularity. During the first five months of operation we made connections on over ninety-eight per cent of our trips.

There are only two conditions which delay the air mail: fog and sleet. If the fog is light or local, and the sleet not too heavy, the planes continue even then. But when the ground becomes invisible and the fog covers the terminal fields, or when sleet freezes thickly on wings and wires, the planes cannot continue. In such cases the mail is entrained and usually reaches its destination at least as soon as it would have if sent by train in the first place.

Almost every day, in some section of the United States, mail pilots are flying over fog and through storms and rain to bring their ships through on schedule time. The mail plane is seldom delayed and then only by impossible weather conditions. In the future these delays will become fewer as radio navigation and instruments for blind flying improve, until it will be possible for the pilots to keep to their schedules under the worst conditions and in comparative safety.

Another hazard, during certain times of year, is the formation of ice. This will gather on all parts of the plane but mainly on the wires, propeller, and entering edge of the wings. If it forms slowly from a fog or light rain, a plane may be able to continue on its course for some time, but if a heavy sleet storm is encountered the ice may form so rapidly that a ship cannot stay in the air over five minutes before it is so loaded down that the pilot will be unable to keep from losing altitude even with his motor wide open.

The actual weight of ice is not as important as the loss in efficiency of the wing, due to the changed airfoil caused by ice gathering on the entering edge.

Still more loss is caused from the ice forming on the propeller itself. The blades take on a thick coating which continues to increase in depth until the ice from one of the blades is thrown off by centrifugal force. When this happens an excessive vibration sets in and continues until the opposite blade has thrown off its coating.

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

LONDON, ENGLAND--CROWDS PRESSING AROUND “THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS” AS THE PLANE LANDED. SOME OF THE SOUVENIR-HUNTERS MANAGED TO TEAR AWAY BITS OF THE WING]

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

LONDON, ENGLAND--“AT CROYDEN FIELD I ESCAPED TO THE TOP OF THE OBSERVATION TOWER OVERLOOKING THE CROWD”]

One of the dangers which a mail pilot faces in flying at night through bad weather and low visibility is in suddenly losing track of the ground due to a fog bank lower than the rest. If he has been flying very close to the ground it is not advisable to go lower, and often the only alternative is to climb up through the fog and attempt to find a hole somewhere to spiral down through.

Being caught in a fog at night was the cause of two of my forced jumps, the official reports of which follow:

“I took-off from Lambert-St. Louis Field at 4:25 P.M., September 16, 1926, and after an uneventful trip arrived at Springfield, Ill., at 5:10 P.M., and Peoria, Ill., at 5:55 P.M.

“I left the Peoria Field at 6:10 P.M. There was a light ground haze, but the sky was practically clear with but scattered cumulus clouds. Darkness was encountered about 25 miles northeast of Peoria, and I took up a compass course, checking on the lights of the towns below until a low fog rolled in under me a few miles northeast of Marseilles and the Illinois River.

“The fog extended from the ground up to about 600 feet, and, as I was unable to fly under it, I turned back and attempted to drop a flare and land. The flare did not function and I again headed for Maywood (Chicago’s air mail port) hoping to find a break in the fog over the field. Examination disclosed that the cause of the flare failure was the short length of the release lever and that the flare might still be used by pulling out the release cable.

“I continued on a compass course of 50 degrees until 7:15 P.M. when I saw a dull glow on top of the fog, indicating a town below. There were several of these light patches on the fog, visible only when looking away from the moon, and I knew them to be towns bordering Maywood. At no time, however, was I able to locate the exact position of the field, although I understand that the searchlights were directed upward and two barrels of gasoline burned in an endeavor to attract my attention. Several times I descended to the top of the fog, which was 800 to 900 feet high, according to my altimeter. The sky above was clear with the exception of scattered clouds, and the moon and stars were shining brightly. After circling around for 35 minutes I headed west to be sure of clearing Lake Michigan, and in an attempt to pick up one of the lights on the Transcontinental.

“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.