CHAPTER XVI
ONE THOUSAND MILES OVER THE ATLANTIC
Signalling Arrangements—Temperament—A Press Tribute—The American Attempt—Just Before the Start—Parting Messages—The Start—“Poor Old Tinsydes!”—Dropping the Undercarriage—Out of Sight of Land in Ten Minutes—Over the Fog—Four Hours Above a Sea of Clouds—Grieve’s Method of Navigation—Weather Not as Forecasted—Taking the Drift through a Hole in the Clouds—400 Miles Out—Cloud Banks and a Gale—After 5½ Hours—Over-heating Radiator—What was the Cause?—The Only Possible Remedy—Is Effective at First—At 10,000 Feet—Giants of Nature 15,000 feet High—A Side-wind that Became a Gale—Flying “Crabwise”—Losing Height—Clouds, Darkness, and a Doubtful Time—Nearly Down to the Sea—Dawn—Sea-sick—Looking for a Ship—The Mary—The Rescue—Up to the Knees in the Sea—Captain Duhn—Sighting St. Hilda and the Butt of Lewis—A Famous Signal—“Is it Hawker?”—“Yes”—The Navy’s Guests—The Civic Welcome at Thurso.
CHAPTER XVI
No attempt having been made in April, the best time was expected to be between May 12th and May 19th, when the moon would be more or less full; but Harry decided not to wait in the event of conditions otherwise becoming suitable in the interim. The general idea throughout the whole of the waiting period was to make a start between 5 p.m. and 7 p.m. (Greenwich time). It was expected that the ocean would be crossed about nineteen hours later. If he was able to proceed to Brooklands according to his intention, Harry hoped to land there about 7 p.m. (Greenwich time), i.e., 8 p.m. summer time, on the day after the start.
Grieve decided to take half-hourly sights during the passage, and, if they arrived in time, smoke-bombs would be used for ascertaining the drift over the ocean and to indicate to ships the position of the aeroplane in case of emergency. The smoke-bombs were not expected to arrive before May 8th In the event of a mishap occurring at night a white parachute flare was to be used, not unlike the flares used by the Zeppelins over London, and visible for miles. The white flare was to be fired at once if the engine failed or if a forced descent from any other cause were necessary. But the white flare or a wireless “S.O.S.” was only to be used in an emergency when the need for help was very urgent. A red flare was to be used for opening up communication with a ship.
In an article on “Temperament,” published in The Morning Post on Friday, April 25th, 1919, Mr. H. Massac Buist wrote:
“Mechanical achievement has been pushed to such a pitch that endurance on the part of pilot and crew is now demanded in the highest possible degree, whereas many a brilliant aerial performance that has attracted world-wide attention in the past has made the maximum demands on nerve, but practically none at all on sheer physical endurance, as instance looping-the-loop and suchlike feats. Even in the war the average flight did not try the physical endurance of the pilot in any high degree, the strain being instead on the nerve. Of course, the requirements of the Service occasionally called for prolonged efforts, but if all the flights made from the start to the finish of the campaign are considered it will be found that the vast majority occupied less than four hours. In the Transatlantic enterprise, however, we have no competitor whose calculated speed would enable him to make the aerial journey in less than 19½ hours under the most favourable conditions.
“The Best Preparation.
“Yet it is not a matter of mere endurance, because the longest over-water flight so far projected will be attempted in most cases with machines not designed to alight on the water. In other words, on setting out, each pilot will know that his life depends on nothing less than absolute success, and is almost certainly forfeit if anything goes wrong. That realisation represents the equivalent of the strain of flying in war service, while the duration of the effort is the multiplication of the strain. But the Transatlantic enterprise will differ from war service in that the pilot himself will order himself to start, whereas in war, no matter what betide, the individual has always a realisation that a power outside himself has determined his destiny and taken responsibility off him by giving him his orders, therefore the issue is on the knees of the gods.
