CHAPTER XV

THE TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT

THE NC’S—THE LOSS OF THE C-5—READ’S STORY—BELLINGER’S STORY—THE GREAT NAVAL FLIGHT—HAWKER’S STORY—ALCOCK’S STORY—THE R-34

Ever since the Wright brothers demonstrated that a heavier-than-air machine could rise from the ground with its own power and carry a man aloft through the air, aeronautical engineers have been ambitious to build an aircraft that would fly across the Atlantic Ocean from the Old World to the New, or from the New World to the Old. Exactly one hundred years to the very month after the first steam-driven vessel crossed the Atlantic, from Savannah, Georgia, to England, NC-4, U. S. naval flying-boat, flew from Rockaway, Long Island, via Halifax, Trepassey Bay, Newfoundland, Azores, Lisbon, Portugal, Ferrol, Spain, to Plymouth, England; and on June 13 the “Vimy”-Bomber, built by the Vickers, Limited, England, made a non-stop flight from St. John’s, Newfoundland, to Clifden, Galway, Ireland; and on July 2 the R-34, the British rigid dirigible, flew from East Fortune, near Edinburgh, Scotland, via Newfoundland to Mineola, Long Island, in 108 hours and 12 minutes; and it made the return trip to Pulham, Norfolk, England, in 75 hours and 3 minutes. The NC-4 flew from Trepassey Bay to Plymouth in 59 hours and 56 minutes, and the Vickers Bomber made its flight in 16 hours and 12 minutes. The distance of the first flight from Trepassey Bay to Plymouth was about 2,700 miles; the distance of the one taken by the Vickers was 1,950 miles. The distance covered by the R-34 was 3,200 miles each way.

On May 16, 1919, three U. S. naval seaplanes, the NC-1, NC-3, and NC-4, set out to fly from Trepassey Bay, Newfoundland, to the Azores. The NC-4 alighted at Horta the next day. The NC-1, under command of Lieutenant-Commander Bellinger, did not quite complete the flight owing to fog, and after the crew was rescued by a destroyer, had to be towed into Horta, where it sank. The NC-3, with Commander Towers, was lost for 48 hours in the fog, but finally taxied to Ponta Delgada on its own power. Owing to the damaged condition of the boat, it could proceed no farther. On May 16 Commander Read flew the NC-4 to Ponta Delgada; on May 27 from there to Lisbon; on May 30 to Ferrol, Spain; and on May 31, to Plymouth, England, thus completing the transatlantic flight in 46 flying hours.

On May 18 Harry Hawker and Mackenzie Grieve flew from St. John’s in a single-motored Sopwith, and after 15 hours in the air had to alight on the ocean, 1,000 miles east of where they started and 900 miles from their goal.

On June 14 Captain John Alcock and Lieutenant Arthur W. Brown, in a bimotored Vickers aeroplane, flew from St. John’s, Newfoundland, to Galway, Ireland, without stopping, through fog and sleet and rain, in 16 hours and 12 minutes.

Previous Attempts to Fly Across the Atlantic

The first actual attempt to fly across the North Atlantic from America to England was made by Walter Wellman, in 1910, when he set sail in the rigid dirigible America from Atlantic City. The engines were not strong enough to force the huge gas-bag against the breeze, and it was blown out of its course and came down in the sea, 1,000 miles off Cape Hatteras, where the balloon was abandoned and the crew was picked up.

During a test flight of a second dirigible called the Akron, on July 2, 1912, Mr. Melvin Vaniman and four of his crew were killed by an explosion of the hydrogen gas with which the gas-bag was inflated.

In 1894 Glenn L. Curtiss, through the generosity of Mr. Rodman Wanamaker, constructed a flying-boat, in which Captain Porte was to fly across the Atlantic. The seaplane was completed and tests were being made when the war broke out, and the enterprise had to be abandoned. Nevertheless, the seaplane did go to England, but in the hull of another boat. There it performed excellent service for the British Government hunting Hun submarines.

As soon as the armistice was signed, France, England, and the United States began to lay plans to use some of the airships designed for war for the purpose of flying across the Atlantic. Captain Coli, who flew from France across the Mediterranean, started from Paris to fly to Dakar on the extreme point of Cape Verde, and from there across the South Atlantic to Pernambuco, Brazil. Owing to engine trouble, he did not reach Dakar.

The NC’s

The giant navy flying-boats built for the transatlantic flight were not only of extraordinary size but of unusual construction, and represent a wholly original American development. The design was conceived in the fall of 1917 by Rear-Admiral D. W. Taylor, Chief Constructor of the Navy, who had in mind the development of a seaplane of the maximum size, radius of action, and weight-carrying ability, for use in putting down the submarine menace. Had the German submarines gained the upper hand in 1918, the war would still be going on, and these great flying-boats would be produced in quantity and flown across the Atlantic to the centres of submarine activity.

The first of the type was completed and given her trials in October, 1918, and since that time three more have been completed.

The flying-boats were designated NC, the N for navy, and C for Curtiss, indicating the joint production of the navy and the Curtiss Engineering Corporation. Being designed for war service, the boats are not at all freak machines put together to perform the single feat of a record-breaking flight, but are roomy and comfortable craft, designed and built in accordance with standard navy practice. The NC-1 has been in service seven months, and received rough handling when new pilots for the other NC boats were trained on her, but is still in good condition.

The term flying-boat is used for the NC type because it is actually a stout seaworthy boat, that ploughs through rough water up to a speed of 60 miles per hour, and then takes to the air and flies at a speed of over 90 miles per hour.

The hull or boat proper is 45 feet long by 10 feet beam. The bottom is a double plank Vee, with a single step somewhat similar in form to the standard navy pontoon for smaller seaplanes. Five bulkheads divide the hull into six water-tight compartments with water-tight doors in a wing passage for access. The forward compartment has a cockpit for the lookout and navigator. In the next compartment are seated side by side the principal pilot or aviator and his assistant. Next comes a compartment for the members of the crew off watch to rest or sleep. After this there are two compartments containing the gasoline-tanks (where a mechanician is in attendance) and finally a space for the radio man and his apparatus. The minimum crew consists of five men, but normally a relief crew could be carried in addition. To guarantee water-tightness and yet keep the planking thin, there is a layer of muslin set in marine glue between the two plies of planking.

The wings have a total area of 2,380 square feet. The ribs of the wing are 12 feet long, but only weigh 26 ounces each.

The tail in this craft is unique and resembles no other flying machine or animal. The tail surface is made up as a biplane, which is of the general appearance and size of the usual aeroplane. Indeed, this tail of over 500 square feet area is twice as large as the single-seater fighting-aeroplanes used by the army.

Engines

The four Liberty engines which drive the boat are mounted between the wings. At 400 brake horse-power per engine, the maximum power is 1,600 horse-power, or with the full load of 28,000 pounds, 17.5 pounds carried per horse-power. One engine is mounted with a tractor propeller on each side of the centre line, and on the centre line the two remaining engines are mounted in tandem, or one behind the other. The front engine has a tractor propeller, and the rear engine a pusher propeller. This arrangement of engines is novel, and has the advantage of concentrating weights near the centre of the boat so that it can be manœuvred more easily in the air.

Controls

The steering and control in the air are arranged in principle exactly as in a small aeroplane, but it was not an easy problem to arrange that this 14-ton boat could be handled by one man of only normal strength. To insure easy operation, each control surface was carefully balanced in accordance with experiments made in a wind-tunnel on a model of it. The operating cables were run through ball-bearing pulleys, and all avoidable friction eliminated. Finally, the entire craft was so balanced that the centre of gravity of all weights came at the resultant centre of lift of all lifting surfaces, and the tail surfaces so adjusted that the machine would be inherently stable in flight. As a result, the boat will fly herself and will continue on her course without the constant attention of the pilot. However, if he wishes to change course, a slight pressure of his controls is enough to swing the boat promptly. There is provision, however, for an assistant to the pilot to relieve him in rough air if he becomes fatigued, or wishes to leave his post to move about the boat.

In the design of the metal fittings to reduce the amount of metal needed a special alloy steel of 150,000 pounds per square inch tensile strength was used. To increase bearing areas, bolts and pins are made of large diameter but hollow.

A feature that is new in this boat is the use of welded aluminum tanks for gasoline. There are nine 200-gallon tanks made of sheet aluminum with welded seams. Each tank weighs but 70 pounds, or .35 pounds per gallon of contents, about one-half the weight of the usual sheet-steel or copper tank.

Loaded, the machine weighs 28,000 pounds, and when empty, but including radiator, water, and fixed instruments and equipment, 15,874 pounds. The useful load available for crew, supplies, and fuel is, therefore, 12,126 pounds. This useful load may be put into fuel, freight, etc., in any proportion desired. For an endurance flight there would be a crew of 5 men (850 pounds), radio and radiotelephone (220 pounds), food and water, signal-lights, spare parts, and miscellaneous equipment (524 pounds), oil (750 pounds), gasoline, 9,650 pounds. This should suffice for a flight of 1,400 sea miles. The radio outfit is of sufficient power to communicate with ships 200 miles away. The radiotelephone would be used to talk to other planes in the formation or within 25 miles.

The principal dimensions and characteristics of the NC type may be summarized as follows:

Engines4 Liberty
Power1,600
Wing span126 upper—94 feet lower
Length68 feet 5½ inches
Height24 feet 5⅛ inches
Weight, empty15,874 lbs.
Weight, loaded28,000 lbs.
Useful load12,126 lbs.
Gravity-tank91 gals. capacity
Fuel-tanks1,800 gals. capacity
Oil-tanks160 gals. capacity

First Aerial Stowaway

In connection with the trials of NC-1, the first of the type completed, two significant happenings are recorded.

The first concerns the first aerial stowaway. At Rockaway Naval Air-Station arrangements were made to take 50 men for a flight to establish a world’s record; the 50 men were assembled, weighed, and carefully packed in the boat. The flight was successfully made, and upon return to the beach the officer-in-charge counted the men again as they came ashore. He was astonished to find there were 51. An investigation was made at once, which revealed the fact that a mechanic who had been working on the boat before the flight had hidden in the hull for over an hour before the actual departure in order to go on the flight. This man is, no doubt, the world’s first aerial stowaway.

Record of the Flight

The NC-1, 3, and 4 left Rockaway at 10 A. M. on May 8 for Halifax. The NC-4, owing to engine trouble, had to land at sea near Chatham, Mass.; the other two continued on their way, and reached Halifax at 7.55 P. M. (6.55 New York time) on May 8; after waiting until the morning of May 10, the NC-1 and 3 left Halifax at 8.44 A. M. After travelling 38 miles, the NC-3 was forced to return to Halifax due to the cracking of a propeller. The NC-1 arrived at Trepassey Bay on May 10 at 3.41 P. M. The NC-3 arrived at 7.31 P. M.

After being refitted with a new engine the NC-4 left Chatham at 9.25 A. M., Wednesday, May 14, and arrived at Halifax at 2.05 P. M. It left there on Thursday, May 15, at 9.52 A. M., and arrived at Trepassey Bay at 6.37 P. M. (New York time 5.37 P. M.).

