A particularly lovable figure in American aviation during the war was Edmond Genet, who fell in the Spring of 1917 while serving under the Stars and Stripes. Born in America, young Genet was descended from the first French minister to the United States. The two countries were equally dear to him. When he died, at his own request the Tri-color and the Stars and Stripes were placed side by side over his grave, as a mark, so he said “that I died for both countries.”

Captain Boelke had a totally different method of attack from that of Immelmann. His favorite pastime was to lurk behind a cloud at a great altitude, until he spied an airplane of the Allies below him, when he would point the nose of his machine straight at his victim and dive for it, opening fire. In case he missed his target he never waited to give battle, but continued his descent until he had made a landing behind the German lines. According to the lenient German count, he had scored 43 victories up to the time of his death. It was an American, Captain Bonnel, in the British air service, who finally defeated and killed him in October, 1916.

Early in the war the Germans discovered that, however perfect their airplanes might become, their airmen were not the equals of those who were flying for the French and British. The German works much better under orders than where, as in aerial combat, he is required to rely entirely upon his personal initiative. The Allied airmen therefore soon claimed supremacy over the lines, and it was in order to wrest it from them that the Germans began turning over various schemes in their mind. The one which proved acceptable in the end has been credited to Captain Boelke. It was that of sending German aviators out in groups to meet the Allied fliers, each group headed by a commander. This plan at least proved much more successful than the old one of single encounter. Thus Boelke became the commander of a German squadron, which after his death passed to the leadership of Baron Max von Richthofen.

Richthofen was one of the cleverest of the enemy aviators and in time he made his squadron a formidable aerial weapon. He conceived the idea of camouflaging his planes in order to render them invisible at high altitudes. Accordingly he had all the machines under his command gaudily colored. He presented a curious spectacle when he took to flight with his gaudily painted flock of birds and the British promptly nicknamed his squadron “Richthofen's circus.” The “circus” usually consisted of about 30 fast scout machines, with every pilot a picked man. Freed from all routine duties over the lines its one object was to destroy, and so it roved up and down, appearing now here, now there, in an effort to strike terror to the hearts of British and French airmen. It took a large toll of our best fighters, although Richthofen's personal record of 78 victories was undoubtedly exaggerated.

The most effective fighters against this powerful organization were the members of the world-famous Hat-in-the-Ring Squadron commanded by Captain Eddie Rickenbacker, America's ace of aces. Day after day they went out against the boasted champions of the German Air Service and day after day they came in with German planes to their credit. At the close of the war they had won a greater number of victories than any other American squadron. The Hat-in-the-Ring was the first American squadron to go over the enemies' lines, the first to destroy an enemy plane and it brought down the last Hun aeroplane to fall in the war. After the signing of the armistice it was distinguished by being selected as the only fighting squadron in the forces to move into Germany with the Army of Occupation. It will doubtless go down in history as the greatest flying squadron America sent to the war.

On April 21, 1918, the “circus” was in operation over the Somme Valley, over the British lines. Several of its fighters attacked a couple of British planes unexpectedly, and quite as suddenly the whole squadron swooped down out of the blue. Other British airplanes rushed to the spot from all directions and there followed a confused battle which spread over a wide area.

One of the German planes which had been flying low came crashing to earth. When the wreckage was removed and the body of the pilot recovered he was found to be no other than the great Richthofen himself.

Thus the greatest of the German champions was downed. He was buried with military honors by the British, but the menace which he stood for had happily been destroyed.

CHAPTER IX
The Birth of an Airplane

Out in the forests of the great Northwest there stands a giant spruce tree, tall and straight and strong, whose top looks out across the gentle slopes of the Rocky Mountain foothills to the Pacific. For eight hundred years, perhaps, it has stood guard there. Great of girth, its straight trunk rising like a stately column in the forest, it is easily king of all it surveys.

Someday the woodsmen of Uncle Sam come and fell that mighty spruce. And then begins the story of its evolution, from a proud, immovable personage whose upper foliage seemed to touch the clouds, to a strong and lithesome bird who goes soaring fearlessly across the sky.

Uncle Sam has had an army of over ten thousand men in the woods of Oregon and Washington during the past year, selecting and felling spruces for airplane manufacture. Only the finest of the trees are chosen, and lumber which shows the slightest defect is instantly discarded. The great logs are sawed into long, flat beams, and are carefully examined for knots or pitch pockets or other blemishes which might impair their strength when finally they have been fashioned into airplane parts. These beams then start on their journey to the aircraft plants, where skilled laborers get to work on them. For the days of the homemade airplane have passed. It is only about fifteen years since the Wright brothers built their first crude flying machine, and, not without some misgivings, made the first trial of their handiwork. Since then airplane manufacture has made many a stride. The flying machine of those days was largely a matter of guesswork. Nobody knew exactly what it might do when it took to the air. Nobody knew whether it would prove strong enough to bear the pilot's weight, or whether it might suddenly capsize in the air and come crashing with its burden to the earth. For the parts had been crudely fashioned by the inventor's own hands. Naturally he was very seldom a skilled cabinet maker, painter and mechanician. He knew very little about the laws of aerodynamics, about stress and strain and factors of safety. He just went ahead and did the best he could and took his chance about losing his life when his great bird took to the air.