“Such qualifications afford the additional confidence that comes of resource. One does not, of course, mean merely that the pilot helps to rig the machine—all Service pilots are trained to that extent—or that he touches ignition or throttle lever while the engine is running through a bench test; instead, one means that the pilot one would naturally look to successfully to perform a feat of this sort, other things being equal, is a man like Harry Hawker and Sidney Pickles, who year after year before there was a war, through the war, and after it, takes a hand in the building of the experimental machines of the firm employing him and puts them through all their tests, as well as the standard products of the given firm—work which, regarded in all its phases, represents taking as big risks per annum in peace time as are taken by any soldier in war service, since in an experimental stage none can really foretell what is going to happen when the first of a new type aircraft is taken into the air.
“The Typical Australian Attitude.
“The most consistently successful types of men at this work taken over a long spell of years are perhaps those represented by a group of three young Australians, Hawker, Pickles, and Busteed, who came over here determined to realise their dreams of lives of adventure in the air on the distinct understanding that there was plenty of money in the venture. As one student of human nature remarked:
“They don’t want the Archbishop of Canterbury to hold a special service for them before they get off the ground; they are not going to die until they have done everything mortal man can to prevent it; if they do die, they will take it to be absolutely as natural a process as to be born; and, in the meantime, instead of wasting their time collecting mascots and inventing fancy names for the machines they fly they prefer to do as much of the building of them as time and opportunity allow, and they see to it that the financial side of the business is so fixed up that they will not be leaving spots of poverty behind them.
“Undoubtedly that touch of self-reliance which we associate pre-eminently with the Australian temperament will go a long way towards securing success in such efforts as the race across the Atlantic.
“Among our home-bred pilots of the same class, too, we have many men who have acquired this habit of clear-thinking in essentials, of eliminating emotionalism from their temperament, and of always taking off their shirts to get right down to their job. Occasionally a man who is not of that temperament may score a notable success; but if an eye be kept on the performance of flying feats year after year, and the average of each man’s achievement, it will be found that the man whose name for consistent achievement year after year advances with the progress of the science of flight is one with ‘no frills about him.’
“What Makes for Success.
“It is right that the thing should be so. These men follow on the lines of those masters by whose enterprise flight is alone possible. The late Wilbur Wright was a plain man, and his brother Orville remains so to this hour. They found that they had to know, and to do so much that there was no time for social life as such, even if they had had the temperament for it, which they had not.
“You do not find Hawker and Company lounging about in clubs in the intervals between their big aviation undertakings, for the sufficient reason that they give themselves no intervals of leisure, because they are always busy working for money, which they know how to look after when they get it. A result is that they never get overawed at the prospect of any one of their aerial feats. Each is to them merely part of the ordinary day’s work, imposing no more strain than any other day’s work. For instance, I recollect some years ago the effect exercised on one of the best aero engine mechanics in the country on first coming in contact with Hawker:
“‘I tell you ’ow it is with that there ’Arry ’Awker, sir; he’s my fancy for anythink every time. It’s like this: we were standin’ there down the Solent chattin’, and that there Tommy Sopwith was remarkin’ as nobody’ adn’t looped-the-loop on a seaplane, and mentioned a matter of 40 quid for the man as did it first on one of his machines. ’Awker, who was standin’ by, got ’im to confirm it; then went across to his machine and started up the engine. There wasn’t what you might call more than a couple of ’andfuls of water where it was moored; but he just bumped and splashed it into a flight, and a couple of minutes after he looped over our ’eads twice. That’s ’Arry ’Awker; no ‘alf measures, no stintin’; and it was the first time a seaplane had looped-the-loop. Then he brought ’er down and walked straight up to Tommy Sopwith, ’olding out ’is ’and for the boodle—that’s ’Arry ’Awker, too. ‘E’s there and the goods ’as to be there. I tell you, sir,‘e’s my fancy every time.’”