On the morning of Friday, May 16, the three flying-boats left Trepassey Bay at 6.05 P. M. It was a clear moonlight night, and as 21 United States destroyers were stationed along the route from North latitude 46-17 to 39-40, the airships were in communication with the fleet all the way over.

Because of a thick fog which obtained near the Azores the NC-4 landed at Horta of the eastern group at 9.20 A. M., just 13 hours and 18 minutes after starting. The NC-1 landed at sea and sank, and the NC-3, which flew out of its course, landed at Ponta Delgada.

Time of NC-4’s Flight to Lisbon

The NC-4 in its flight from Trepassey to Lisbon covered a distance of 2,150 nautical miles in 26.47 hours’ actual flying time, or at an average speed of 80.3 nautical miles. The three seaplanes left Trepassey at sunset on May 16, and the NC-4 reached Lisbon soon after noon on May 27, the eleventh day after its “hop” from Newfoundland. Its record in detail is as follows:

CourseDateDistance
Knots		TimeSpeed,
Knots
Rockaway-Chatham (forced landing about 100 miles off Chatham)May 83005.4552
Chatham-HalifaxMay 143203.5185
Halifax-Trepassey May 154606.2072.6
Trepassey-Horta May 16-171,20015.1878.4
Horta-Ponta DelgadaMay 201501.4586.7
Ponta Delgada-Lisbon May 278009.4482.1
Trepassey-Lisbon...2,15026.4780.3

The total flying time from Rockaway, N. Y., to Lisbon, Spain, was 42.43.

The fastest previous passage of the Atlantic was made by the giant Cunard liner Mauretania, which made the trip from Liverpool to New York in four days, 14 hours, and 27 minutes.

Here is the log of the last leg of the transatlantic flight, completed with the arrival of the NC-4 at Plymouth, based on wireless and cabled despatches received at the Navy Department.

1.21 A. M., from Plymouth: “NC-4 left Lisbon 6.23 (New York 2.23 A. M.), May 30, and landed Mondego River, getting underway and proceeding to Ferrol, where landed at 16.46 (12.46 New York time). Destroyers standing by NC-4; will proceed to Plymouth to-morrow if weather permits.”

6.50 A. M.—From Admiral Knapp at London: “From the Harding: ‘U. S. S. Gridley to U. S. S. Rochester, NC-4 expects to leave Ferrol for Plymouth at 6 A. M. to-morrow morning, signed Read.’”

7.22 A. M.—From Admiral Knapp at London: “NC-4 left Ferrol at 06.27 (2.27 A. M. New York time).”

8.11 A. M.—From Admiral Knapp at London: “Following received from U. S. S. George Washington: ‘From U. S. S. Stockton, NC-4 passed station two at 07.43 (3.43 A. M. New York time).’”

9.24 A. M.—From Admiral Knapp at London: “NC-4 passed station four at 09.06 (5.06 New York time).”

9.50 A. M.—From Admiral Knapp: “NC-4 arrived at Plymouth at 14.26.31, English civil time (9.26 A. M. New York time).”

11.56 A. M.—From Admiral Knapp: “NC-4 passed Mengam at 12.13 local time.”

3.17 P. M.—From Admiral Plunkett, commander of destroyer force at Plymouth: “NC-4 arrived at Plymouth 13.24 (9.24 A. M. New York time) in perfect condition. Joint mission of seaplane division and destroyer force accomplished. Regret loss of NC-1 and damage to NC-3; nevertheless, information of utmost value gained thereby. Has department any further instructions?”

The members of the crews were:

NC-1—Commanding officer, Lieutenant-Commander P. N. L. Bellinger; pilots, Lieutenant-Commander M. A. Mitscher and Lieutenant L. T. Barin; radio operator, Lieutenant Harry Sadenwater; engineer, Chief Machinist’s Mate C. I. Kesler.

NC-3—Commanding officer, Commander John H. Towers; pilots, Commander H. C. Richardson and Lieutenant David H. McCullough; radio operator, Lieutenant-Commander R. A. Lavender; engineer, Machinist L. R. Moore.

NC-4—Commanding officer, Lieutenant-Commander A. C. Read; pilots, Lieutenants E. F. Stone and Walter Hinton; radio operator, Ensign H. C. Rodd; engineer, Chief Machinist’s Mate E. S. Rhodes.

The Loss of C-5 Naval Blimp

The C-5 naval dirigible, called “Blimp,” was 192 feet long, 43 feet wide, 46 feet high, and contained 180,000 cubic feet of hydrogen. It was driven by two 150 horse-power union aero engines.

It left Montauk Point early Wednesday morning, May 14, and was in the air continuously for 25 hours and 45 minutes.

It arrived at Halifax at 9.50 A. M., Thursday morning, New York time.

On Thursday afternoon the C-5 burst from her moorings in a gale and was swept to sea. Lieutenant Little was hurt in an attempt to pull the rip cord of the dirigible in order to deflate her. The cord broke, and he received a sprain when he jumped from the C-5 as she began to rise.

The C-5 arrived at the Pleasantville base, near St. John’s, after being in the air continuously for 25 hours and 40 minutes. A perfect landing was made within the narrow confines of the old cricket-field, which was chosen as the anchorage for the airship. Lieutenant J. V. Lawrence was at the wheel at the completion of the voyage, and the manner in which he handled the ship while the landing was being performed evoked a cheer of admiration from the crowd which had gathered.

As soon as she had been secured at her anchorage, a big force, under Lieutenant Little, was set to work preparing the ship for the transatlantic flight. It was not long before the treacherous wind began to play upon the dirigible, and early in the afternoon she was torn from her anchorage, but was recaptured and secured again.

Immediately after arrival, Lieutenant-Commander Coil and his crew got out of the car and prepared to take twelve hours’ sleep before continuing their flight across the Atlantic. Before turning in, however, he told the story of the trip to Newfoundland.

In it he gave all the credit to Lieutenant Campbell and Lieutenant J. V. Lawrence, both of whom, he said, were weary “and almost seasick,” but stuck to their posts. He also described the period of several hours during which the airship was “lost” over Newfoundland.

“We made a ‘landfall’ at St. Pierre,” he said, “but found ourselves on the west instead of the east shore of Placentia Bay. From this point we attempted to follow the Chicago’s radio directions, but they did not work. For the moment we were lost.

“We started ‘cross lots’ and saw about all of Newfoundland, and I must say that this is the doggonedest island to find anything on I ever struck. Eventually we hit the railroad track and followed it to Topsails, which we identified, and then continued on to St. John’s. There was considerable fog, but it did not trouble us.

“Throughout the time we were trying to find ourselves we had difficulty with our wireless set, and part of the time it was out of commission.

“Our troubles started just after midnight, when the sky became overcast. Before then we had been flying under a full moon at an altitude of 1,000 feet. We lost our bearings while approaching Little Miquelon Island, off the south coast of Newfoundland, about 170 miles from St. John’s.”

Commander Coil praised the work of the landing crew which moored the dirigible. Rear-Admiral Spencer S. Wood, commander of the aviation base, greeted the C-5’s commander.

The C-5 is 192 feet long, 43 feet wide, and 45 feet high; it has a capacity of 180,000 cubic feet. Cruising speed, 42 M.P.H.; climb, 1,000 feet per minute.

The car is of stream-line form, 40 feet long, 5 feet in maximum diameter, with steel tube outriggers carrying an engine at either side. Over-all width of riggers, 15 feet. Complete weight of car, 4,000 pounds.

Seven passengers may be carried, but the usual crew consists of four. At the front the coxswain is placed; his duty is to steer the machine from right to left. In the next compartment is the pilot, who operates the valves and controls the vertical movement of the ship, and aft of the pilot are the mechanicians controlling the engines. At the rear cockpit is the wireless operator.

Lieutenant-Commander Read’s Story of Transatlantic Flight

(Reprinted from “New York World”)

Horta, the Azores, May 18.—“The NC-3 left the water at Trepassey Bay at 10.03, Greenwich civil time, on the afternoon of May 16; the NC-4 at 10.05, and the NC-1 some time later. The Three and Four together left Mistaken Point on the course for the Azores at 10.16, and ten minutes later sighted the One, several miles to the rear, and flying higher.

“We were flying over icebergs, with the wind astern and the sea smooth. Our average altitude was 800 feet. The NC-4 drew ahead at 10.50, but when over the first destroyer made a circle to allow the NC-3 to catch up. We then flew on together until 11.55, when we lost sight of the NC-3, her running lights being too dim to be discerned.

“From then on we proceeded as if alone. Our engine was hitting finely, and the oil pressure and water temperature was right. It was very dark, but the stars were showing. At 12.19 on the morning of the 17th the May moon started to appear, and the welcome sight made us all feel more comfortable.

“As it grew lighter the air became bumpy, and we climbed to 1,800 feet, but the air remained bumpy most of the night.

“Each destroyer was sighted in turn, first being located by star-shells, which, in some cases, we saw forty miles away; then by the search-lights, and finally by the ships’ light. All were brilliantly illuminated. Some were apparently in the exact position designated. Others were some miles off the line, necessitating frequent changes of our course so that we might pass near.

“At 12.41, when we were passing No. 4 destroyer, we saw the lights of another plane to port. We kept the lights in sight for ten minutes. After that we saw no other plane for the remainder of our trip.

“So far, our average speed had been 90 knots, indicating that we had a 12-knot favorable wind. At 1.24 the wind became less favorable and we came down to 1,000 feet.

“At 5.45 we saw the first of the dawn. As it grew lighter all our worries appeared to have passed. The power-plant and everything else was running perfectly. The radio was working marvellously well. Messages were received from over 1,300 miles, and our radio officer sent a message to his mother in the States via Cape Race.

“Cape Race, then 730 miles away, reported that the NC-3’s radio was working poorly. The NC-3 was ahead of the NC-1, and astern of us, we learned by intercepted messages. Each destroyer reported our passing by radio.

“Sandwiches and coffee from the thermos bottles and chocolate candy tasted fine. No emergency rations were used. They require too great an emergency to be appreciated. I made several inspection trips aft and held discussions with the radio man and the engineer. Everything was all right.

“At 6.55 we passed over a merchant ship, and at 8 o’clock we saw our first indications of possible trouble, running through light lumps of fog. It cleared at 8.12, but at 9.27 we ran into more fog for a few minutes. At 9.45 the fog became thicker and then dense. The sun disappeared and we lost all sense of direction. The compass spinning indicated a steep bank, and I had visions of a possible nose dive.

“Then the sun appeared and the blue sky once more, and we regained an even keel and put the plane on a course above the fog, flying between the fog and an upper layer of clouds. We caught occasional glimpses of the water, so we climbed to 3,200 feet, occasionally changing the course and the altitude to dodge the clouds and fog.

“We sent out a radio at 10.38 and at 10.55 to the nearest destroyer, thinking the fog might have lifted. We received replies to both messages that there was thick fog near the water. At 11.10 we ran into light rain for a few minutes.

“At 11.13 we sent a radio to the destroyer and could hear Corvo reply that the visibility was ten miles. Encouraged by this promise of better conditions farther on, we kept going. Suddenly, at 11.27, we saw through a rift what appeared to be a tide-rip on the water. Two minutes later we saw the outline of rocks.

