Chapter 9 of 14 · 3993 words · ~20 min read

Part 9

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.

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

THE U. S. S. “MEMPHIS,” FLAGSHIP ON WHICH THE AUTHOR RETURNED TO AMERICA]

[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_

WASHINGTON. D. C.--COMING DOWN THE GANGPLANK OF THE U. S. S. “MEMPHIS,” FOLLOWED BY HIS MOTHER]

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.

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

Near the end of April the factory work was completed and early one morning, the 46 ft. wing was taken out of the second floor of the factory onto the top of a freight car and then lowered to a waiting truck by means of a gasoline crane. A few days later the plane was completely assembled in its hangar, and on April 28th, or sixty days after the order had been placed, I gave “The Spirit of St. Louis” her test flight. The actual performance was above the theoretical. The plane was off the ground in six and one-eighth seconds, or in 165 feet, and was carrying over 400 lbs. in extra gas tanks and equipment. The high speed was 130 M.P.H. and the climb excellent.

The load tests were made from the old Camp Kearney parade-grounds near San Diego. At daybreak, one foggy morning, I took-off from the field at Dutch Flats and headed for the Army’s three kilometer speed course along Coronado Strand. The visibility became extremely bad over San Diego harbor and I was forced to land at Rockwell Field, North Island, and wait for the fog to lift before running the speed tests. The sun soon dispelled the fog and I took the plane four times over the speed course at an average of 128 M.P.H. in a slight cross wind. I was carrying about 25 gals. of gasoline and over 400 lbs. of extra tanks and equipment. On the way to Camp Kearney I ran a number of tests on the relation of motor R.P.M. to air speed, and by the time I reached the old parade-grounds’ field I had collected quite a bit of valuable test data.

I decided to run one more test before landing and had it about half-way completed when I allowed the data board to come too close to the window where a gust of air carried it out of the cockpit. I was flying over mesquite, over five miles from Camp Kearney, at about a 1200-foot altitude at the time, and could only spiral around and watch the board flutter down into the top of a mesquite bush. There was a small clearing about 200 yards from the bush, in which it was possible to land a slow ship. I landed at Camp Kearney and sent for one of the cabin Hisso Standards used by the Ryan Airlines for their passenger service between San Diego and Los Angeles. When the Standard arrived I flew over and landed in the clearing near the lost board which was clearly visible from the air; but, after a fifteen minute search, I was unable to locate it from the ground in the thick mesquite. So I took off my coat and spread it over the top of another bush, then took the air again with the Standard to locate the board in relation to the coat.

I had no difficulty in locating them both and found them to be about fifty yards apart. I landed again but could not locate the board, so moved my coat to the spot where I thought it should be and took-off again. This time I had placed the coat within twenty feet of the data board, but it required several minutes’ search in the thick mesquite to finally locate it.

After I returned to Camp Kearney with the Standard, we made preparations for the weight tests of the Spirit of St. Louis.

The tests were to be made starting with a light load and increasing the weight carried by about fifty gallons of fuel for each test up to three hundred gallons, which was to be the maximum load tested. The plane passed its tests easily and took-off with three hundred gallons in twenty seconds or 1026 feet, and made a maximum speed of 124 miles per hour. The tests were made in a quartering wind varying from two to nine miles per hour and at an elevation of about six hundred feet above sea level.

The final flight ended at dusk and the plane was left under guard on the field over night. The next morning, after most of the gasoline had been drained, I flew it back to Dutch Flats where final preparations were made for the flight to St. Louis.

I was delayed four days at San Diego by a general storm area over the United States that would greatly jeopardize the success of an overnight non-stop flight to St. Louis. From this flight I expected to obtain some very important data for use on the final hop from New York.

On the afternoon of May 9th, Dean Blake, Chief of the San Diego Weather Bureau, predicted favorable flying conditions for the succeeding day. The next morning I took the plane to Rockwell Field and at 3:55 P.M. Pacific time, I took-off from North Island with 250 gallons of gasoline for the flight to St. Louis, escorted by two Army observation planes and one of the Ryan monoplanes. We circled North Island and San Diego, then headed on a compass course for St. Louis.

The ship passed over the first ridge of mountains, about 4,000 feet, very easily with reduced throttle. The escorting planes turned back at the mountains and I passed on over the desert and the Salton Sea alone. And at sunset I was over the deserts and mountains of Western Arizona.

WASHINGTON, D. C.--CHARLES EVANS HUGHES CONFERS THE CROSS OF HONOR FROM THE UNITED STATES FLAG ASSOCIATION]

WASHINGTON, D. C.--AT THE TOMB OF “THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER” AT ARLINGTON CEMETERY]

The moon was well above the horizon and with the exception of a short period before dawn I was able to distinguish the contour of the country the entire night. I flew a compass course, passing alternately over snow-capped ridges, deserts, and fertile valleys. One of the mountain ranges was over 12,000 feet high and completely snow covered. I cleared this range by about 500 feet and went on over the plains beyond.

The mountains passed quickly and long before daybreak I was flying over the prairies of Western Kansas. At dawn I located my position about twenty miles south of the course, just east of Wichita, Kansas. At 8:00 A.M. Central Standard time, I passed over Lambert Field and landed at 8:20 A.M., May 11th, fourteen hours and twenty-five minutes after leaving the Pacific Coast.

The weather during the entire distance had been exactly as Dean Blake had predicted.

At 8:13 the next morning (May 12th) I took off from Lambert Field for New York. The wind was west and the weather clear for the greater part of the distance. Over the Alleghanys, however, the sky was overcast and some of the mountain tops were in low hanging clouds and I followed the passes.

At 5:33 P.M. New York Daylight Saving time, I landed at Curtiss Field, Long Island.

NEW YORK TO PARIS

At New York we checked over the plane, engine and instruments, which required several short flights over the field.

When the plane was completely inspected and ready for the trans-Atlantic flight, there were dense fogs reported along the coast and over Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, in addition to a storm area over the North Atlantic.

On the morning of May 19th, a light rain was falling and the sky was overcast. Weather reports from land stations and ships along the great circle course were unfavorable and there was apparently no prospect of taking off for Paris for several days at least. In the morning I visited the Wright plant at Paterson, New Jersey, and had planned to attend a theatre performance in New York that evening. But at about six o’clock I received a special report from the New York Weather Bureau. A high pressure area was over the entire North Atlantic and the low pressure over Nova Scotia and Newfoundland was receding. It was apparent that the prospects of the fog clearing up were as good as I might expect for some time to come. The North Atlantic should be clear with only local storms on the coast of Europe. The moon had just passed full and the percentage of days with fog over Newfoundland and the Grand Banks was increasing so that there seemed to be no advantage in waiting longer.