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 percent 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.
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
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, IL, at 5:10 p.m., and Peoria, IL, 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, IL, 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, IL, 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 2,000 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, IL, 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.
The U.S.S. Memphis, flagship on which the author returned to America
Washington DC—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.
Transatlantic 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 transoceanic airlines practical but their development must be based on a solid foundation of experience and equipment.