“The tide-rip was a line of surf along the southern end of Flores Island. It was the most welcome sight we had ever seen.

“We were 45 miles off our calculated position, indicating that the speed of the plane from the last destroyer sighted had been 85 knots. The wind was blowing us east and south.

“We glided near to the shore and rounded the point. Finding that the fog stopped 200 feet above the water, we shaped our course for the next destroyer, flying low, with a strong wind behind us. We sighted No. 22 in its proper place at 12 o’clock. This was the first destroyer we had seen since we passed No. 16.

“The visibility then was about 12 miles. We had plenty of gasoline and oil, and decided to keep on to Ponta Delgada. Then it got thick and we missed the next destroyer, No. 23. The fog closed down.

“We decided to keep to our course until 1.18, and then made a 90-degree turn to the right to pick up Fayal or Pico. Before this time, at 1.04, we sighted the northern end of Fayal, and once more felt safe.

“We headed for the shore, the air clearing when we neared the beach. We rounded the island and landed in a bight we had mistaken for Horta.

“At 1.17 we left the water and rounded the next point. Then we sighted the Columbia through the fog and landed near her at 1.23.

“Our elapsed time was 15 hours and 18 minutes. Our average speed 81.7 knots. All personnel is in the best of condition. The plane requires slight repairs.

“The NC-1 is being towed to port here. Its personnel is on board the Columbia, all in fine shape.

“The Three has not yet been located, but will be. We will proceed to Ponta Delgada when the weather permits.”

Ponta Delgada, May 20.—“Exceptionally bad weather, which was totally unexpected, was the sole reason for the failure of all three of the American navy’s seaplanes to fly from Trepassey, Newfoundland, to Ponta Delgada on schedule time,” said Commander John H. Towers to the correspondent of the Associated Press to-night.

“Individually, the members of the crew of the NC-3 virtually gave up hope of being rescued Saturday night, but collectively they showed no signs of fear, and ‘carried on’ until they arrived in port here Monday and heard the forts firing salvoes in welcome, and witnessed the scenes of general jubilation over their escape from the sea.

“Having run short of fuel and encountered a heavy fog, the NC-3 came down at 1 o’clock Saturday afternoon in order that we might obtain our bearings. The plane was damaged as it reached the water, and was unable to again rise. While we were drifting the 205 miles in the heavy storm the high seas washed over or pounded the plane, and the boat began to leak. So fast did the water enter the boat that the members of the crew took turns in bailing the hull with a small hand-pump, while others stood on the wings in order to keep the plane in balance. Meanwhile we were steering landward.

“That our radio was out of commission was not known to the crew until our arrival here. Communication had been cut off since 9 o’clock Monday owing to our having lost our ground-wire.

“We ate chocolate and drank water from our radiator. This was our only means of subsistence. The crew smoked heavily in order to keep awake while we were drifting. No one of us obtained more than four hours’ sleep after leaving Trepassey until Ponta Delgada was reached.

“The hands of all the members of the crew of the NC-3 were badly swollen as a result of their heroic work at the pump; otherwise they did not undergo much suffering. The men have now fully recovered from their trying experience.

“The NC-3 encountered heavy clouds at 1 o’clock Saturday morning. The light instruments on board failed, and we sailed the plane above the clouds in order to get the benefit of a moonlight reading of the instruments.

“We kept in sight of the NC-4 until nearly daylight Saturday, and with the NC-1 until shortly after daylight. All the planes were flying in formation, but the NC-1 and NC-4 were underneath the clouds part of the time because their light instruments were good.

“The NC-3 had no difficulty in being guided by star-shells, search-lights, and smoke from the station ships until we reached Station 14, which was not seen.

“I assumed that we were off our course, but did not know on which side, and began flying a parallel course in what I thought was the direction of Corvo. Shortly after daylight we encountered a heavy fog, rain squalls, and high winds, all of which continued until the NC-3 went down upon the water.

“Before alighting on the surface of the sea my calculations showed us to be in the vicinity of land, but with only two hours’ fuel supply on hand and with the weather clearing it was decided to land and ascertain our exact position.

“Our radio kept up sending messages, assuming that the torpedo-boat destroyers were picking them up. We did not know the radio was useless and that the destroyers had not been receiving the messages.

“All the crew thought the sea would moderate, but the plane was so badly damaged in the high billows that we were unable to rise again.

“We were 60 miles southwest of Pico when we alighted, the position being where we had figured we were before coming down.

“The clearing of the weather proved only temporary, for later a storm came up and continued for 48 hours. With both lower wings wrecked, the pontoons lost, and the hull leaking, and the tail of the machine damaged, the plane was tossed about like a cork.

“In order to conserve the remaining 170 gallons of fuel we decided to ‘sail’ landward, hoping to sight a destroyer on the way. But we did not pass a single ship until we reached Ponta Delgada. Off the port we declined proffered aid by the destroyer Harding, which had been sent out to meet us, and ‘taxied’ into port under our own power.

“During the two days’ vigil of seeking land or rescue ships we fired all our distress signals, none of which apparently were seen.

“Without informing the crew of the fear that I had that we would be lost, I packed our log in a water-proof cover, tied it to a life-belt, and was prepared to cast it adrift when the NC-3 sank.

“The nervous strain was terrible while we were drifting, and the men smoked incessantly. This was the only thing that kept them awake.

“I believe a transatlantic flight is practicable without a stop with planes a little larger than the NC type. The engines of all three of the planes worked perfectly, and could have run 6,000 miles more if there had been sufficient fuel on board.

“Wire trouble in the instrument board was the mechanical defect experienced by the NC-3.”

Commander Bellinger’s Story

(From “New York World”)

Horta, Azores, May 22.—“At 22.10 Greenwich time (6.10 P. M. New York time) the NC-1 left the water and took up her position in the formation astern of the NC-3 and NC-4, bound for the Azores, to land at Horta or Ponta Delgada, depending on the gasoline consumption.

“The NC-1 got away with difficulty due to the heavy load she carried. Finally, after a long run on the surface, she reached planing speed and hopped off. The Three and Four were far ahead. We could just make out the number ‘4’ in the distance. When night came we lost sight of the other plane entirely.

“No. 1 station ship we passed on the port hand. It made us feel good to see our solid friend below us, while we were passing over an array of icebergs which resembled gigantic tombstones. The course we followed took us over one iceberg just at dusk. Our altitude then was 1,000 feet, which gave us room and to spare.

“The other station ships, placed 50 miles apart, we passed in their regular order, some on one side and some on the other. We found that star-shells fired by the station ships at night were visible for a much greater distance than were the rays of the search-lights. On one occasion two ships were visible to us at the same time.

“The night was well on before the moon rose, and we wondered whether the sky would prove to be clear or overcast. Luckily it was a partially clear moon that rose bright and full, and though passing clouds sometimes obscured it, the sky could always be sufficiently defined to be of inestimable aid to the pilots controlling the plane.

“We flew along at an altitude of 1,200 feet, and got the air drift during the night from the dropping flares, sighting on them with the drift indicator. The air was slightly lumpy through the night. A station ship full in the rays of the moon was almost passed without being seen by us. Then it focussed its search-light upon us to attract our attention.

“Nobody on board the NC-1 slept during the entire flight. The time passed very quickly, and we found the work of watching for the station ships and checking the air drift very interesting. Hot coffee and sandwiches were available for all hands throughout the flight.

“Finally, the glow of the dawn appeared in the east and soon thereafter the sun arose. The motors were hitting beautifully, and we were making a good 70 miles per hour. Everybody was feeling fine and confident that nothing could stop us making Ponta Delgada.

Plane Runs into a Thick Fog

“But soon we began to encounter thick overcast patches and the visibility became poor. As we went through one thick stretch, station ship No. 16 loomed dead ahead of us. Some of the station ships radioed weather reports to us. We passed No. 17, on the port hand, at a distance of 12 miles at 10.04 (6.04 New York time), and shortly thereafter, while we were flying at an altitude of 600 feet, we ran into a thick fog.

“The pilots climbed to get above the fog, for it was very dense and bedimmed their goggles and the glass over the instruments very quickly. It was almost impossible to read the instruments. Pilots Barin and Mitscher did excellent work and brought the plane to an altitude of 3,000 feet, well above the fog. For a while there the sight was a beautiful one, but none of us could appreciate it. We could not see the water through the fog, and we could not determine how far we were drifting.

“We dodged some fog, but soon encountered more. We continued on, side-slipping and turning in an effort to keep on our course, until 12.50 (8.50 A. M. New York time), when we decided to come down near the water and get our bearings, intending then to fly underneath the fog. We came down to an altitude of 75 feet. The visibility there was about half a mile. The air was bumpy and the wind shifted from 350 to 290 magnetic.

“We changed our course to conform with the new conditions, and sent out radio signals requesting compass bearings by wireless. We decided to land if the fog thickened. A few minutes thereafter we ran into a low, thick fog. I turned the plane about and headed into the wind, landing at 13.10 (9.10 A. M. New York time), after flying a total of 15 hours.

“The water was very rough; much too rough to warrant an attempt to get away again. The outlook was exceedingly gloomy. We realized that we could not go on, and must wait where we were to be picked up. The wind and the condition of the water prevented our taxiing over the sea to windward, and we soon found that radio communication between the plane and the ships was difficult and unsatisfactory.

“We put over a sea-anchor shortly after we alighted, but it was carried away almost immediately. Then we rigged a metal bucket as a sea-anchor, and that did a great deal of good. The wings and tail of the NC-1, however, got severe punishment from the rough sea, and the fabric on the outer and lower wings was slit to help preserve the structure. In an effort to reduce the punishment to the plane, too, I kept one of the centre motors running, but nevertheless both the wings and the tail were badly damaged.

“It looked for some time as if the plane would capsize. All hands realized the danger we were in, but none of them showed the slightest fear. At 17.40 (1.40 P. M. New York time) we sighted a steamer, hull down, and sent a radio message to her. Then we taxied in her direction. The ship proved to be the Ionia. She had no wireless. After a little she sighted us. Then the fog shut down again and the ship disappeared from view.

“Later, when the fog cleared, we saw that the ship was heading for us. We got alongside at 19.20 (3.20 P. M. New York time), and at 2.20 were on board the Ionia. An effort was made to tow the plane, but the line parted. A destroyer came alongside at 00.35 (8.35 P. M. New York time) and took charge of the NC-1. The Ionia landed us at Horta. The plane was left at latitude 29 degrees, 58 minutes, longitude 30 degrees, 15 minutes.”

History of Navy’s Great Ocean Flight

November, 1917—Conference between navy and Curtiss engineers at Washington, D. C.

January, 1918—Working model tested in wind-tunnel. Found practical.

October, 1918—Trial flight of NC-1 at Rockaway Beach, Long Island.

November, 1918—NC-1 makes long-distance trip from Rockaway to Anacostia, D. C., 358 miles, in 5 hours 19 minutes.

February, 1919—-NC-2 climbs 2,000 feet in five minutes.