No wonder the early fliers dreaded to set forth in even a gentle breeze! No wonder there used to be so much talk about “holes in the air” and all the other atmospheric difficulties that beset the pioneers. The wonder is that any of the early fliers ever came off alive with the fickle mounts to whom they trusted their lives.

To-day the manufacture of an airplane has been reduced to the most exact of sciences. Every part is produced in large quantities by skilled workmen, and its strength is scientifically determined before it is passed on to become a member of the finished airplane. Sometimes whole factories specialize on a particular detail of the airplane. Here they make only airplane propellers; there only engines; while in this factory the wings and fuselage are produced.

Let us imagine ourselves on a visit to one of the great aircraft factories which have suddenly sprung up in the United States and become so busy with the work of turning out a huge aerial fleet. The great trees which were felled in the Northwestern woods have changed greatly in appearance since we saw them last. As a matter of fact for certain parts of the airplane they should have been allowed to lie out in the sun and rain for several years to “season,” but the rush to put planes in the air has made this impossible. Instead they have been treated with a special process in order to rid the wood of its impurities. Now the big beams go to the carpenters to be fashioned into the airplane fuselage. The separate boards are carefully cut and fitted and trimmed down to perfect smoothness and symmetry. Painted and varnished the fuselage resembles a fine automobile body. In the top or roof of the fuselage one or more circular openings have been cut. Below, almost on the floor are the seats for pilot and observer, in what are known as the cockpits. While the carpenters and cabinet makers have been busy on the fuselage, more skilled workmen still have been fashioning the airplane wings. This is one of the most difficult and delicate tasks of all. Remember that the curve of the wing determines to a large extent the speed and climbing powers of the completed airplane. The wing is built up of a number of ribs which give it the proper curve and shape. Each of these ribs must be accurately manufactured from a prescribed formula. First a piece of board is turned out which looks exactly like a cross section of a wing. But there is no need for solid wood to add to the weight of the wing, and so all over its surface the workman goes, boring out circular pieces, until only a framework remains. On its upper and lower edges a flexible strip of wood is bent down to its shape and strongly attached. The rib is now complete. A number of ribs placed in a row begin to suggest the outlines of a wing. They are connected by long beams which run from tip to tip of the wing. When these have been fastened in place the skeleton is completed and the work of the carpenters is over for a little while.

The next step is to place upon this wing skeleton its linen covering. The linen is usually cut in gores or strips which are sewed together, and then the whole piece is stretched as taut as possible upon its framework, above and below the ribs. Sometimes the seams run parallel to the ribs and are tacked down to them, but seams which run diagonally across the wing have been found more satisfactory. Of course it is practically impossible to stretch the fabric absolutely tight over the frame so that it will not sag when subjected to the heavy pressure of the air. Various methods were tried in the early days to tauten and strengthen the fabric. To-day the covered wing is treated with a substance known as “dope,” which shrinks it till it is “tight as a drum.”

Dope renders the wing both air-proof and rainproof. It strengthens the fabric and makes it able to bear the terrible stresses to which it will be subjected when the airplane is racing through the sky. But it cannot be applied carelessly, and right here the skill of the very best painters is brought into play. These painters spread first two very thin coats of it over the fabric, filling up the pores so that later coats will not run through into the interior of the wing. Next two or three thicker coats are applied. After this the wing may receive several coats of varnish, while if it is a U. S. service plane it gets a final covering of white enamel, which protects the fabric from the injurious action of the sun's rays.

Now the wings and fuselage of our airplane are ready, and the rudder, the elevating surfaces and the ailerons are in course of production. They are made in the same manner as the wings, with a wooden framework over which fabric is stretched and “doped.” We begin to think our big bird is almost ready to be put together, but we have forgotten two important items: the engine and the propeller.

The airplane manufacturer usually does not attempt to build his own engines or propellers. He buys his engine all ready to be installed and procures his propeller from a factory which makes this its specialty.

For the propeller is one of the most difficult parts of the airplane to produce. Above all things it must be strong, and for this reason steel has been tried in its manufacture. Curiously enough it was found that the metal propeller could not stand up under high speeds and stresses as well as one built of wood.

Many kinds of wood are used in propeller construction, and the choice depends very largely on the speed and stress—in other words on the horsepower of the engine. Sometimes a propeller is built of alternating layers of two different kinds of wood. But with high-powered engines oak is very generally employed on account of its strength.