The fact of no attempt having been possible in April probably accounted for the comparative silence of the Press during the first days of May. The public was beginning to doubt whether the flight would be possible in the then immediate future. Nevertheless, Harry was by no means idle. Among other things, with Raynham, he was busy looking for a more suitable starting-ground, but, as most of the country was under the plough, their efforts met with no success. Meanwhile, the Americans were rapidly completing arrangements to make their now famous attempt to cross the ocean, via the Azores, in three flying-boats, with the aid of several warships as guides and refuges in case of emergency. These machines made their start at 10 p.m. (Greenwich time) on May 16th, but Harry was still delayed by weather on that day. The American route bore distinctly southward, whereas the British route was slightly northward.
When Lieut.-Com. Read in one of the American seaplanes had reached the Azores, and so accomplished two-thirds of his journey across the ocean, Harry and Raynham felt keenly that the blue riband of aerial navigation was slipping not only from their hands but also from Great Britain. Nevertheless, they were wise enough to know that to throw precaution to the winds was to court disaster and so yield to the rival nation. The last four days before Harry’s start were very trying for him under such circumstances. He was continually in touch with the weather office, only to hear of raging storms on his route and fair weather on the Azores route. At one time he seriously contemplated also flying to the Azores, but the difficulty of the petrol supply ruled this out.
In spite of many preoccupations, Harry and Grieve passed a few hours of the last few days of their sojourn at St. Johns by indulging in motor-drives, while Raynham played golf and Morgan kept watch on the weather bureau.
The Start
On the morning of the 18th there came a change. The Atlantic was brought out of her hangar, the petrol tanks were quickly and carefully filled, every drop being passed through a perfectly clean strainer. Oil and water tanks were filled and the machine thoroughly looked over and the engine tested. While Harry busied himself with such operations Grieve was seeing that all maps, charts, flares, smoke-bombs, and other impedimenta were in order. The mail bag having been divided between Harry and Raynham, the letter from the Governor of Newfoundland to His Majesty, the one from the Prime Minister of Newfoundland to the Rt. Hon. D. Lloyd George, and another from the people of Newfoundland to the people of England, fell to Harry’s lot to be carried. In addition to letters for Lord Northcliffe, the Daily Mail, the Daily Express, and others, he also had a letter from the French Consul to be delivered to the French Ambassador in London. He was also entrusted with the medal of the American Joan of Arc Statue Society, for delivery to the British Museum. Some dates, chocolates, and a flask of brandy for use in emergency were included in the commissariat sufficient for three days.
Harry arrived at the final decision to start not only for the reason that the weather was better, although not perfect, but also because owing to the progress made by the American flying-boats there was a likelihood of his missing a chance of getting a British machine over first. The moon was well on the wane, and any further delay would probably have meant another matter of weeks. One American machine was already known to have reached the Azores, and reports were current to the effect that two others had as well. The night before starting Harry and Raynham both agreed to set out if the weather looked at all promising, and on the morrow they received fewer weather reports than on any previous occasion.
At 3.5 p.m. Harry and Grieve were getting into their flying clothes. Ten minutes later Harry waved his arm and the chocks were pulled away. As he sped down the field he heard the rising cheers of the spectators, which were soon drowned by the engine’s roar.
Before leaving, Harry was feeling particularly confident. “I have a perfect machine for the trip,” he said, “and the engine is the best in the world. I am confident that we shall get across. The great problem is to find Ireland, but I have every confidence in Grieve.” Grieve’s parting message to friends assembled about the machine was, “See you in London.”
Speaking of landing without the undercarriage, Harry said, “I expect to make a perfectly good landing, and have no fear of badly crashing the machine.”
It will be remembered that Harry had changed his propeller. He believed that the four-bladed type put an undue strain on the engine. Furthermore, without the landing chassis the machine would land on running skids integral with the base of the fuselage. Assuming he could land with the two blades horizontal it was conceivable he could land and do no damage at all, whereas with four blades the propeller would be bound to fracture and possibly lead to other damage.
Harry considered the question of weight to be of the utmost importance. Before starting he lifted Grieve’s bag and enquired whether he could not dispense with his pyjamas, as he would have a long sleep at the end of his journey.
Harry and Grieve boarded the machine without feeling in the least bit “nervy.” After getting into his seat, Harry asked, “How about old Tinsydes? Tell Raynham I’ll greet him at Brooklands.”
