Part 19

The story of the airplane, so far as its relation to the American Army is concerned, begins on the little flying-field of Fort Myer, on the Virginia side of the Potomac, opposite Washington. In the late winter of 1907 the Signal Corps had issued an advertisement and specifications for a heavier-than-air flying-machine, the chief requirement being that it must remain in the air for an hour without landing. Most of us will remember the world-wide interest which was aroused by this promised realization of the dream of the ages. During the trials the eyes of the world were centred on the parade-ground at Fort Myer. The President and the members of his cabinet were in frequent attendance and even Congress adjourned when it was announced that a flight would take place. The story of how the strange contrivance, looking like a combination of a box-kite, a baby-carriage, and a windmill, which had been brought on from Dayton by the two sober-faced brothers, was trundled out onto the field; how, after skimming along the ground, it rose into the air as gracefully as a swallow, and how, after fulfilling every condition imposed by the War Department, the first machine was purchased by the government, needs no elaboration here. The most amazing feature of the affair, barring only the performance of the airplane itself, was the fact that during the eight years following the demonstration at Fort Myer _the entire appropriations by the government for military aeronautics amounted to less than a million dollars_. Think of it, my friends! With the secret of aerial navigation in our hands—a secret which had been sought for by scientists all down the ages—Congress devoted less money to its development during the first eight years than it spent on many a post-office or government building. But the astounding apathy which characterized our attitude toward this epoch-making invention did not extend to the great European nations. They, always seeking to obtain military superiority, instantly recognized the significance and the potentialities of those early flights at Fort Myer. France, in particular, during the next few years making marked advances in aircraft design and construction. Thus it came about that when the war-cloud burst over Europe in the summer of 1914 the United States, where the airplane had its birth and where it had first demonstrated its practicability, possessed only a few decrepit and almost obsolete training-machines, while our fliers could almost have been numbered on the fingers of one’s two hands. Whose was the fault for this deplorable and inexcusable condition? A certain amount of blame undeniably attaches to the army, for in those days many of our higher officers were graduates of the old Indian-fighting school, who regarded with doubt and scepticism the claim that these new-fangled flying-machines could have any real military value. I think, however, that the real cause of the neglect in developing the airplane could have been found in the building with the great white dome which stands at the far end of Pennsylvania Avenue.

As a direct consequence of our systematic discouragement of airplane development, when we entered the war there was no such thing as an aviation industry in the United States and the number of aeronautical engineers and designers was so small as to be practically negligible. In this respect the problem of developing an air-fleet was unique. The United States had built ships before, it had manufactured cannon, rifles, ammunition, it had fed and clothed and housed armies, and it had at its command thousands of men qualified to do these things and do them well, but, barring a handful of experts in Dayton and Buffalo, there was no one in this country with experience in the designing or building of either training or fighting planes. In short, the government was faced with the problem not merely of developing a new industry, but of _creating_ it.

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In April, 1917, there were being built in the United States only four makes of aircraft engines that were sufficiently developed to be of any military value, and even these were useful only for primary training. We had no engines suited for service on the battle-front, or, indeed, even for the advanced training of pilots. Though the largest engine manufactured in the United States at this time developed about 220 horse-power, it had not measured up to the exacting requirements of combat. The other American-built engines ranged from 90 to 135 horse-power. It being evident, therefore, that the existing American engines could be used only for purposes of preliminary instruction, it was accordingly decided that their further manufacture should be limited to the training requirements. As a result of this decision, by far the greater part of the primary training of pilots has been conducted with the Curtis 90 horse-power engine, a quantity production of which was obtained early in the war, this engine being particularly valuable owing to the very satisfactory training-plane which had been designed around it. Considerable use was also made of the Hall-Scott 100 horse-power engine until the Curtiss motor could be manufactured in sufficient numbers to meet all demands for primary training. Two European engines, the Gnome 100 horse-power and the Hispano-Suiza 150 horse-power, were also being put into production in the United States at this time. These engines represented the highest product of European design and engineering skill, and were in a perfected and standardized state, at least according to European ideas, when their manufacture was undertaken in this country. But the changes involved in adapting them to manufacture by American methods required so much time, and the advances made in aeronautical engineering were so rapid, that before they could be produced in sufficient numbers they were almost obsolete for service on the front. These two engines were, however, of unquestioned value for advanced training purposes, the Hispano-Suiza in particular playing an important part in this work. Later another European engine, the 80 horse-power Rhone, was also put into production.