An airplane propeller is not carved out of a single block of wood, for in this case it would not be strong enough for the difficult task it has to perform of cutting its way through the atmosphere and drawing the airplane after it. Instead it is built up of a number of thicknesses of specially seasoned wood, so arranged that the surface is formed by the cross grains of the various layers. This result is produced by first piling up a number of boards to form a block out of which the propeller can be carved. The boards are glued firmly together and then they are subjected to tremendous pressure. Now expert wood carvers begin their delicate task of turning out a propeller of a given pitch. Their work requires the utmost skill, but they succeed, until gradually the finished article begins to take form out of the crude block. A coat of varnish, a fine metal hub—and our propeller is ready to be shipped to join the wings and the fuselage and complete the manufacture of a modern airplane.

There are several other items—such as the steel landing chassis, the steering instruments and the upholstery—which we must have on hand before we are ready to commence the work of assembling. When all have been procured the happy task begins. The wings are put in place, and carefully secured by wires and supporting struts. The steering apparatus is installed, the cushioned seats are placed in the cockpits, the fuselage is mounted on the wheeled chassis, and finally when all is complete the big bird is sent out for its first test flight.

If there is any one way in which the airplane of to-day differs radically in its process of manufacture from the airplane of a few years ago it is in this: that it is a tested machine. The greatest enemy of the aviator was and always will be, not so much the bullets of an enemy as the hidden flaw in his machine's construction, which makes it “go back on him” when he least expects. The pioneer aviator built himself what he considered a “strong airplane,” but when he attempted flight under weather conditions not so favorable as those on which he had counted, some untested part gave way. So in the early days there were many tragedies. To-day, the airplane has become a safe mount indeed, for not only is the finished machine tried out before it is put into use, but each separate part is subjected to the most exacting series of tests. If it does not bear up under at least six times the strain it will ever be called on to endure in flight, it is rejected as unfit.

That is the reason the aviator of to-day dares to perform all the marvelous tricks in the air of which we read. Back of the stories of heroism and daring that have come from the battle line during the Great War, and back of the great commercial feats and enterprises that are being planned for the near future, we must not lose sight of the remarkable progress in airplane manufacture and the careful painstaking research and experiment that have resulted in greater safety in the air.

Of course it was the war that spurred every one on to do his best in the design and construction of airplanes. Before that time England and America had made very poor showings, and France, although deeply interested in aviation, had nothing in the way of a flying machine that would not seem ancient compared with the airplanes of the present time.

America came into the field of action late, and up to the time she entered the war she had practically no airplane industry whatever. Yet when she did get in she set to work with a will, and as every one knows she succeeded in making a real contribution to aviation in the war. Every brain that could be of service in our great country was mobilized. The automobile manufacturers did much for the cause, some surrendering their trade secrets for the good of the cause, and others turning over their large organizations to airplane construction. As a result, a recent report stated that there were 248 factories in the United States making planes, with over 150,000 men working on aircraft. In a single year this giant industry has sprung up, and the mechanical genius of America has been focussed upon this latest problem: the heavier-than-air machine.

It is inconceivable that our country, which can boast the invention of the airplane, should in peace times allow this great industry to wane. For a long time we slept while France was forging ahead in the design and construction of machines. The commercial uses of the airplane will be numberless, and it is bound to assume an ever more important and practical role in everyday life. America has the natural resources, and now that she has developed the tools with which to work and has trained a large body of young men to be capable pilots, she should look forward in the future to maintaining her proper place among the nations in airplane manufacture. The big bird of the sky who had his birth in America and who grew to such enormous proportions during the strenuous days of war, must not be allowed to lose his American manners when he turns to peace pursuits.

CHAPTER X
The Training of an Aviator

It is a rocky road that leads from the obscurity of civilian life to the glory and achievement of a successful “bird-man.” The man—or the boy—who elects to follow it must be possessed of brains, physical perfection, and iron grit, for he will need them all if he is to become one of the “heroes of the air.” With one's feet on solid earth it is easy enough to make mistakes and profit by them, doing better the next time. The airman seldom profits by his serious blunders, for he is no longer on the scene when the experts are pointing out what error he was guilty of. The moment his machine, after a run across the ground, suddenly lifts and goes skimming off into the blue, he must depend upon himself. No friend upon the earth can shout to him any advice; his own unfailing knowledge and quick judgment must dictate in every emergency and see him through until once more he alights upon this old world.

Fortunately the War has proved that there were many young men able to do just that—depend upon themselves in situations so critical that the slightest deviation from the right course, the slightest hesitation about what to do next, would have cost them their lives, and their government a costly airplane. Such men have covered themselves with glory, and have won the love and admiration of their people. But they did not achieve their daring exploits nor make their marvelous records in the air until they had passed through a series of tests and a system of training so rigid that it might well have discouraged the most stout-hearted.