February 24, 1919—Secretary of Navy orders four planes to be prepared for transatlantic flight.

April 3, 1919—-NC-2 found to be impractical in design of hull, and is taken out of the flight. NC-3 and NC-4 assembled at Rockaway.

May 7—NC-4 damaged by fire while in hangar. Wings replaced. Elevators repaired.

May 8—Three planes leave Rockaway for Trepassey Bay, Newfoundland.

May 8—NC-3 and NC-4 arrive at Halifax, N. S. (450 miles).

NC-4 forced down by motor trouble. Puts in at Chatham Bay, Mass., for repairs after riding the waves all night.

May 10—NC-1 and NC-3 proceed from Halifax to Trepassey in 6 hours 56 minutes (460 miles).

May 14—NC-4 flies from Chatham to Halifax in 4 hours 10 minutes at 85 miles an hour.

May 16—Three planes leave Trepassey Bay for Azores, 1,250 miles.

NC-4 lands at Horta, Azores, in 15 hours 18 minutes.

NC-1 drops in ocean half hour from Flores. Crew rescued; seaplane a total wreck.

NC-3 lost in storm. Forced to descend 205 miles from destination.

May 19—NC-3 arrives at Ponta Delgada riding waves under own power. Wings and hull wrecked. Engine-struts broken. Out of race.

May 20—NC-4 flies from Horta to Ponta Delgada, Azores, 160 miles, in 1 hour 44 minutes.

May 27—NC-4 flies from Ponta Delgada to Lisbon, Portugal, 810 miles, in 9 hours 43 minutes. Flying time from Newfoundland to Portugal (2,150 miles), 26 hours 45 minutes.

May 30—NC-4 flies from Lisbon to Ferrol, Spain, 300 miles, after a halt at Mondego, 100 miles north of Lisbon, owing to engine trouble.

May 31—NC-4 flies from Ferrol, Spain, to Plymouth, England, 400 miles, without a hitch, thus completing the transatlantic flight as scheduled.

British Efforts to Fly the Atlantic

Captain Hawker, with his Sopwith, was the first to get to St. John’s on March 4. He was quickly followed by Captain Raynham and his Martinsyde.

Owing to the constant bad weather which has obtained for seven weeks, the British fliers had not dared to attempt the flight until Sunday, May 18, when Hawker and Raynham started. Everything from snow to the 70-mile gale which blew on April 15 has been experienced at St. John’s. The storm continued throughout that and the next morning. The mechanicians at the hangars of the two flying-camps spent the night watching and guarding the aeroplanes. The Martinsyde plane, which was housed in one of the portable canvas hangars used by the British army in the war, was in danger of injury for a time, when the gale ripped up the pegs that anchored the canvas flies of the hangar, and for a time threatened to snatch the whole thing into the air. These storms have made the grounds impossible for taking off, and as the fliers hoped to take advantage of the full moon, which was beginning to gradually wane, the opportunities for flying by moonlight disappeared and a second moon was on the wane before they started.

On March 4 Captain Hawker landed at St. John’s, Newfoundland, with his Sopwith plane, and his five mechanics began to assemble the machine, which follows the general lines of construction adopted by the Sopwith war-plane designers. It is 46 feet wide and 31 feet long, with a flight duration of 25 hours at 100 miles an hour. During a daylight-to-dusk duration test Commander Grieve and Pilot Hawker covered over 900 miles in 9 hours 5 minutes, exactly half the distance between Newfoundland and Ireland. The Rolls-Royce engine develops 375 horse-power at 1,800 revolutions of the crank-shaft. A four-bladed propeller is used geared down to 1,281 revolutions. The Sopwith machine weighs 6,000 pounds fully equipped for the transatlantic flight. In the trial test the engine consumed 146 gallons of petrol—slightly over one-third the capacity of the tanks, which are placed behind the engine and in front of the cockpit in which Major Hawker and Commander Grieve sit.

At the end of the 900-mile tryout the engine developed exactly the same power as at the start, which leads Major Hawker to believe the engine will continue to perform the same for the rest of the distance.

Major Hawker proposed leaving St. John’s, Newfoundland, about 4 o’clock in the afternoon, and travelling through the night they hoped to pass the south coast of Ireland shortly before noon the following day, English time, arriving at the Brooklands aerodrome, near London, at 4 o’clock, a total flying time of 19 hours and 30 minutes.

In case they were forced to descend into the sea, the “fairing” of the fuselage is so constructed that it forms a boat large enough to support the two men in the water for some time. In addition they wear life-saving jackets. A medical officer in the British Air Ministry made up some scientific food sufficient for forty-eight hours. This includes sugar, cheese, coffee, sandwiches, and tabloids.

Major Harry Hawker

Major Harry Hawker is an Australian, just 31. He is the highest paid flier in the world. He was a bicycle mechanic in Australia when he went to England in 1912 and became an aeroplane mechanic. In 1912 he joined the T. O. M. Sopwith Company, and a year later he came to the United States and flew in “Tim” Woodruff’s Nassau Boulevard meet. Hawker returned to England, and about a year later entered the famous “round England flight.”

On October 24, 1912, in a Sopwith biplane, designed after the pattern of the American Wright, and driven by a 40 horse-power A B C engine, he put up the British duration record to 8 hours and 23 minutes, thus winning the Michelin Cup for that year.

On May 31, 1913, in a Sopwith tractor biplane, with an 80 horse-power Gnome engine, he put up the British altitude record for a pilot alone to 11,450 feet, and on June 16 of the same year, in the same machine, he hung up a record, with one passenger, of 12,900 feet.

On the same day he took up two passengers to 10,600 feet, and on July 27 took up three passengers to 8,400 feet, all of which were British records.

In 1913 and 1914, in a Sopwith seaplane, Hawker made two attempts to win the Daily Mail’s $25,000 prize for a flight on a seaplane around Great Britain. The first time he was knocked out by illness at Yarmouth, and the second time he met with an accident near Dublin.

During the last three years Hawker has been test pilot for the Sopwiths, receiving $125 for each flight, and sometimes making a dozen in a single day. His annual earnings in this period are estimated at $100,000.

Commander Grieve

Commander Mackenzie Grieve is 39 years old. He has not been connected with aeronautics for any great length of time, but is an officer of the Royal navy, who has specialized on navigation and wireless telegraphy and telephony. He has been strongly commended by the Admiralty for his work in this direction, and has been chosen as a navigator on the cross-sea trip because he has combined two branches of a naval officer’s work, which are not, as a rule, made the subject of specialization by one man, but both of which are essential to such a feat as a transatlantic flight.

Test Flights of the Sopwith

On April 11 Major Harry Hawker made a successful test flight at St. John’s.

The wireless station there sent messages to the aviator which he was unable to pick up, but the station at Mount Pearl kept in continual touch with the machine through all the flight. After his flight the flier said that his speed while in the air had been on an average of 100 miles an hour.

The Martinsyde Plane Arrives

On April 2 Captain Frederick Phillips Raynham, the pilot of the Martinsyde aeroplane, and Captain Charles Willard Fairfax Morgan, navigator, arrived at St. John’s and began to make preparations for setting up their canvas hangar which was to house their aeroplane. The aerodrome selected was at the Quid Vivi. This site had been selected by Major Morgan about three months ago, and the tent was set up on that field as per the plans and specifications.

The biplane weighs, fully loaded, about 5,000 pounds and carries 360 gallons of gas, while the Sopwith weighs about 6,100 pounds and carries only 350 gallons. Raynham says he has a cruising radius of 2,000 miles with a twenty-mile head wind against him all the way across. But as the prevailing winds are from west to east, he expects to fly with the wind most of the way. The machine was designed by G. H. Handasyde, who has had many years’ designing experience in co-operation with H. P. Martin, chairman of Martinsydes.

The reappearance in the transatlantic attempt of a Martinsyde plane as a competitor for the Daily Mail prize recalls that the firm as early as 1914 entered for a transatlantic competition, having completed a monoplane which was to have started from St. John’s, the scene of the present venture. This machine was to have been flown by Gustave Hamel, who, it will be remembered, while flying from London to Paris, came down at Calais, ascended again, and has never since been heard of. He is believed to have been drowned in the North Sea, for no trace of his machine was ever found.

Captain Raynham

Captain Raynham is 25 years old. He began to fly at 17, being the possessor of half a dozen of the oldest flying licenses in England. Most of his experience has been in experimental and test flying.

Raynham went with Martinsydes in the early development days of 1907, and was with them when they began monoplane production in 1908. This they continued until the war began, when they turned to building biplanes, the present machine being only a very slight modification of their latest fighting scout.

The Martinsyde biplane was not especially designed for the transatlantic flight, but was taken from stock. It still carries its original fighting equipment, similar to that used during the war. The machine is named the “Raymor,” a combination of the names Raynham and Morgan.

The machine has a wing span of 41 feet and a lifting area of 500 square feet; over-all length, 26 feet; height, from ground to top of propeller, 10 feet 10 inches. The engine is a Rolls-Royce “Falcon,” which is rated at 285 horse-power. It has a capacity of developing up to 300 horse-power at a speed of 100 to 125 miles per hour. The cruising radius is 2,500 miles.

The Martinsyde machine carries no life-saving apparatus of any kind. Tanks are provided for fuel capacity of 375 gallons, sufficient for a flight of 25 hours at 100 miles per hour. Raynham’s idea is to make an ascent at an angle of 3 degrees until an altitude of 1,500 feet is reached. This altitude would be attained in 24 hours, at which time land on the other side would be within planing distance.

Captain Woods’s Attempted Flight to America

The aeroplane of the Shortt brothers, one of the entries for the $50,000 race across the Atlantic, was to start from Ireland for Newfoundland. The machine is expected to make the journey in twenty hours, but owing to a defective carburetor the machine fell in the Irish Sea while making the flight from England to Ireland. Captain Woods was rescued, but no further news has been received of the preparations for the flight.

The Shortt brothers had chosen the Limerick section of Ireland for their starting-point. It is considered likely that the Shortt trial will be the only east-to-west attempt, all of the other entries in the Daily Mail’s contest having indicated their intention of flying eastward because of the strong head winds from the west.

The machine entered by the Shortt brothers is the Shortt “Shiel” aeroplane. It is fitted with a 375 horse-power Rolls-Royce engine, developing a speed of ninety-five miles an hour. The machine carries a pilot and a navigator. Of biplane type, the machine, its makers say, is capable of a 3,200 mile non-stop drive.

In their application to the British Air Ministry, the Shortts designated Major James C. P. Woods, of the Royal Flying Corps, as pilot, with Captain C. C. Wylie. In addition to his experience in the air, Major Woods had considerable experience as a navigator on destroyers guarding troop-ships through the Atlantic submarine zone. Major Woods, who has flown more than 10,000 miles, gained fame as a bomber in France.

The latest contestant to arrive at St. John’s was the Handley Page Berlin Bomber which was landed on May 10. The biplane is the only one to be compared with the United States navy flying-boats in size. The wing spread is 126 feet, the chord 12 feet. The total weight of the machine is about 16,000 pounds. It carries 3 pilots, 3 mechanics, 2 wireless operators, and 2,000 gallons of gas. The wireless is long enough to keep in touch with both shores all the way. The route is to Limerick, Ireland. The machine has four Rolls-Royce motors of 350 horse-power, and the aeroplane is taken from stock. They expect to travel 90 miles per hour.