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One of the serious mistakes into which the Allies had fallen at the time the United States entered the war was the development of such a multiplicity of types of engines and planes that it was impossible to have a large number of any one of them. Indeed, by the spring of 1917, there were almost as many types of planes skimming over the Western Front as there were types of motor-cars skimming over American roads. As a direct consequence of this condition, the trained personnel had grown to such proportions that it was estimated that from thirty to fifty men were required on the ground to keep each plane in the air. It was obvious, therefore, that unless this large number of trained attendants could be materially reduced, it would be hopeless to expect to put thousands of fighting planes into the air within a reasonable time, for, on this basis, 1,000 planes would require from 30,000 to 50,000 men to take care of them. It was realized, moreover, that copies of foreign designs could not be made available in time to answer the insistent demand that America should put on the front an air force of overwhelming proportions.

Although, immediately upon the declaration of war, an aircraft commission had been sent to Europe for the purpose of gathering first-hand information, public sentiment would not have permitted the government to sit idly by and wait with folded hands for this commission to make its report. What the country demanded was action with a capital A. Now it is not generally known, perhaps, that, instead of engines being designed for certain types of aircraft, the most successful airplanes are designed around specific engines. And, as the development of the engine requires the greatest expenditure of effort and time, some one suggested that, instead of waiting for the members of the commission to come home and tell about the European engines they had seen, to manufacture which under American conditions might well prove impracticable, an all-American engine, combining the best features of the various European types but particularly adapted for manufacture under domestic conditions, be designed by the best engineering talent in the country and immediately placed in production. At a meeting of representatives of the Signal Corps—which then had charge of military aeronautics—and the Aircraft Production Board it was decided to put this suggestion into immediate execution, at the same time purchasing in Europe whatever equipment might be available in order to tide over the period while the all-American engine was being put into production.

At noon on May 29, Lieutenant-Colonel J. G. Vincent and Lieutenant-Colonel E. J. Hall, two of the most brilliant automotive engineers in America, shut themselves in a room of the New Willard Hotel in Washington. When they left that room again on the afternoon of the 31st, though haggard from lack of sleep, they had in their hands the completed assembly drawings of an entirely new airplane engine. Thus was born the famous Liberty engine, about which hundreds of speeches have been made and thousands of columns have been written in scepticism, in criticism, and in praise. As the result of the enthusiastic co-operation of some ten manufacturers, each of whom produced those parts for which his factory was best fitted, the first Liberty, an 8-cylinder, was built in thirty days. The first 12-cylinder engine completed its official endurance test eighty-two days from the time the order for samples was given, the unqualified success of this test removing the Liberty from the realm of experimentation to that of established reputation. In just one year from the day that Lieutenant-Colonels Hall and Vincent pushed the thumb-tacks into their drawing-boards in the hotel room, 1,100 Liberty “twelves” were produced—a remarkable illustration of the ability and ingenuity of American engineers and the energy and resourcefulness of American manufacturers. Thanks to the energetic co-operation of many manufacturers, more than 14,000 Liberty engines had been completed when the Armistice was signed. There are few finer passages in the history of America’s participation in the war than the story of how our manufacturers put aside their private interests and their commercial rivalries and threw themselves and their organizations, heart and soul, into the work of building an airplane that would make America mistress of the skies.

When the signing of the Armistice brought our efforts to an abrupt conclusion, there had been developed, tested, and adopted by the army four types of airplanes, production of which would have started early in 1919. They were the Lepere, or L. U. S. A. C. II, a two-seated fighting-plane equipped with a Liberty engine; the U. S. De Havilland 9-A, a day-bombing and reconnaissance plane also fitted with the Liberty engine; the huge Martin bomber, with a gross weight of nearly 5 tons, driven by two Liberty engines; and the Loening, a two-seated combat plane fitted with the 300 horse-power Hispano-Suiza engine.

A striking illustration of the new problems and extraordinary ramifications incident to this great new industry which so suddenly came into existence in the United States is the fact that it was found necessary to despatch an agricultural expert post-haste to India to purchase enormous quantities of castor-beans, as it was at first believed that castor-oil was the only satisfactory lubricant for these new types of high-speed, high-power engines. India’s stock of castor-beans being quickly exhausted by the immensity of our demands, more than 100,000 acres of the bean were planted in the United States. Meanwhile, research work with mineral oils was carried on intensively, a lubricant eventually being developed which proved satisfactory in practically every airplane engine except the rotary type, for which castor-oil is still preferred.