Why must the aviator be physically perfect? Just imagine for one moment some of the hardships and perils he will have to face. The higher the altitude at which he flies, the more intense becomes the cold. In some regions of the upper air temperatures as low as 80° and 90° below zero have been recorded by fliers. And rushing through the air at such speeds as 150 miles an hour produces a strain upon the lungs which only the strongest and sturdiest can endure. Nor is this all. The tiniest defect in the mechanism of the inner ear may cost the airman his life, if he undertakes night flying. If only he were required to fly in broad daylight when there were neither clouds nor darkness to obstruct his view of Old Mother Earth, he might manage to get along with a less-than-perfect ear. But at night,—on a cloudy night at that, when there are no lights on earth to guide him and no stars visible in the sky—the aviator faces some of his gravest perils. Strange as it may seem it is often very difficult for him to tell whether his machine is in a horizontal position, whether he is flying right-side-up or is toppling over at a perilous angle. The only thing which helps him in this extremity is a slight reflex action in the inner ear which warns him of any loss of “balance.” In the same way perfect vision is absolutely essential to the man who must be prepared for any sort of aerial emergency. This does not mean merely “seeing well.” It means the absolute working right of the lens and muscles of the eye, their quick readjustment to normal after any series of loop-the-loops, after a nose dive or any sort of acrobatic stunt an airplane may be called on to perform.

So it goes with every one of the physical requirements laid down by the military authorities for men who would become fliers—they are not just arbitrary requirements, but are based on long experience of the demands which flying makes upon the system. In peace times the aviator may be able to get along with somewhat less than the physical perfection required of the military aviator, particularly if he takes up flying merely as a sport, for he will be able to spare himself the night flying and all the other difficult feats which have been required of the aviators in the war. But the next few years are going to see many new commercial duties opening to the airplane, and the pilots who guide these great ships of peace and industry will no doubt be chosen by just as high standards as our military aviators.

The room in which the would-be military aviator receives his physical examination has been jokingly referred to as “the Chamber of Horrors,” and he reaches it after a short preliminary test of heart, lungs, and ear. As he sits side by side with his fellow applicants in the outer waiting room, he cannot help a feeling of “creepiness.” At intervals a doctor appears at the door of that secret chamber and beckons another unfortunate in. He remembers all the grewsome stories he had heard of happenings in that room behind the closed door and his knees commence to shake. Gradually the minutes pass and by a supreme effort he begins to recover his nerve. Suddenly the door opens and a white faced applicant rushes out. The poor would-be aviator regrets his rashness in deciding to learn to pilot one of the big birds of the air. But it is his turn next, so, appearing as unconcerned as possible, he follows the doctor in.

He is ordered to sit down in a small chair to the back of which is attached a bracket for his head. The clamps are adjusted to hold his head firm, he is told to fix his gaze on a point ahead, and then suddenly, he commences to whirl around. Round and round he goes, ten times in 20 seconds. The chair comes abruptly to a halt. He must find that point he fixed his eyes on before starting. He struggles vainly to do so, imagining that failure means immediate rejection, but his eyeballs are turning rapidly back and forth. At last they stop, the physician calls out the number of seconds to his assistant. The same experiment is tried in an opposite direction, similar ones follow, and then the unhappy applicant braces himself for one of the most severe of all the physical tests.

His head is released from the clamp in which it has been held, and he is instructed to clench his hands upon his knees and rest his head on them. This done, the chair begins whirling once more. As it comes to a sudden halt, he is sharply ordered to raise his head. He has the impression that he is falling rapidly through space, and a dizzy “seasickness” almost overcomes him. Finally his eyeballs cease their swift gyrations. The instructor has timed them with a stop-watch. He is excused from the room, and, feeling like a man who had been through a siege of illness, he makes a dash for the open air.

If the applicant for service in the air has passed his preliminary tests successfully, he may shortly find himself at one of the government's “ground schools,” where his education in airplane science begins. Actual flight is still a long way off: he must first receive some rudimentary drill in ordinary “soldiering,” and next be put through an intensive course of training in a positively alarming number of studies, before he even approaches the joyful moment when he may begin to think of himself as even a fledgling aviator.

In the next few weeks he must become something of a gunner, a telegraph operator, a map-reader, a photographer and a bomber; he must make the acquaintance of the airplane engine in the most minute detail; go through a course in astronomy and one in meteorology; and learn the use of the compass and all other instruments necessary in steering an airplane along a definite course. Aerial observation forms no small part of his course of studies. Sitting in a gallery and looking down upon a large relief map whose raised hills, buildings, streams, and trenches give a very fair reproduction of the earth as it will look to him when he flies over it in a machine, he learns to pick out the objects of strategic importance, and to prepare military reports which will help the staff officers in their work of directing hostilities. Or he may have to report the results of a mock bombardment, and thus prepare himself for the duties of the artillery “spotter.” In order to be able to interpret with a fair degree of intelligence the things he will see as an aerial observer, he must know a good deal about military science and strategy himself, and this forms one of the subjects in his curriculum at the ground school. His life here is a strenuous one. He rises soon after five in the morning, and from then until lights go out for the night at 9:30 he has all too little time to call his own.

Before he is finally passed out of the ground school the cadet must prove that he understands thoroughly the principle of flight, the operation of an internal combustion engine, and the care and repair of a machine. He will be able to recognize the various types of airplanes, he will have some skill at aerial observation, and he will be able to operate an airplane camera, a bomb-dropping instrument and a range-finder, a wireless or a radio instrument. He will have been instructed in signaling with wigwag and semaphore, in the operation of a magneto, in the theory of aerial combat, and in a number of minor subjects such as sail-making, rope-splicing, etc.