At 6.48 p.m. summertime (5.51 Greenwich or 3.15 St. Johns) on Sunday, May 18th, 1919, Harry and Grieve set out to cross the Atlantic from St. Johns to Ireland, and, if possible, to Brooklands, in a single non-stop flight. The weather conditions had been reported to be fairly good all the way across the ocean, and the days had been lovely at St. Johns for over a week. Visiting the Meteorological Office at noon, Harry remarked, “Hang the weather! I go this afternoon, though it leads me to the Pacific.” Three hours later they were completing the final preparations, after having lunched at Glendinning’s Farm with some local friends. At 3.15 p.m., having warmed up the engine, Harry opened up and sped down the starting slope at Mount Pearl for the last time. He covered almost the whole length of the ground before rising, and only just cleared the fence at the lower end. It was only by exercising more skill than is usually required in starting that he was able to keep the machine straight while going over the not too even ground. As it was, he took off in a direct line.
Everything at the start went well, as Harry intended it should. Getting off the ground was necessarily difficult, as owing to the direction of the wind and the dimensions of the ground it was essential to steer a diagonal course over the aerodrome.
During the run of 300 yards the machine lurched hazardously, bumping over the field until it struck a hummock and lifted. The wings took the air at a low swinging start, but did not swerve a hair’s breadth from the chosen course.
Three minutes later Harry was soaring above the western outskirts of St. Johns, climbing steadily the while. With the sun shining on her wings, the aeroplane Atlantic was a glorious sight for those who had the good fortune to see her from below. Steering a steady course, ascending E.N.E., Harry passed over Pleasantville Lake and Raynham’s aerodrome at Quidi Vidi at 2,000 feet, six miles from the start. Looking down, he could see Raynham and his machine surrounded by a big crowd of townsfolk.
Harry remarked, “Look at old Tinsydes with a crowd round him!” To which Grieve, who was too preoccupied to look, replied, “We’ve got the bulge on him.”
They continued on over Bolands Hill, a rocky promontory 600 feet high separating St. Johns from the open Atlantic, where Harry could plainly discern a dozen white mountains—icebergs—having no terrors for this ship of the air. At 1,500 feet above Bolands Hill, having decided that all was well, he slipped the undercarriage. So lessened in load by four hundredweight, and with diminished air resistance, the Atlantic began to climb with appreciably greater speed. Five minutes later she was about 4,000 feet up, flying eastward, steady as a rock, and just passing out of sight of those who were watching with powerful glasses. As the undercarriage was being projected earthwards by gravity, Harry thought of the stimulating effect it would have on Raynham.
As the machine passed out of sight of land at 3.35 p.m., about ten minutes from the start, the signalman at the marine lookout on the hills above St. Johns reported that it was flying in a north-easterly direction.
When the start was made at Mount Pearl the weather was perfect, at any rate locally, although a fog-bank at sea was visible. There was a light north-westerly wind and a cloudless sky locally. The conditions were described by Harry as “not yet favourable, but possible.”
The machine climbed very well, and after about ten minutes, when it passed out of sight of land, Harry encountered the thick fog of the Newfoundland Banks. Fortunately they had no difficulty in climbing above this, although naturally they lost sight of the sea, a circumstance which was, if anything, a little disconcerting. Above them the sky was clear. Grieve just managed to get one drift reading before they passed out of sight of the breaking waves.
For the first four hours after leaving St. Johns the clouds and fog above which they passed were level-topped like a sea and gave a perfect horizon for the celestial observations on which Grieve’s navigation depended.
The following account of the process of navigating the machine was given to The Daily Mail before the start by Grieve:
“Navigation of aircraft across the Atlantic must necessarily be of the rough and ready type, but as it is of vital necessity to ensure success every means must be taken of finding one’s position and making most use of the air currents met with.
“Of course the machine might get across by steering a compass course, allowing for the various winds, supplied from the limited knowledge of the meteorologists. But few reports of the surface winds are available, leaving large spaces on the chart of the weather in which conditions can only be guessed, while the upper air currents are absolutely unknown.