One of the pilots is Colonel T. Gran, the Norwegian who first flew from Scotland to Norway in August, 1914. He was a member of the British R. A. F. and also with Captain Scott in the South Polar Expedition.

Major Brackley has had perhaps as much experience in night flying as any living man, and Admiral Mark Kerr is one of the oldest pilots in England. He was the sixth to be granted a pilot’s license in England.

Hawker’s Story of Atlantic Flight

Thurso, Scotland, May 26.—Harry Hawker and Mackenzie Grieve gave the London Daily Mail an outline of their historic flight. Hawker told his story simply as follows:

“We had very difficult ground to rise from on the other side. To get in the air at all we had to run diagonally across the course. Once we got away, we climbed very well, but about ten minutes up we passed from firm, clear weather into fog.

“Off the Newfoundland banks we got well over this fog, however, and, of course, at once lost sight of the sea. The sky was quite clear for the first four hours, when the visibility became very bad. Heavy cloud-banks were encountered, and eventually we flew into a heavy storm with rain squalls.

“At this time we were flying well above the clouds at a height of about 15,000 feet.

“About five and one-half hours out, owing to the choking of the filter, the temperature of the water cooling out the engines started to rise, but after coming down several thousand feet we overcame this difficulty.

“Everything went well for a few hours, when once again the circulation system became choked and the temperature of the water rose to the boiling-point. We of course realized until the pipe was cleared we could not rise much higher without using a lot of motor power.

“When we were about ten and one-half hours on our way the circulation system was still giving trouble, and we realized we could not go on using up our motor power.

“Then it was we reached the fateful decision to play for safety. We changed our course and began to fly diagonally across the main shipping route for about two and a half hours, when, to our great relief, we sighted the Danish steamer which proved to be the tramp Mary.

“We at once sent up our Very light distress signals. These were answered promptly, and then we flew on about two miles and landed in the water ahead of the steamer.

Impossible to Salve Machine

“The sea was exceedingly rough, and despite the utmost efforts of the Danish crew it was one and a half hours before they succeeded in taking us off. It was only at a great risk to themselves, in fact, that they eventually succeeded in launching a small boat, owing to the heavy gale from the northeast which was raging.

“It was found impossible to salve the machine, which, however, is most probably still afloat somewhere in the mid-Atlantic.

“Altogether, before being picked up, we had been fourteen and a half hours out from Newfoundland. We were picked up at 8.30 (British summer time).

“From Captain Duhn of the Mary and his Danish crew we received the greatest kindness on our journey home. The ship carried no wireless, and it was not until we arrived off the Butt of Lewis that we were able to communicate with the authorities.

“Off Loch Eireball we were met by the destroyer Woolston and conveyed to Scapa Flow, where we had a splendid welcome home from Admiral Freemantle and the men of the Grand Fleet.”

Commander Mackenzie Grieve, the navigator of the Sopwith, said:

“When but a few hundred miles out a strong northerly gale drove us steadily out of our course. It was not always possible, owing to the pressure of the dense masses of cloud, to take our bearings, and I calculate that at the time we determined to cut across the shipping route we were about 200 miles off our course.

“Up to this change of direction we had covered about 1,000 miles of our journey to the Irish coast.”

Vickers “Vimy” Bomber Makes First Non-Stop Flight from America to Europe

Leaving St. John’s, Newfoundland, at 12.13 P. M. New York time on Saturday, June 14, the Vickers “Vimy” bomber, bimotored Rolls-Royce aeroplane, with two four-bladed propellers, and piloted by Captain John Alcock and navigated by Lieutenant Arthur W. Brown, landed at Clifden, Galway, Ireland, at 4.40 A. M. New York time, aerially transnavigating 1,960 miles of the Atlantic Ocean, from the New World to the Old, in 16 hours and 12 minutes, or at an average rate of 120 miles an hour. Although the moon was full, the fog and mist was so dense that the aviators could not see the moon, sun, or stars for fourteen out of the sixteen hours in the air. During the flight they flew through atmosphere so cold that ice caked on the instruments. Nevertheless, the engines functioned consistently throughout the journey, which was, in many ways, as remarkable as the voyage of “The Ancient Mariner,” whom Coleridge’s poem of that name describes.

Unfortunately, the small propeller which drives the dynamo and generates the current for the wireless radio instruments had jarred loose and blown away shortly after the machine ascended into the air, and the atmosphere was so surcharged with electricity that Lieutenant Brown could not get any radio messages through, and the airship was lost to the world for over sixteen hours. During the flight the men experienced many thrills, primarily because they had no sense of horizon, due to the thick fog which prevailed most of the way over. Under those conditions the navigation was remarkable, and when the aviators saw the aerials at Clifden they were delighted. In landing they mistook the bog for a field, and consequently made a bad landing, for the machine sank into the bog and stuck there badly damaged in the wing.

Captain Alcock’s Story

Describing the experiences of himself and Lieutenant Brown, Captain Alcock, in a message from Galway to the London Daily Mail, which awarded them the $50,000 prize for making the first non-stop flight across the Atlantic between Europe and America, said:

“We had a terrible journey. The wonder is that we are here at all. We scarcely saw the sun or moon or stars. For hours we saw none of them. The fog was dense, and at times we had to descend within 300 feet of the sea.

“For four hours our machine was covered with a sheet of ice carried by frozen sleet. At another time the fog was so dense that my speed indicator did not work, and for a few minutes it was alarming.

“We looped the loop, I do believe, and did a steep spiral. We did some comic stunts, for I have had no sense of horizon.

“The winds were favorable all the way, northwest, and at times southwest. We said in Newfoundland that we could do the trip in sixteen hours, but we never thought we should. An hour and a half before we saw land we had no certain idea where we were, but we believed we were at Galway or thereabouts.

“Our delight in seeing Eastal Island and Tarbot Island, five miles west of Clifden, was great. The people did not know who we were, and thought we were scouts looking for Alcock.

“We encountered no unforeseen conditions. We did not suffer from cold or exhaustion, except when looking over the side; then the sleet chewed bits out of our faces. We drank coffee and ale, and ate sandwiches and chocolate.

“Our flight has shown that the Atlantic flight is practicable, but I think it should be done, not with an aeroplane or seaplane, but with flying-boats.

“We had plenty of reserve fuel left, using only two-thirds of our supply.

“The only thing that upset me was to see the machine at the end get damaged. From above the bog looked like a lovely field, but the machine sank into it to the axle, and fell over on to her side.”

Alcock Has Spent 4,500 Hours in Air

There are few fliers, living or dead, who have passed as many hours in the air as Captain John Alcock, the twenty-seven-year-old pilot of the first aeroplane to make a non-stop flight across the Atlantic. This officer of the Royal Air Force has flown more than 4,500 hours. The one man who is known to have passed more time in the air is Captain Roy N. Francis, U. S. A.

Big, blond, and ruddy, Captain Alcock is typically English in appearance, voice, and mannerisms. His eyes are blue, and his hair, brushed straight back, is almost flaxen. He is more than six feet in height and heavy of frame. Powerful wrists and forearms attest to many hours of tinkering with heavy machinery.

Alcock, who was born in Manchester in 1892, was apprenticed at seventeen to the Empress Motor Works, a firm interested at that time in the development of an aeroplane engine. Alcock helped to build the first aero engine made at that plant, and meanwhile developed the flying fever.

Then he started experimenting with gliders, and in 1911 began to fly. He earned his certificate the following year, and in 1913 won the first race in which he ever had entered. Shortly afterward he took second place in the London to Manchester and return competition, at that time one of the most famous air-races.

In one of those early competitions Alcock beat Frederick Raynham, the pilot of the Martinsyde which was injured in trying to get off for the transatlantic flight with Hawker, whose effort to cross the ocean in a Sopwith ended in mid-ocean a few weeks ago.

From the fall of 1914 to the fall of 1916 Alcock was an instructor of flying at Eastchurch, where he trained some of the best-known fliers of England. One of these was Major H. G. Brackley, pilot of the Handley Page bomber, which has been sent to Newfoundland in the hope that it could get away first on the “hop” across the Atlantic.

From Eastchurch Alcock went to the Dardanelles. There he won the Distinguished Service Cross as an ace, and it is the gossip of the air force that if he had not fallen prisoner to the Turks his rank would have been much higher. He has seven enemy planes to his credit.

It was his bombing work that attracted most attention, however, for he made a raid on Adrianople and dropped a ton of bombs, destroying 3,000 houses, blowing up an ammunition-train, and razed a fort. Out of the thirty-six bombs he dropped on that expedition twenty were incendiary and sixteen high-explosive. Accurate knowledge of the damage he had inflicted on that September day in 1917 did not come until after the armistice was signed, but Alcock did not have to wait until the armistice to discover that his adventure had been a military success. Ninety miles from Adrianople on his return flight he could still see the glare in the sky from the fires his bombs had ignited.

He was the first man to bomb Constantinople, and it was on his return from his second bombing expedition over the Turkish capital that one of the engines in his twin Handley Page failed him. He managed to fly seventy-six miles on the other engine before he was forced to descend on the island of Imbros, within twelve miles of the home station.

But that twelve miles meant all the difference between friends and enemies, and the aviator was taken prisoner and confined in the civil jail. Later he was removed to Constantinople and then to Asia Minor, where he was held until the armistice was signed. He returned to England December 16, 1918.

Immediately upon his return Alcock joined the Vickers concern as a test pilot. It was due to his persuasion that the conservative directors of the concern, which controls the British Westinghouse works, committed themselves to the enterprise of entering an aeroplane in the transatlantic flight for the Daily Mail prize of $50,000 for the first non-stop flight.

America Shares Alcock’s Triumph

There is hardly any comparison to be made between Captain Alcock and his navigator, Lieutenant Arthur Whitten Brown. While Alcock is large of frame, Brown is a full head shorter and boyish in build. There are gray threads in Brown’s hair, mementoes of twenty-three months in a German prison-camp. His left foot is crippled, too, the result of a crash when he was brought down by German anti-aircraft guns behind the German lines at Bapaume.

Brown is an American born of American parents in Glasgow in 1886. His father was connected with George Westinghouse in the development of an engine. It was that engine that took him to the British Isles, and he took part in the organization of the British Westinghouse Company, now controlled by Vickers, Limited, the concern which built the plane in which the transocean flight was made.

Lieutenant Brown

Lieutenant Brown’s mother was a member of the Whitten family of Pittsburgh, and his grandfather fought with the famous Hampden’s Battery at Gettysburg. Brown himself has lived in Pittsburgh, where he went to continue the studies at the Westinghouse works that had begun in the works in England.

He enlisted in the university and public school corps in 1914, and in 1915 took his wings. Most of his service was as an observer and reconnaissance officer. One time the machine in which he flew as an observer was shot down in flames. He says of that experience that he “was burned a bit,” but was glad enough to escape capture. The machine he was in crashed. He passed nine months in a German hospital and fourteen more months in a German prison-camp, and then was repatriated by exchange. He spent the latter days of the war period in productions work for the Ministry of Munitions.