Thus prepared in his “ABC's,” the would-be aviator finally makes his departure for the actual flying school. Here he does not shake off dull class-room routine and launch forth upon a career of aerial adventure. Quite to the contrary his intensive training in the technical side of aviation becomes even more exacting. He takes apart and puts together again with his own hands various types of airplane engines, he practises gunnery at a moving target, he assembles an airplane out of the dismantled parts.

He does, however, have that wonderful experience, his first flight. Some fine morning he is told that the instructor will take him up, and, thoroughly bundled up for warmth in a leather jacket, woolen muffler, heavy cap, etc., with goggles and other little essentials of an aviator's dress, he climbs into the machine. He expects to acquire considerable knowledge of the science of aviation on that first flight. As a matter of fact his mind is so completely overwhelmed by the many new sensations that come to it, that it is only a long time after that he is able to sort them out and form an accurate conception of the adventure. The roar of the motor is deafening as the big bird of the air goes taxiing across the earth. He does not realize that he has left the ground, until suddenly, looking down, he sees the solid earth receding rapidly from beneath him. Then, unexpectedly the machine gets into the “bumps” and he has a few nervous moments until finally it rights itself and goes skimming off into the blue. The sun is shining and below the earth looks peaceful and friendly. He settles himself more comfortably in his seat and begins to enjoy his little aerial journey. Suddenly, without a second's warning, the airplane dives downward. The sickening drop leaves him a trifle paler, perhaps, and he no longer has the pleasant sensation of relaxed enjoyment. He hardly knows what to expect next, and the instructor, bent on testing his nerve takes him through stunt after stunt, climbing, turning, diving. At length the airplane glides gently to earth. A short run over the ground once more, followed by a full stop; and the young gentleman who went up a few minutes ago with a good deal of vim and self-assurance climbs out with a feeling of relief and satisfaction that his feet are once more on terra firma.

But do not imagine that he has lost his enthusiasm for the air. If that were the case then he would not be of the stuff of which aviators are made. At the worst reckoning he has acquired an intense ambition to some day “try it on the other fellow,” and this in all probability he will do, when, in the course of time he has become an experienced and seasoned airman.

In the meantime, however, he must first accustom himself to the “feel” of the air, and next he must learn the operation and control of the airplane in flight. After a few first trips as a “passenger,” he will be allowed to try his hand at steering the machine. This is done by what is called a dual control system. Instead of the single control-stick and steering-bar of the ordinary airplane, the training machine has these parts duplicated, so that any false move on the part of the student flyer may be immediately corrected by the instructor. As long as his movements are the right ones, the instructor does not interfere, but the moment he makes a mistake the control of the airplane passes out of his hands. Gradually he becomes more and more adept at guiding the big bird through the air, and can get along nicely without any interference or correction. At each lesson he has mastered some new problem. He knows how to leave the earth at the proper angle after the first short run over the ground, and how to come down again, how to turn in the air, when to cut off the power in alighting and when to apply the brakes. He learns to listen for the rhythmic sound of the engine and to know when anything has gone wrong with it.

By far the most difficult of his problems is the art of landing. As we have already seen the speed of an airplane cannot be reduced below a certain danger line if its wings are to continue to support it in the air. This danger line varies with different types of airplanes, but in all of them the engine must be kept running at a fairly high speed or the whole structure will come crashing to the earth. To bring an airplane to earth while it is traveling at a speed of 75 miles an hour is no mean accomplishment. It must not bump down heavily upon the ground, or its landing chassis will be broken, even if no more serious accident occurs. It must settle slowly until its wheels just touch, while all the time it is moving forward at the rate of a fast express train. This is an art that requires infinite practise to acquire, but it is one of the most important feats the student airman has to learn.

However, the long wished-for day finally arrives when he can be trusted to go aloft by himself. Carefully he goes over every inch of his machine, to be sure it is in A-1 condition. He inspects the engine and tests every strut and wire, then, satisfied that it is in prime working order, he climbs into his seat. That is one of the most thrilling moments connected with his aviation training. In all other flights he has known that the errors he might make could be corrected by the trusty instructor. Now he must rely solely upon himself. With a feeling of mastery and conquest, he goes skimming into the air. He longs to prove himself. Probably he does, and not long after he receives permission to try for an aviator's certificate. This is the certificate issued by the Aero Club of America; it does not make him a full-fledged military aviator, but it marks the completion of the first stage of his progress toward the coveted goal.

In order to acquire the aviator's certificate, the candidate must accomplish two long distance flights and one altitude flight; he must be able to cut figures of eight and to land without the slightest injury to his machine. In other words he must prove to the satisfaction of his examiners that he is able to handle an airplane skilfully, barring of course any fancy exploits in the air.