“Should the navigator allow for a beam wind of 30 miles an hour when the opposite exists he will be 60 miles out of his reckoning at the end of one hour, and soon altogether out of the weather system he is expecting on the direct route.
“The only method of checking positions and finding the course and speed made good over the sea is by astronomical observations and obtaining the positions by wireless from ships en route. In the latter case the ships keep regular narrow lanes and may not be met with, as it would be virtually impossible to keep in their track, and unless one should pass over them and be seen by them their positions would be valueless.
“My intention is to rely chiefly on astronomical positions which I shall obtain by sextant and work out by a diagram invented by my instructor, Commander Baker. The altitude of the sun, taken about every hour, will give me a line of position at the time of the observation. When the sun is on the prime vertical the line of position will be the longitude; when on the meridian the latitude. At other times two observations at a good interval, with the run in that time, will give me a position. To obtain this run the ‘drift’ must be known, and I hope to get this by dropping smoke-bombs by day and light-bombs by night and observing the true path of the machine past them through the ‘drift’ indicator.
“For night work I have a diagram to facilitate working the sights of six stars, each of which, in combination with the Pole Star, or each with the other, in certain conditions, will give me a good position. The chief difficulty in getting astronomical positions will be to see the necessary horizon. Should it be visible it will be necessary to know the dip of it, which is approximately the square root of the height of the machine obtained by the altimeter, an instrument in the cockpit indicating the height in feet above the sea-level.
“If I am above the clouds I must judge the height above them and use them for my horizon, which will give useful, if only approximate, results. As a matter of fact, the whole navigation must be considered as an approximation, but as Ireland is large and there are no dangers in the air to keep clear of, I do not anticipate any serious difficulty in making a landfall, given good conditions.”
As regards the weather during the flight, it was not at all as they expected. They anticipated a north-easterly wind for a short way out, backing to the north-west, with a small depression, on the south side of which they expected to pass and thereby get into favourable winds, first westerly and then south-westerly, as they approached Ireland. In actual fact they encountered northerly winds.
At about 7 o’clock Greenwich time, about an hour after the start, the sea was visible through a hole in the fog for just a few seconds. They were then at 4,000 feet and climbing. Grieve, by observing the breaking waves through the drift indicator, was able to calculate the drift of the machine as 10 degrees to the right of their course, precisely the same as when he made his previous calculations just before they passed above the fog.
Until 10.15 p.m. Greenwich time they steered a true east course, not magnetic east. Meanwhile Grieve took sights every half hour, and at 10.15 he estimated that they were 400 miles from St. Johns and had maintained an average speed of 91 miles per hour. They reckoned to be then in the track of the steamships, to keep to which the course was altered to North 73 East true.
The visibility became very bad. In front and to the right and left, above and below, were heavy cloud-banks which formed dark, ominous gorges, or chasms, through which they flew, feeling very, very small and insignificant in comparison with such giants of Nature. That the prospects were not bright was soon proved when they drove into a heavy storm with rainsqualls. A strong northerly gale drove them steadily out of their course and the dense masses of cloud impeded accurate navigation.
It was a lucky stroke of fortune that the engine and all other vital components of the machine survived this bad weather during this early stage as they advanced into night skies.
After flying for five and a half hours, Harry noticed that the temperature of the cooling water in the radiator began to rise. The effect of this, while not appreciable at the moment, was likely to be complex unless the cause, some defect in the circulation, could be remedied. It was, of course, impossible for either Harry or Grieve actually to inspect the likely source of the trouble, and any effort to eliminate it had to be made, if at all possible, by manœuvring the machine.
It was about 11 p.m. Greenwich time (i.e., midnight, summer time) when the defect became apparent. Grieve was busy taking sights while Harry was piloting and watching. The clouds were now exceptionally thick, and Harry recalled that he had only once seen the sea since he was ten minutes’ distant from St. Johns. And he had now been flying for just on six hours.