Lieutenant Brown has never been a navigator in any but an amateur way. Navigation with him is simply a hobby, and on his frequent crossings of the Atlantic, he says, he never failed to persuade the captain of his ship to allow him on the bridge to take a shot at the sun.

The flight across the Atlantic, Brown said, would be his last, for he is engaged to be married to Miss Kennedy, the daughter of a major of the Royal Air Force, and they are planning to pass their honeymoon (and his share of the prize-money) on a trip around the world. After that they are coming to America, and Lieutenant Brown plans to engage in the practice of electrical engineering.

“Vimy” Designed to Bomb Enemy Towns

The twin-engined Vickers-Vimy plane in which the English pilot and his American navigator crossed to Ireland has a 67-foot 2-inch wing spread. The length over all is 42 feet 8 inches; gap, 10 feet; chord, 10 feet 6 inches. It is a bombing-type plane, and its conversion to a peace-time adventure was accomplished by replacing the fighting equipment with tanks of a total gasoline capacity of 870 gallons, weighing more than 6,000 pounds.

The two Rolls-Royce Eagle 375 horse-power engines are mounted between the upper and lower planes on either side of the fuselage.

The outstanding feature of the Vimy is the strength and elasticity of its construction, accomplished by the use of hollow, seamless steel tubing. This type of construction extends from the nose to well behind the planes.

The Vimy has a sturdy double under-carriage, with a two-wheeled chassis placed directly under each engine. Fully loaded the craft weighs a trifle more than 13,000 pounds. Even distribution of eight separate tanks and a cleverly arranged feeding system whereby the fuel is consumed at the same rate from all eight not only insured a well-balanced plane but promised an “even keel” had the fliers been forced down on the surface of the ocean.

A gravity-tank at the top of the fuselage was arranged to be emptied first, so it could serve as a life-raft any time after the first two hours of the flight, which period was necessary to exhaust the load of gasoline contained in that tank.

The Vimy’s radio apparatus is the standard type used by the Royal Air Force, and was lent to Alcock by the British Air Ministry. It is similar to that carried by Hawker’s Sopwith. The transmitting radius of this type of radio is placed at 250 miles. Messages can be received from a much greater distance.

Vimy Flight Sets New World’s Distance Record

The 1,690-mile flight of the Vickers “Vimy” Bomber, carrying Alcock and Brown, establishes a new world’s record, breaking the one made by Captain Boehm in a Mercedes-driven Albatross plane, which flew for 25 hours and 1 minute and covered 1,350 miles.

The year 1914, just previous to the war, was the most prolific in long-distance flights. On June 23 the German aviator Basser covered 1,200 miles in a Rumpler biplane in 16 hours and 28 minutes.

The same day Landsmann, another German, drove an Albatross machine 1,100 miles in 17 hours and 17 minutes, and four days later 1,200 miles in 21 hours and 49 minutes.

The nearest approach to Boehm’s record was made on April 25 last, when Lieutenant-Commander H. B. Grow, U. S. N., flew a twin-engine F-5-L flying-boat a total distance of 1,250 miles in 20 hours and 20 minutes.

Lieutenant-Commander A. C. Read, in his hop on the NC-3 from Trepassey Bay to Horta in the Azores, broke no distance records in the 1,200 nautical miles he flew, but shattered the record for speed, making an average of 103.5 miles an hour.

The French pre-war record was on April 27, 1914, by Paulet, who flew 950 miles in 16 hours and 28 minutes. Since the war the French aviators Coli and Roget flew from Villacoublay, near Paris, to Rabat, Morocco, a distance of 1,116 miles without stopping. The engine was a 300 horse-power Renault, and constitutes the longest single-motor non-stop flight on record. Miss Ruth Law holds the record for long-distance flight by a woman. On November 19, 1916, she covered the 590 miles from Chicago to Hornell, N. Y., in 5 hours and 45 minutes.

THE FIRST TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT OF THE R-34

After a flight of 108 hours, the British dirigible which left Scotland at 2 A. M. July 2, arrived at Roosevelt Field, Mineola, Long Island, N. Y., at 9 A. M., Sunday, July 6, after a flight via Newfoundland and Halifax. Owing to the strong head winds and fog which prevailed the most of the journey the huge airship was delayed two days in its flight, and there was for some time grave doubt that she would arrive on her own gasoline, for the supply was running low, and the aid of destroyers was requested by wireless from the R-34.

As soon as the airship arrived over Roosevelt Field, Major John Edward Maddock Pritchard landed upon American soil, after a parachute drop of 2,000 feet.

This completed the longest flight in history, the distance covered being 3,200 miles, not counting the mileage forced upon the flyers by adverse winds. The time consumed was a few minutes more than 108 hours. The big airship brought over thirty-one persons, one of whom was a stowaway, and a tortoise-shell cat.

A fortunate turn of the wind at about 2 o’clock Sunday morning made the success of the flight possible. Four times on Friday night and early Saturday morning heavy squalls and thunder-storms had threatened to cripple or smash the flying colossus.

During the worst of the storm on Friday night the big airship was suddenly tossed aloft 500 feet and pitched about like a dory in a heavy sea. For a time there was great danger that a vital part would be smashed and a landing forced on the rough water, but the workmanship and material in every part of the 630-foot air giant proved flawless, and Commander Scott got his craft safely through.

In response to calls for aid 200 men were sent from Mineola to Montauk Point, Long Island, where it was at first hoped the R-34 might be towed by the torpedo-boats sent out to aid the airship. The sudden shift in the wind decided Major Scott to continue the flight to Mineola as originally planned.

At 8.35 A. M. the R-34 became visible from Mineola Field, looking at first like a splinter split off from the bluish horizon in the northeast. A thin line of light beneath it made it distinguishable at first at a distance of about twenty miles. Slowly it disengaged itself from the blurring lines where the earth and sky met, and gradually its bulk began to develop. As it approached the field it rose for better observation, and at about 9 o’clock stood out in the sky in its full super-dreadnought proportions, its painted skin responding to the sun, which had become bright a few minutes before, and giving off a dull, metallic gleam between lead and aluminum in tint.

It glided through the air with such smoothness as to give the suggestion that it was motionless and the spectator moving. Like the buzz of a midsummer noontime, the hum of its motors produced no disturbing effect on the quiet.

The ship approached the landing-place at a height of about 2,000 feet, coming from the east-northeast, and passing first over Mitchel Field. It swung around the skirts of Roosevelt Field, while its commanders studied the details of the landing-place. The manœuvres for observation took the dirigible three times around the field before she came to a stop. After 9.11 it shut off its motors, and hovered, like a fixed object, 2,000 feet above the ground.

The time of the R-34 for the transatlantic crossing is slightly greater than the steamship record made by the Mauretania, which, in September, 1909, made the trip from Queenstown to New York in 4 days, 10 hours, and 41 minutes. This is better by approximately 2 hours than the time of the dirigible, which took 4 days, 12 hours, and some odd minutes. The R-34, however, starting from Edinburgh, covered a much greater distance. The rate of speed of the R-34 in covering the 3,200 miles was 29⅖ knots per hour.

Airship Landed

The crew sent the cable on and it made a bull’s-eye in the drop, falling squarely over the main anchor. The workmen, who rushed to catch it on the bound, were flung to the ground and rolled about, as if by the lash of a gigantic whip, but they subdued it in a second and rushed with it to the iron ring. An instant later it was dragged through this opening and the gas-bag was secured. A few moments later the crews of men were pinning it down like Gulliver, attaching anchors all along the hull to prepared anchorages of concrete and steel, sunk deeply into the earth.

The British officers, accompanied by their American guest, Lieutenant-Commander Zachary Lansdowne, climbed out of the gondola to receive the official greetings of the government of the United States and the hearty congratulations of brother seamen and flyers in American and British uniforms. Those who expected to find them worn and wan from their unparalleled experience were astonished to see them all in the finest fettle and spirits, ruddy and vigorous, wide-awake, and full of fun.

The crew followed them to land, on which none had set foot for nearly five days, all the members being in good health and spirits, except one man, who had suffered a smashed thumb, the only accident of the cruise.

THE OFFICIAL LOG OF R-34 TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT BY BRIGADIER-GENERAL E. M. MAITLAND, C. M. G., D. C. O., REPRESENTING THE BRITISH AIR MINISTRY

Atlantic flight by rigid airship R-34, from East Fortune, Scotland, to Long Island, New York, via Newfoundland:

Distances covered were as follows: East Fortune to Trinity Bay, Newfoundland, 2,050 sea-miles. Trinity Bay, Newfoundland, to New York, 1,080 sea-miles.

It was originally intended that this flight should have taken place at the beginning of June, but owing to the uncertainty of the Germans signing the peace terms the British Admiralty decided to detain her for an extended cruise up the Baltic and along the German coast-line. This flight occupied 56 hours under adverse weather conditions, during which time an air distance of roughly 2,400 miles was covered.

At the conclusion of this flight the ship was taken over from the Admiralty by the Air Ministry, and the airship was quickly overhauled for the journey to the United States of America.

The date and time of sailing decided upon was 2 A. M. on the morning of Wednesday, July 2, and the press representatives were notified by the Air Ministry to be at East Fortune the day previously.

Started Ahead of Schedule

At 1.30 A. M. on the morning of Wednesday, July 2, the airship was taken from her shed and actually took the air 12 minutes later, thus starting on her long voyage exactly 18 minutes in advance of scheduled time.

1.42 A. M., Wednesday, July 2.

The R-34 slowly arose from the hands of the landing party and was completely swallowed up in the low-lying clouds at a height of 100 feet. When flying at night, possibly on account of the darkness, there is always a feeling of loneliness immediately after leaving the ground. The loneliness on this occasion was accentuated by the faint cheers of the landing party coming upward through the mist long after all signs of the earth had disappeared.

The airship rose rapidly 1,500 feet, at which height she emerged from the low-lying clouds and headed straight up the Firth of Forth toward Edinburgh.

A few minutes after 2 o’clock the lights of Rosyth showed up through a break in the clouds, thus proving brilliantly that the correct allowance had been made for the force and direction of the wind, which was twenty miles per hour from the east.

It should be borne in mind that when an airship gets out on a long-distance voyage carrying her maximum allowance of petrol, she can only rise to a limited height at the outset without throwing some of it overboard as ballast, and that as the airship proceeds on her voyage she can, if so desired, gradually increase her height as the petrol is consumed by the engine.

An airship of this type, when most of her petrol is consumed, can rise to a height of about 14,000 feet.

15.8 Tons of Petrol at Start

For this reason the next few hours were about the most anxious periods during the flight for Major Scott, the captain of the ship, who, owing to the large amount of petrol carried (4,900 gallons, weighing 15.8 tons), had to keep the ship as low as possible and at the same time pass over northern Scotland, where the hills rise to a height of over 3,000 feet.

Owing to the stormy nature of the morning the air at 1,500 feet—the height at which the airship was travelling—was most disturbed and bumpy, due to the wind being broken up by the mountains to the north, causing violent wind-currents and air-pockets.