He now launches on his advanced course of training. This will require at least three months of hard work, and during that time he must learn to fly a number of different types of machines which are used in military aviation. In the meantime he may perhaps go up for examination to acquire the much-coveted “wings.” But do not imagine that they mark the end of his education. With the aviator it is very much as with the schoolboy: when he finishes one grade or stage of his progress he passes on to a still more difficult. The man who has acquired “wings” is not immune from the most trying daily routine of studies, which include the ever important map-reading, photography, aerial gunnery and what-not.

Finally, however, there does come a day when the army aviator may be said to pass out of the elementary school of classes and instructors into the broader school of experience. Many young American aviators who served during the War can look back upon such a day with a thrill. They had then their hardest lessons to learn. The map-reading, the gunnery, the trying and tedious curriculum of the aviation school become suddenly vital issues, and the facts which were learned in the classroom have to be mastered anew by living them in the air. The experience of one young airman on his first real assignment goes to show how the problems which seemed so easy of solution on the ground become unexpectedly difficult when the flyer is face to face with them for the first time up there above the clouds. Fresh from his course of training, he had been ordered to take an airplane from one government hangar to another which was close up behind the front lines. He knew his “map-reading” pretty well, but he had never made a long cross-country flight before and the ground was unfamiliar. Somewhere near his destination he made a false turn, and the first intimation that reached him of the fact that he was off his course was the appearance below him of white puffs of smoke—“cream puffs” as the airmen have jokingly nicknamed them. He realized with a start that he was over the enemy's lines and was being fired at. Without losing any time he turned his face toward home, and this time he succeeded in spotting the lost hangar and making a safe landing. But he had learned a little lesson in following his map which no instructor could have taught him half so well.

CHAPTER XI
The Future Story of the Air

Since the days when the first man ascended into the clouds in a Montgolfier fire balloon, and since the days when the Wright brothers tried their first gliding experiments and proved that men might hope to soar with wings into the sky, many glorious chapters have been written in the story of the air.

Surely the most inspiring and significant achievement in aerial progress is the great trans-Atlantic flight made in the latter part of May, 1919, by a flying boat of the U.S. Navy. A force of fliers in three airships under Commander Towers attempted the flight from New York to Lisbon by way of Halifax and the Azores, in three “legs” or continuous flights, but on account of disastrous weather conditions, only one of these planes, the NC-4, under Lieutenant-Commander A. C. Read completed the trip successfully. The enthusiasm of the entire world was fired by this feat and it is difficult to estimate fully its epochal significance.

Simultaneous with this flight and even more daring in plan, was the attempt by an Englishman, Harry Hawker, to fly direct from St. Johns, Newfoundland, to England in a Sopwith biplane. Through an imperfect action of the water pump of his machine Hawker was forced to descend and was rescued twelve hundred miles at sea by a Danish vessel. However, the highest honor is due to this man of the air who embarked on so brave an adventure.

The next trans-Atlantic flight was made about a month after the NC-4 had blazed the air route across the ocean. This was a non-stop, record-breaking trip of Capt. John Alcock and Lieut. Arthur W. Brown—an American—in the British Vickers-Vimy land plane from St John's, Newfoundland, to Clifden on the Irish coast. These daring pilots made the distance of 1900 miles in sixteen hours—an average speed of 119 miles an hour.

Although these achievements in heavier-than-air machines were of far-reaching importance, they did not fully solve the problem of trans-Atlantic air passage. It remained for the great dirigible experiment in July to demonstrate that in all probability the lighter-than-air craft will prove more effective for this hazardous game with the elements.

On July 2 the British naval dirigible, R-34, left East Fortune, Scotland, with thirty-one men on board under command of Major G. H. Scott, and made the journey of 3200 sea miles, by way of Newfoundland and Nova Scotia, to Mineola, Long Island, in 108 hours. The fact that weather conditions during this trip were very unfavorable adds to the value of the accomplishment. The return trip was made a few days later in 75 hours.

The R-34 is indeed a mammoth of the air. At the time of its flight it was the largest aircraft in the world, having a length of 650 feet and a diameter of 78 feet. It has five cars connected by a deck below the rigid bag and is propelled by five engines of 250 H.P. each. Its maximum speed is about sixty miles an hour.

The year following the Great War will go down in history as a marvelous period in aeronautic achievement. The Atlantic was for the first time crossed by aircraft and within ten weeks of its first accomplishment two trans-Atlantic flights were made, three widely differing types of aircraft being represented.

As a matter of fact we have but begun to explore the possibilities of aerial flight. During the last few years we have been thinking of the airplane solely as an instrument of war, and for that purpose we have bent our entire energies to developing it. When all the wealth of skill we have acquired during strenuous war times is turned to solving the problem of making the airplane useful in times of peace, there will be new and fascinating chapters to relate.

The war has done a lot for the airplane. It has raised up a host of aircraft factories in all the large countries, with thousands of skilled workers. It has given us a splendid force of trained pilots and mechanics. It has resulted in standardized airplane parts, instead of the endless confusion of designs and makes that existed a few years ago. And instead of the old haphazard methods of production it has made the building of an airplane an exact science.