But the aircraft problem was by no means solved with the development and production of the Liberty engine. Far from it. To build airplanes requires wood; the best timber in the world is none too good; and of suitable timber there was a comparatively limited supply. The best wood known for airplane construction is the Sitka spruce, which combines the required qualities of strength, resiliency, and lightness. This spruce grows mostly in the Pacific Northwest, along the tide-lands of Washington and Oregon, at a low elevation. But not all the planes were built of spruce, fir, as it grows in the Northwest, being largely used for the heavier wing-beams. Port Orford cedar was eagerly utilized whenever it could be obtained. It is of somewhat smaller growth than spruce or fir, but a straighter-grained wood, harder and more dense than either of the others. Of this splendid wood there is, however, only a comparatively small quantity, 2,000,000,000 feet, perhaps, anywhere in the world, mostly near Coos Bay, on the coast of Oregon. Being less affected by water than any of the other woods, it was reserved for use in seaplanes. The government commandeered the entire supply of Port Orford cedar for aircraft production, but released it upon the signing of the armistice.

There is plenty of suitable airplane timber—spruce, cedar, and fir—in the Far Nor’west—miles and miles and miles of it. The mountain-slopes are as solid a black with the evergreens as though a giant had painted them with soot. “Massed in their black battalions stand the bleak, barbarian pines.” Foolish men have tried to destroy these forests. Twenty years ago a colony of Poles settled amid the virgin forests of the Olympic Peninsula—a portion of the United States which to this day remains virtually unexplored. Timber was not worth a dollar a million feet then. On the chance that the ground might be tilled if the timber could be cleared off, the settlers started a fire that burned over ten square miles and destroyed timber which, at prevailing prices, would be worth close to half a million dollars. The great area of blackened waste which remains is still known as “The Polander Burn.”

Now spruce, curiously enough, had not been considered a valuable wood for the ordinary lumber trade; the lumbermen held it a doubtful asset that was hardly worth the cutting. As a result of this condition, the commercial supply was neither large enough nor well enough selected and prepared to meet our aircraft requirements when the declaration of war suddenly made it one of the most desired and most valuable woods in existence. Thus it came about that, the lumbermen being unable to supply the demand, the army had to go instantly into the business of producing this wood in theretofore undreamed-of quantities. The work of getting out the spruce fell, rather oddly, to the men who had been among the first to volunteer for extrahazardous service in France. Before the war, when airplanes were looked on merely as toys of the rich, the supervision of military aeronautics was assigned to the Signal Corps, on the assumption that if flying had any part in warfare it would probably be that of signalling, for which reason, and the more potent one that no other branch of the service knew what to do with it, it had to be wished on some one. And of all the branches of the army, possibly none save the Flying Section of the Signal Corps—as the Air Service was then known—had a more adventurous and devil-may-care personnel. The Signal Corps made its original appeal to the men who wanted to get out and do things: to be in front, to wave the little red-and-white flags under shell-fire, to sound the long yell, to see the enemy first, to be the eyes and ears and nerves of the whole army. But, as I have already explained, the army had to have the spruce in order to carry out its aviation programme, and aviation was under the Signal Corps, and it was from the Signal Corps, therefore, that the men were drawn to go out to the Northwest and get the spruce. Thus it came about that the boys who enlisted at the very beginning in order that they might have the danger and excitement of laying the field telegraphs and telephones, of dashing madly along shell-swept roads on roaring motorcycles, of wig-wagging and semaphoring word of the enemy’s movements from in front of the armies, were shipped westward instead of eastward, were given axes instead of Enfields and peaveys instead of pistols, and fought their share of the war in the gloomy depths of the primeval forest, or on the logging railroads and in the sawmills which they built in bitter cold and driving rain.

Labor conditions were undeniably bad in the Northwest at the beginning of the war. There is an old proverb that “A farm lease is a conspiracy on the part of the tenant and the absentee landlord to rob the land.” Lumbering was almost as bad. The owners were avaricious and arrogant, the men stubborn and defiant. The owners would not make camp improvements because “the men would not stay on the job,” and the men would not stay because “the owners didn’t make things decent.” And, to make things worse, the paid German propaganda was rampant, unchecked in the woods, for the Wilhelmstrasse fully realized how vital it was to cripple the American air programme. Germany knew better than we did the war possibilities of the Pacific Northwest. She couldn’t buy spruce there for her planes, but she could mobilize her spies and trouble-makers and hinder the production for and the delivery of spruce to the United States and her allies. And she did her worst. Some day there will be told the story, the “inside” story, of the campaign waged in the Great Woods by the secret forces of Germany—a campaign consisting of strikes, I. W. W. demonstrations, forest-fires, railway wrecks, dynamited bridges, damaged machinery, infernal machines, shootings, systematic intimidation, and all the other deviltries of a vicious and unscrupulous enemy. The spies and secret agents which Germany planted in the forests of the Northwest formed a part of the vast army of which the Kaiser boasted to Ambassador Gerard. But the Hun made a miscalculation. There were not enough spies; there were too many Americans.