The most disturbed conditions were met in the mouth of the Clyde, south of Loch Lomond, which, surrounded by high mountains, looked particularly beautiful in the gray dawn light.

The islands at the mouth of the Firth of Clyde were quietly passed. The north coast of Ireland appeared for a time, and shortly afterward faded away as we headed out into the Atlantic.

The various incidents of the voyage are set down quite simply as they occurred, and more or less in the form of a diary. No attempt has been made to write them as a connected story. It is felt that, by recording each incident in this way, most of them trivial, a few of vital importance, a true picture of the voyage will be obtained.

Time, 6 A. M., July 2.

Early Speed, 38 Knots

Airship running on four engines with 1,000 revolutions. Forward engine being given a rest. Air speed, 38 knots—land-miles per hour made good, 56.7. Course steered, 298 degrees north, 62 degrees west. Course made good, 39 degrees north, 71 west. Wind, north-east, 15⅓ miles per hour. Height, 1,500 feet. Large banks of fleecy clouds came rolling along from the Atlantic, gradually blotting out all view of the sea. At first we were above these clouds, but gradually they rose higher, and we ploughed our way into the middle of them.

7 A. M.—Nothing but dense fog, estimated by Harris, the meteorological officer, to go down to within 50 feet of the water and up to a height of about 5,000 feet.

Suddenly we catch a glimpse of the sea through a hole in the clouds, and it is now easy to see we have a slight drift to the south, which was estimated by both Scott, the captain, and Cooke, the navigating officer.

A few minutes later we find ourselves above the clouds, our height still being 1,500 feet, and beneath a cloud sky with clouds at about 8,000 feet. We are, therefore, in between two layers of clouds, a condition in which Alcock and Brown found themselves on more than one occasion on their recent flight from west to east.

An excellent cloud horizon now presents itself on all sides, of which Cooke at once takes advantage. These observations, if the cloud horizon is quite flat, ought to prove a valuable rough guide, but cannot be regarded as accurate unless one can also obtain a check on the sun by day or the moon and stars by night.

Cooke reckons it is easy to make as much as a fifty-mile error in locating one’s position when using a cloud horizon as substitute for a sea horizon.

Breakfast at 1,500 Feet

7.30 A. M.—Breakfast in crew space up in the keel consisted of cold ham, one hard-boiled egg each, bread and butter, and hot tea. We breakfast in two watches, generally about fifteen in each.

The first watch for breakfast was Scott, Cooke, Pritchard, Admiralty airship expert; Lansdowne, Lieutenant-Commander, United States Airship Service; Shotter, engineer officer; Harris, meteorological officer, myself, and half the crew.

Conversation during breakfast reverted to the recent flight up the Baltic, and in the adjoining compartment the graphophone was entertaining the crews to the latest jazz tunes, such as “The Wild, Wild Women.”

It might be interesting at this stage to give a complete list of the crew, showing their various duties:

Officers

SHIP’S OFFICERS

Warrant Officers and Men

ENGINEERS

RIGGERS

WIRELESS-TELEGRAPH OPERATORS

Corporal Powell.
A. C. Edwards.

Air Ministry Sends Greetings

11 A. M.—Still ploughing our way through the fog at 1,300 feet. Sea completely hidden by clouds and no visibility whatsoever. Stopped forward and two aft engines, and now running on only two wing engines at 1,600 revolutions. These are giving us an air speed of 30 knots, or 33.6 miles per hour. This is the airship’s most efficient speed, as she only consumes on the two engines twenty-five gallons of petrol per hour.

Wind is east, seven miles per hour, and so we are making good forty miles per hour and resting three engines.

Cooke is now on top of the airship taking observations of the sun, using the cloud horizon with a sextant. The sun is visible to him but not to us, the top of the ship being eighty-five feet above us down here in the fore-central cabin.

Our position is reckoned to be latitude 55 degrees 10 minutes north and longitude 14 degrees 40 minutes west, which is equivalent to 400 miles from our starting-point at East Fortune and 200 miles out in the Atlantic from the northwest coast of Ireland.

We are in wireless touch with East Fortune, Clifden, on the west coast of Ireland, and Ponta Delgada, Azores, and messages wishing us good luck are received from Air Ministry, H. M. S. Queen Elizabeth, and others.

11.45 A. M.—Lunch—Excellent beef stew and potatoes, chocolate, and cold water.

The talk, as usual, was mainly “shop,” dealing with such problems as the distribution of air-pressure on the western side of the Atlantic, what winds were likely to be met with, what fog we should run into, the advantages of directional wireless for navigational purposes, cloud horizons, and the like.

Scott, Cooke, and Harris, in comparing their experiences and expounding their theories, were most interesting and illuminating.

12 NOON.—Watch off duty turned in for their routine four hours’ sleep before coming on for their next period of duty—only two hours in this case, as it is the first of the two dog-watches.

The sleeping arrangements consist of a hammock for each of the men off watch suspended from the main ridge girder of the triangular internal keel which runs from end to end of the ship. In this keel are situated the eighty-one petrol-tanks, each of seventy-one gallons’ capacity; also the living quarters for officers and men, and storing arrangements for lubricating-oil for the engines, water ballast, food, and drinking-water for the crew. The latter is quite a considerable item, as will be seen from the following table of weights:

GallonsPoundsTons
Petrol4,90035,30015.8
Oil...2,070.9
Water......3.0
Crew and baggage......4.0
Spares... 550.2
Drinking-water...800.42
———
Total24.32

Life in the keel of a large, rigid airship is by no means unpleasant. There is very little noise or vibration except when one is directly over the power units—a total absence of wind and, except in the early hours of dawn, greater warmth than in the surrounding atmosphere.

Getting into one’s hammock is rather an acrobatic feat, especially if it is slung high, but this becomes easy with practice; preventing oneself from falling out is a thing one must be careful about in a service airship like the R-34.

There is only a thin outer cover of fabric on the under side of the keel on each side of the walking way, and the luckless individual who tips out of his hammock would in all probability break right through this and soon find himself in the Atlantic.

It is surprising the amount of exercise one can get on board an airship of this size. The keel is about 600 feet long, and one is constantly running about from one end to the other. There are also steps in a vertical ladder at the top of the ship for those who feel energetic or have duty up there. By the time it becomes one’s turn to go to bed one generally finds one is very sleepy, and the warmth of one’s sleeping-bag and hum of the engines soon send one to sleep.

3.15 P. M.—Sea now visible at intervals through the clouds—a deep blue in color with a big swell on. Our shadow on the water helps us to measure our drift angle, which both Scott and Cooke worked out to be 21 degrees. Running on the forward and two aft engines, resting the two wing engines. Speed—making forty-nine miles per hour.

Durant, the wireless officer, reports he has just been speaking to St. John’s, N. F.—Rather faint but quite clear signals. As we are still in touch with East Fortune and Clifden, and have been exchanging signals with the Azores since reaching the Irish coast, our communications seem to be quite satisfactory.

Remarkable rainbow effects on the clouds. One complete rainbow encircled the airship itself and the other, a smaller one, encircled the shadow. Both are very vivid in their coloring.

3.45 P. M.—Excellent tea consisting of bread and butter and green-gage jam, also two cups of scalding hot tea, which had been boiled over the exhaust-pipe cooker fitted to the forward engine.

See Little of Ocean

Fruitarian cake was also tried for the first time—rather sickly to taste but very nourishing. The whole assisted by Miss Lee White on the gramophone. We would one and all give anything for a smoke. Greenland, the first officer of the ship, is vainly trying to discover the culprit who used his tooth-brush for stirring the mustard at lunch.

4.30 P. M.—Still in fog and low clouds and no sea visible. We have hardly seen any sign of the Atlantic since leaving the Irish coast, and we are beginning to wonder if we shall see it at all the whole way across.

5 P. M.—Tramp steamer S. S. Ballygally Head, outward bound from Belfast, destination Montreal, picked up our wireless on their Marconi spark set, which has a range of thirty miles only. She heard us but didn’t see us, as we were well above and completely hidden by the clouds. She gave her position as latitude 54 degrees 30 minutes north, longitude 18 degrees 20 minutes west, and reported as follows:

“Steering south 80 west true, wind north, barometer 30.10, overcast, clouds low.”

“(Signed) Suffren, Master.”

They were very surprised and most interested to hear we were R-34 bound for New York, and wished us every possible luck.

5.30 P. M.—Messages were received from both H. M. S. battle-cruisers Tiger and Renown, which had been previously sent by the Admiralty out into the Atlantic to assist us with weather-reports and general observation. They reported respectively as follows:

H. M. S. Tiger.—“Position 36 degrees 50 minutes north, 36 degrees 50 minutes west, 1,027 millibars, falling slowly, thick fog.”

H. M. S. Renown.—“Position 60 degrees north, 25 west, 1,027 millibars, falling slowly, cloudy, visibility four miles.”

Harris’s deductions from these reports were to the effect that there was no steep gradient, and that therefore there was no likelihood of any strong wind in that part of the Atlantic.

Set Clock Back Half-Hour

6 P. M.—Scott increases height to 2,000 feet, and at this height we find ourselves well over the clouds and with a bright-blue sky above us. The view is an enchanting one—as far as one can see a vast ocean of white fleecy clouds, ending in the most perfect cloud horizons.

Two particularly fine specimens of windy cirrus clouds, of which Pritchard promptly obtained photographs, appear on our port beam, also some “cirrus ventosus” clouds (little curly clouds like a blackcock’s tail-feathers), all of which Harris interprets as a first indication and infallible sign of a depression coming up from the south.

We hope that this depression, when it comes, may help us, provided we have crossed its path before it reaches us. If we can do this we may be helped along by the easterly wind on the northwesterly side of the depression.

It is interesting to note that as yet we have received no notice of this depression coming up from the south in any weather-reports.

6.40 P. M.—Put back clock one-half an hour to correct Greenwich mean time. Time now 6.10 P. M. Position: Latitude 53 degrees 50 minutes north; longitude 20 degrees west.

We have covered 610 sea-miles, measured in a direct line, in 17 hours, at an average speed of 36 knots, or 40 miles per hour. Depth of Atlantic at this point, 1,500 fathoms. At this rate, if all goes well and if that depression from the south doesn’t interfere, we should see St. John’s—if visible and not covered in fog as it usually is—about midnight to-morrow, July 3.

6.55 P. M.—Wireless message from Air Ministry via Clifden states:

“Conditions unchanged in British Isles. Anti-cyclone persistent in Eastern Atlantic—a new depression entering Atlantic from south.”

This confirms Harris’s forecast and is an admirable proof of the value of cloud forecasting.

Sea and Sky Invisible

7 P. M.—The clouds have risen to our height and we are now driving away through them with no signs of the sky above or the sea underneath. Scott reckons the wind is northeast by east and helping us slightly. Airship now very heavy owing to change in temperature and 12 degrees down by the stern. Running on all five engines at 1,600 revolutions, height 3,000 feet.