People used to be afraid of the airplane and it seemed a long road to travel to the time when it would play any important rôle in everyday commerce or travel. The war has resulted in making the airplane safe,—so safe that it is apt to win the confidence of the most timid.

Yet the airplanes that we saw and read of so frequently in war time are not likely to be those which will prove the most popular and useful in the days to come. In war one of the great aims was for speed. Now we can afford to sacrifice some speed to greater carrying capacity. The swift tractor biplane may possibly give way to the slower biplane of the pusher type, which has greater stability. The big triplanes, such as the Russian Sikorsky and the Italian Caproni will come into their own, and yet bigger triplanes will be built, able to carry passengers and freight on long journeys over land and sea. The three surfaces of the triplane give it great lifting powers, and on this account it will be a favorite where long trips and heavy cargoes are to be reckoned with. We may expect in the near future to see huge air-going liners of this type, fitted out with promenade decks and staterooms, and with all the conveniences of modern travel.

There is a strong probability that the airship, rather than the airplane, may prove to be the great aerial liner of to-morrow. The large airship of the Zeppelin type, traveling at greater speed than the fastest express train, and carrying a large number of passengers and a heavy cargo, is apt before long to become the deadly rival of the steamship. A voyage across the Atlantic in such an airship would be far shorter, safer and pleasanter than in the finest of the ocean vessels. Gliding along smoothly far above the water, the passengers would suffer no uncomfortable seasickness, nor would they be rocked and tumbled about when a storm arose and the waves piled up and up into mountains of water on the surface of the deep. Their craft would move forward undisturbed by the turbulent seas beneath. We can imagine these fortunate individuals of a few years hence, leaning over the railing of their promenade deck as we ourselves might on a calm day at sea, and recalling the great discomforts that used to attend a trans-Atlantic voyage. It is amusing to think that our steamships of to-day will perhaps be recalled by these people of the future about as we ourselves recall the old sailing vessels that used to ply the deep a generation or so ago.

The airplane, if it is to hold its own beside the airship as a large passenger vessel, will first have to overcome a number of natural handicaps. In the first place, it is not possible to go on increasing the size of the airplane indefinitely, as is practically the case with the airship. For remember that the lighter-than-air machine floats in the air, and only requires its engine to drive it forward: whereas the heavier-than-air machine depends upon the speed imparted to it by its engine and propeller to keep it up in the air at all. Beyond a certain size the airplane would require engines of such enormous size and power to support it that it would be practically impossible to build and operate them. Modern invention has taught us that nothing is beyond the range of fancy, and we have seen many of the wildest dreams of yesterday fulfiled, yet it is safe to say that the airplane which would in any way approximate an ocean liner will not be built for many a year to come. In the meantime, however, we will have huge machines like the Caproni and the Sikorsky triplanes, driven by two or more motors and able to make the trans-Atlantic voyage with a number of passengers, freight and fuel for the journey.

Indeed, though for purposes of long distance travel and commerce the airplane stands a chance of being superseded by the lighter-than-air machine, there are many other important missions that it can perform in the modern world. One for which it is particularly suited is that of carrying the mail. In 1911 a Curtiss airplane flew from Nassau Boulevard, Long Island to Mineola, bearing the Hon. Frank H. Hitchcock, Postmaster General of the United States, “with a mail bag on his knees.” As the machine swooped gently down over the big white circle that had been painted on the Mineola field, the Postmaster-General let fall his bag. That machine was the pioneer of a system of aerial mail which will soon reach every corner of the country. During the war a mail route was inaugurated between New York and Washington. Now, with many fast machines and trained pilots freed from war duties, a system of routes which will traverse our vast territory has been laid out.

It is for work such as this that the small, fast airplanes developed during the war may prove most successful. Traveling over 100 miles an hour, in a straight line from their starting point to their destination, they will be able to deliver the mail with a speed almost equal to that of the telegraph, and far in excess of anything that can be accomplished by the express train. For not only has the express train much less actual speed, but it must thread its way through winding valleys, go far out of its course in order to avoid some impassable mountain district, climb steep slopes or follow river beds in order to reach its destination. The airplane has no obstacles to overcome. Mountains, rivers, impenetrable jungles present no difficulty to it. It simply chooses its objective and flies to it, practically in a straight line. It can jump the Rocky Mountains and deliver mail to the western coast with the greatest ease. Regions like Alaska, where letters from the States took weeks or even months to be delivered, and to which the steamship routes were closed for a portion of the year, will be brought closer home when mails are arriving and leaving every few days.

What use can be made of the large photographing planes that have been developed during the war to such a degree of perfection? In peace times they will have many interesting duties awaiting them. The motion picture producers will no doubt employ them very widely. Flying over our country from end to end they will bring back wonderful panoramic views. They will explore the beauties of the Yukon and show us the peaks of the Rockies in all their majestic grandeur. They will be taken to other continents and sent on photographing flights into regions that have scarcely been trod by human feet, and they will bring home to us remarkable views of jungles where wild animals roam. Pictures which the motion picture man of to-day with his camera has often risked his life to secure, the nimble photographing plane will secure with the utmost ease.