The War Department has rarely shown greater wisdom than when it gave a colonel’s commission to Brice P. Disque, an ex-captain of Regulars who had left the army to accept the wardenship of the Michigan State Prison, and put him in charge of spruce production. Captain Disque had his blanket-roll packed and aboard ship for service in France when he was called to Washington, just as the transport was setting sail, and ordered to go to the Northwest and investigate lumbering conditions. His report showed that the right man had been found to direct the Titanic job of getting out the spruce; he was commissioned a colonel and later a brigadier-general, and the story of the spruce production tells the rest.

To the tact and vision of General Disque is due the creation of that remarkable organization known as the Loyal Legion of Loggers and Lumbermen, an association conceived to bring capital and labor together in one mighty machine driven solely by patriotism. Under the inspiration thus provided, both sides agreed to submit their differences to the United States Army, as represented in the person of General Disque, as final arbiter. The eight-hour day was agreed to; camp sanitation and better living conditions of every kind were demanded; a uniformly liberal wage-scale for all classes of labor was adopted; a standard mess was arranged to check the inordinate waste of food in the lumber-camps; the owners were given profitable prices for their output under the new conditions, and the small men were assured of receiving a square deal from their powerful corporate rivals. Some of these questions were settled through regular military channels, but most of them through the medium of the L. L. L. L. Once a matter could be shown to be reasonable and fair to every one concerned, it was officially adopted, as by a majority vote, and business as well as patriotic reasons demanded that every one should cheerfully acquiesce in the decision. The Loyal Legion works—for it has been made permanent—through its local assemblies; any local disagreement is taken to the district council—which is formed from local representatives of both employer and employees, there being eight of these district councils in the Coast Division and four in the Inland Empire. Any question which cannot be settled by a district council goes to the Central Council, composed of one employer and one employee from each district; while General Disque, as the head of the Legion, has been the final arbitrator in such questions as the Central Council could not settle. Since this plan was definitely adopted, however, so strong a spirit of patriotic fairness has been developed on both sides that nothing has gone to him for settlement or revision. Nothing could more strongly emphasize the success of the Legion, which now has a membership of nearly 130,000, than the fact that at a mass convention, held shortly after the signing of the Armistice, at which more than 900 local councils were represented, it was voted almost unanimously to perpetuate the organization, to continue the publication of its official bulletin, and to invite General Disque to continue as the Legion’s head. Were the people of the Pacific Northwest to receive no other reward for their sacrifices in the war, they have reason to feel amply repaid by the creation of the Loyal Legion and the resultant ending of the long-standing feud between capital and labor, the expulsion of the I. W. W.’s and similar discordant and dangerous elements, the betterment of working and living conditions for the lumbermen, and the commencement of an era of peace and prosperity in the Great Woods.

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Unless you have been in the Northwest during the rainy season you can have no adequate conception of the difficulties under which the spruce squadrons labored. The coastal districts of Oregon and Washington have one of the heaviest rainfalls recorded anywhere on earth. Unkind people have said of the Pacific Northwest that it has but two seasons—the rainy season and August. But that is an exaggeration. The local newspapers alternately boast of and apologize for the reputed 180 inches, or 15 feet, of annual precipitation. With that as a basis for one’s calculations, the old man who sold the town site of Simescarey, the terminus of the spruce road which the government has built into the Olympic Peninsula, has had 450 feet of water descend upon his head—for the inhabitants of that region scorn umbrellas—in the thirty years that he has resided there. After a winter spent in the Northwest—and having passed one there, I know whereof I speak—one might easily believe that the sentry at an Oregon spruce-camp was not joking when he came in to the commanding officer to report the damages done by the rain.

“Sir,” he apologized, “I don’t like to be a pessimist, but things ain’t going right to-day. Most of the fish in the lake are dead since last night’s rain. The lake raised so fast that some of ’em got beyond their depth and was just naturally drowned; the rest couldn’t swim up fast enough, and bein’ surface fish and not used to much depth, their bladders busted and there ain’t a fit fish left in the whole bunch. Every duck but one is dead, too; the rain beat their heads into a mush—all but the one that got caught in a steel trap set for a muskrat and that saved his life—he stayed under water where it was dry. Believe me, sir, that was the wettest rain last night I ever see.”

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