8 P. M.—We are just on top of the clouds, alternately in the sun and then plunging through thick banks of clouds. The sun is very low down on the western horizon and we are steering straight for it, making Pritchard at the elevators curse himself for not having brought tinted glasses. Ship now on an even keel.

8.30 P. M.—Scott decided to go down underneath the clouds and increases speed on all engines to 1,800 revolutions to do so. Dark, cold, and wet in the clouds, and we shut all windows.

Sea 1,500 Feet Below

We see the sea at 1,500 feet between patches of cloud. Rather bumpy.

We now find ourselves between two layers of clouds, the top layer 1,000 feet above us and the lower layer 500 feet below, with occasional glimpses of sea.

The sun is now setting and gradually disappears below the lower cloud horizon, throwing a wonderful pink glow on the white clouds in every direction. Course steered, 320 degrees. Course made good, 299 degrees. Air speed, 44 knots; speed made good, 55 miles per hour.

All through this first night in the Atlantic the ordinary airship routine of navigating, steering, and elevating, also maintaining the engines in smooth-running order, goes, watch and watch, as in the daytime.

The night is very dark. The airship, however, is lighted throughout, a much enlarged lighting system having been fitted. All instruments can be individually illuminated as required, and in case of failure at the lighting system all figures and indicators are radiomized.

Lights Not Needed

The radium paint used is so luminous that in most cases the lighting installation is unnecessary.

8.20 A. M., Thursday, July 3.—The clock has been put back another hour to correct our time to Greenwich mean time. Position: Longitude 35 degrees 60 minutes west; latitude 53 degrees north.

Cooke got position by observation on sun and a good cloud horizon, and considers it accurate to within thirty and forty miles.

Our position is over the west-bound steamship route from Cape Race to the Clyde and momentarily crossing the east-bound route from Belle Isle to Plymouth.

We are well over half-way between Ireland and Newfoundland and are back again on the great circle route, having been slightly to the south of it, owing to the drift effect of a northerly wind.

Good weather-report from St. John’s.

Speaks to Steamship

12.45 P. M.—Durant is speaking S. S. Canada on our spark wireless set, so there may be a chance of our seeing her shortly, as the sea is temporarily visible. The second wireless operator obtains his direction on our directional wireless so that we may know in what direction to look for her. All we know at the moment is that she is somewhere within 120 miles.

Captain David, in command, wishes us a safe voyage. We gaze through our glasses in her direction, but she is just over the horizon.

2 P. M.—Slight trouble with starboard amidships engine—cracked cylinder’s water-jacket. Shotter, always equal to the occasion, made a quick and safe repair with a piece of copper sheeting, and the entire supply of the ship’s chewing-gum had to be chewed by himself and two engineers before being applied.

4.30 P. M.—We are now on the Canadian summer route of steamers bound for the St. Lawrence via Belle Isle Strait and over the well-known Labrador current. There are already indications of these cold currents in the fog which hangs immediately above the surface of the water.

Harris Hurt; Not Seriously

Scott and Cooke spend much time at chart-table with protractors, dividers, stop-watches, and many navigational text-books, measuring angles of drift and calculating course made good.

Aerial navigation is more complicated than navigation on the surface of the sea, but there is no reason why when we know more about the air and its peculiarities it should not be made just as accurate.

5.00 P. M.—Harris unwisely shuts his hand on door of wireless cabin—painful but not serious. Flow of language not audible to me, as the forward engine happened to be running.

6 to 7 P. M.—We are gradually getting farther and farther into the shallow depression which was reported yesterday coming up from the South Atlantic. For the last four hours the sea has been rising and now the wind is south-southeast, forty-five miles an hour. Visibility only a half-mile. Very rough sea and torrents of rain. In spite of this the ship is remarkably steady.

Climbs Through Depression

At 8 P. M. Scott decides to climb right through it, and we evidently came out over the top of it at 3,400 feet.

8.30 P. M.—We have now passed the centre of the depression, exactly as Harris foretold. The rain has ceased and we are travelling quite smoothly again.

To the west the clouds have lifted and we see some extraordinarily interesting sky—black, angry clouds giving place to clouds of a gray-mouse color, then a bright salmon-pink clear sky, changing lower down the horizon to darker clouds with a rich golden lining as the sun sinks below the surface. The sea is not visible, and is covered by a fluffy gray feather-bed of clouds, slightly undulating and extending as far as the eye can reach. The moon is just breaking through the black clouds immediately above it.

On the east we see the black, ominous depression from which we have just emerged, while away more to the south the cloud-bed over which we are passing seems to end suddenly and merge into the horizon.

Valuable Meteorological Data

We are getting some valuable meteorological data on this flight without a doubt, and each fresh phenomenon as it appears is instantly explained by the ever-alert Harris, who has a profound knowledge of his subject.

9 P. M.—One of the engineers has reported sick—complains of feverishness.

A stowaway has just been discovered, a cat smuggled on board by one of the crew for luck. It is a very remarkable fact that nearly every member of the crew has a mascot of some description, from the engineer officer, who wears one of his wife’s silk stockings as a muffler around his neck, to Major Scott, the captain, with a small gold charm called “Thumbs up.”

We have two carrier-pigeons on board, which it has been decided not to use. Anyway, whether we release them or not, they can claim to be the first two pigeons to fly the Atlantic.

Sunrise

4.30 A. M., Friday, July 4—Wonderful sunrise—the different colors being the softest imaginable, just like a wash drawing.

7 A. M.—Height, 1,000 feet. Bright, blue sky above, thin fog partly obscuring the sea beneath us, sea moderate, big swell.

The fog-bank appears to end abruptly ten miles or so away toward the south, where the sea appears to be clear of fog and a very deep blue.

Standing out conspicuously in this blue patch of sea we see an enormous white iceberg. The sun is shining brightly on its steep sides, and we estimate it as roughly 300 yards square and 150 feet high. As these icebergs usually draw about six times as much water as their height, we wondered whether she was aground, as the depth of water at that point is only about 150 fathoms.

Another big iceberg can just be seen in the dim distance. These are the only two objects of any kind, sort, or description we have as yet seen on this journey.

8.15 A. M.

Over Large Ice-Field

Fog still clinging to the surface of the water; water evidently must be very cold. Extraordinary crimpy, wavelike appearance of clouds rolling up from the north underneath it. Harris has never seen this before. Pritchard took photograph.

On port beam there is a long stretch of clear-blue sea sandwiched in between wide expanses of fog on either side, looking just like a blue river flowing between two wide snow-covered banks. Cause—a warm current of water which prevents cloud from hanging over it. This well illustrated the rule that over cold currents of water the clouds will cling to the surface.

9 A. M.—We are now over a large ice-field and the sea is full of enormous pieces of ice—small bergs in themselves. The ice is blue-green under water, with frozen snow on top.

A message reaches us from the Governor of Newfoundland.

“To General Maitland, officers and crew, R-34:

“On behalf of Newfoundland I greet you as you pass us on your enterprising journey.

“Harris, Governor.”

Replied to as follows:

“To Governor of Newfoundland:

“Major Scott, officers and crew, R-34, send grateful thanks for kind message with which I beg to associate myself.”

“General Maitland.”

12.50 P. M.

Land Sighted by Scott

Land in sight. First spotted by Scott on starboard beam. A few small rocky islands visible for a minute or two through the clouds and instantly swallowed up again. Altered course southwest to have a closer look at them. Eventually made them out to be the north-west coast-line of Trinity Bay, Newfoundland.

Our time from Rathlin Island—the last piece of land we crossed above the north coast of Ireland—to north coast of Trinity Bay, Newfoundland, is exactly fifty-nine hours.

We are crossing Newfoundland at 1,500 feet in thick fog, which gradually clears as we get farther inland. A very rocky country with large forests and lakes, and for the most part no traces of habitation anywhere.

Message from St. John’s to say that Raynham was up in his machine to greet us. We replied, giving our position.

3 P. M.—Again enveloped in dense fog. Message from H. M. S. Sentinel giving us our position. We are making good thirty-eight or forty knots and heading for Fortune Harbor.

French Flag Dipped

4.30 P. M.—We have passed out of Fortune Harbor, with its magnificent scenery and azure-blue sea dotted with little white sailing ships, and are now over the two French islands, Miquelon and St. Pierre, and steering a course for Halifax, Nova Scotia. The French flag was flying at St. Pierre and was duly dipped as we passed over.

7.15 P. M.—Passed over tramp S. S. Seal bound for Sydney, Nova Scotia, from St. John’s, the first we have seen. 8.15 P. M.—Clear weather. Sea moderate. Making good thirty miles per hour on three engines. Northern point of Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, Just coming into sight. Lighthouse four flashes. We should make Halifax 2.30 A. M. to-morrow.

Saturday, July 5, 2.30 A. M.—Very dark, clear night. Lights of Whitehaven show up brightly on our starboard beam and we make out the lights of a steamer passing us to the east. Strong head wind against us. Making no appreciable headway.

Lansdowne Asks for Destroyer

Lieutenant-Commander Lansdowne, United States Naval Airship Service, sends signal on behalf of R-34 to United States authorities at Washington and Boston to send destroyer to take us in tow in case we should run out of petrol during the night.

The idea is we would then be towed by the destroyer during the hours of darkness, and at dawn cast off and fly to Long Island under our own power. Let us hope this won’t be necessary.

It is now raining and foggy, which is the kind of weather that suits us now, as rain generally means no wind.

3 P. M.—Passed Haute Island in Fundy Bay.

3.30 P. M.—For some little while past there had been distinct evidences of electrical disturbances. Atmospherics became very bad and a severe thunder-storm was seen over the Canadian coast, moving south down the coast. Scott turned east off his course to dodge the storm, putting on all engines. In this, fortunately for us, he was successful, and we passed through the outer edge of it. We had a very bad time, indeed, and it is quite the worst experience from a weather point of view that any of us have yet experienced in the air.

Wonderful Clouds Photographed

During the storm some wonderful specimens of cumulo-mammatus were seen and photographed. These clouds always indicate a very highly perturbed state of atmosphere and look rather like a bunch of grapes. The clouds drooped into small festoons.

7.30 P. M.—We are now in clear weather again and have left Nova Scotia well behind us and are heading straight for New York.

Particularly fine electrical-disturbance type of sunset.

9.30 P. M.—Another thunder-storm. Again we have to change our course to avoid it, and as every gallon of petrol is worth its weight in gold, it almost breaks our hearts to have to lengthen the distance to get clear of these storms.

July 6, Sunday, 4 A. M.—Sighted American soil at Chatham.

4.25 A. M.—South end of Mahoney Island. Scott is wondering whether petrol will allow him to go to New York or whether it would not be more prudent to land at Montauk.

5.30 A. M.—Passing over Martha’s Vineyard—a lovely island and beautifully wooded. Scott decided he could just get through to our landing-field at Hazelhurst Field, but that there would not be enough petrol to fly over New York. Very sad, but no alternative. We will fly over New York on start of our return journey on Tuesday night, weather and circumstances permitting.

Landed 1.54 P. M. Greenwich mean time, or 9.54 A. M. U. S. A. summer time, at Hazelhurst Field, Long Island.

Total time on entire voyage—108 hours, 12 minutes.