And that suggests another possible rôle of the airplane in times of peace: that of exploration. As we think of Peary, pushing with his valiant party across the ice fields of the far North, struggling month after month to attain his goal, and returning to the same hard effort each time his expedition failed, we cannot help wishing for his sake that the airplane had reached its present state of development when his difficult undertaking of finding the North Pole began. Who knows but that Peary the pilot might have attained his objective many years before he did, providing of course he had had a machine of the modern type to fly in. Certainly one of the coming uses of the airplane will be that of penetrating into unknown quarters of the earth. Acting on the information which we can thus obtain we may be able to open up new stores of wealth and new territories to man.

The enormous boom that has been given to aircraft production by the war ought to have at least one happy result in peace times: it should reduce the cost of the airplane. When that is brought within the means of the average prosperous citizen, we may expect to see flying become a popular sport. The man who now sets forth on a cross country pleasure trip in his automobile, will find still greater enjoyment in a cross country flight. High above the dusty country roads, he will be able to skim happily through the blue, enjoying his isolation and able to gaze out for many miles in all directions over the beautiful panorama of the earth. The plane which he pilots will no doubt be so designed as to possess unusual stability. It will to a large extent be “fool proof.” Its owner will enjoy the comfortable feeling which comes from a sense of security, and at the same time will have all the delightful sensations of an adventurer in the clouds. He will find the air at high altitudes invigorating, and so he will gain in health as he never could have done by motoring over the solid earth.

When men take to flying in large numbers no doubt we will have to have some sort of traffic regulations of the sky, but these will never need to be so strict as upon the ground, for the air is not a single track but a wide, limitless expanse, in which airplanes can fly in many directions and at many altitudes. There will never be any need of passing to the left of the machine ahead of you or signaling behind that you are slowing down; for ten chances to one you will never encounter another plane directly in your line of flight, and if you do it will be a simple matter to dive below or climb over him, continuing your journey in a higher stratum of air. There will probably be laws controlling flights over cities and communities, where an accident to the flier might endanger the lives below. What is likely to happen is that certain “highways” of the air will be established legally, extending in many directions over the country. In these directions the private airman will be permitted to fly for pleasure, while at certain intervals along the routes public landing grounds will be maintained.

Landing is still one of the most serious problems the air pilot has to face, and it is to be hoped that the aircraft builders of the near future will help him to solve this difficulty. The reason for it, as we have already seen, is that the airplane secures its buoyancy largely as a result of its speed. Wings which are large enough to support it when flying at 150 miles an hour are too small to hold it in the air when its speed is slowed down. The machine has to be landed while still moving forward at comparatively the rate of an express train, and this forward motion can only be checked after the wheels are safely on the ground. If the engine should be stopped while the airplane is still forty or fifty feet above the ground, the wings would be unable to support it and it would come crashing to the earth. But this situation of course makes matters very difficult for the airman who has not had long experience in landing his machine. He must come down on a small landing field and bring his plane to a full stop before he has crashed into the other machines which perhaps are standing about. His difficulty is added to by the fact that his propeller only works efficiently at the full speed for which it was designed. When he slows down in the air preparatory to landing, it may “slip” backward through the air, instead of driving his airplane forward at the rate necessary to support its weight. In that case he is in danger of going into a spin, from which he may not have time to recover.

For these reasons it is to be hoped that the airplane of the future will have some form of telescoping wings and of variable pitch propeller. While these improvements in construction have not been worked out practically at the present moment, there is every reason to believe that they may be before long.

But whatever structural difficulties have yet to be overcome in connection with the airplane, certain it is that the big birds which we saw so often in the sky during the war, are going to be yet numerous in peace times. As for the purely military machines, let us hope that their work is over, and that they may never be called on to fight another battle in the air. Yet if other wars should come, it is certain that they would play a still more tremendous rôle than they have in the present struggle. We can imagine the war of the future being fought almost entirely above the clouds. The one great contest would be for victory in the air, since the nation which succeeded in driving its enemy from the sky would have complete control of the situation on the ground. All nations will continue to increase their aerial battalions until they possess formidable fleets, and it will be these, rather than armies or navies that will go forth to settle future disputes. It is largely to the aerial supremacy of the Allies that we have to give the credit for the winning of the present war against the Hun, and it will be by maintaining their aerial supremacy that the great nations which have taken their stand for justice and humanity will succeed in enforcing the reign of Right in the world.

Thus we see man's dream of the conquest of the air become a noble thing, while the frail-winged birds his imagination pictured to him throughout so many centuries stand ready to bear him onward and upward to still greater achievements in his struggle to make the world a better and cleaner place in which to live.

READING LIST

For those who desire a wider knowledge of the history, theory, construction and operation of aircraft than this book is intended to supply, the following reading list may prove suggestive and helpful. The older publications on this list have been found valuable from an historical viewpoint; while the more recent ones treat from many angles the rapidly advancing science of aviation.