The moon had not yet risen and it was well-nigh impossible to discern anything. Flying at 10,000 feet, Harry could just make out innumerable clouds, many of them terrible, ominous-looking peaks extending upwards to about 15,000 feet. Having to go round the clouds, it was difficult to steer a good course, and he could not really afford to waste time and petrol in making any deviations from a truly straight course. Furthermore, he and Grieve, side-by-side, were feeling not too comfortable bodily. The cane ring forming the neck of Harry’s suit, which kept his neck free, was jumping about. Grieve frequently had to replace it, and his fingers became frost-bitten, as it could not be done with gloves on. Otherwise they did not suffer from cold, although it was freezing hard. As they forged ahead the temperature of the water in the radiator rose from 168 degrees F. to 176 degrees F. in the space of a few minutes. At the latter temperature it stayed practically constant for a couple of hours or more.
It was at 1.30 a.m. that they realised the great extent of their drift owing to the strong north wind. Taking sights regularly had become impossible owing to the clouds having broken up and ceased to provide a level horizon. Grieve managed to get a Pole Star down to a flat piece of cloud, and discovered with no little surprise that they were about 150 miles south of their intended course. Harry therefore turned more northward to counteract this drift. Nevertheless, half an hour later they were still drifting southward and not making their course, and so, realising that the strength of the gale must be terrific, they had to force the machine still more northward up to latitude 50 degrees and into the track of the ships.
Harry was somewhat concerned when Grieve told him that their drift was equivalent to a side wind of 20 miles per hour, but this did not deter him from sticking to the job. The effect of a strong side wind would of course mean having to travel “crabwise” in order to keep to the course, a proceeding which must lessen their forward speed.
Both pilot and navigator came to the decision that there must be a cause for this abnormally high temperature in the radiator, which persisted, and, if it continued, was likely to jeopardise their chances of success, owing to all the water being ultimately boiled away. Harry, having concluded that some obstruction had got into the water-filter between the radiator and the water-pumps, knew that the only possible means of removing it was by switching off the engine and diving down steeply in the hope that this would clear the refuse in the filter. This he actually did, and the result was for the time being successful.
But after another hour, by which time they were about 800 miles out from St. Johns, the trouble recurred. The weather was still no better and the clouds very high. Repeatedly Harry switched off and dived, but the obstruction would not clear itself now. Every such dive entailed losing several hundred feet in height, and it is not surprising, therefore, that they gave up the diving process. Each time, after climbing, the water began to boil; and so after getting to 12,000 feet they agreed to maintain that altitude for the latter half of the journey. These episodes of the choking radiator had not yet given them to doubt their being successful in making the crossing. They had got above most of the clouds now, and, with the moon coming well up, they could keep a good course. The fact that by closing the throttle a little they were able to nurse the engine and keep the water from boiling, although done at the expense of a little speed, ensured for them every confidence that all would be well. Thus, with the engine throttled, they cruised along at a constant height of 12,000 feet for about four hours more until they came up against more of those very, very high black clouds significant of unknown, unexplored wastes of the Atlantic vault. They had encountered a depression which had travelled north from the Azores.
So thick were these new clouds that it was almost impossible to get between them. They extended upwards to an altitude of 15,000 feet, 3,000 feet higher than the machine, and the only thing to be done was to get above them.
Once, twice, thrice did Harry try to get above those clouds; and as many times steam belched forth ominously from the radiator and was turned to ice. The radiator trouble having thus prevented a very necessary and desirable manœuvre that would otherwise have been possible, Harry could only go down into the abyss and find the bottom of the enveloping clouds. Incidentally, the glide gave the water system an opportunity to cool down.
Having glided down to about 6,000 feet, they entered an even darker region than that from which they had just descended, due, of course, to the presence of more clouds above them cutting off the light.
Climbing being out of the question, down they went to 1,000 feet only above the water before they could see to fly. While they dived through the clouds their engine was stopped, and when Harry opened up the throttle it refused to restart. Only when they were within a few feet of the water did it pick up by a lucky chance after Harry had given up hope of its recovery. In fact Harry had hit Grieve on the head to warn him to desist from pumping-up, which might result in his suffering a broken arm when they struck the water. At that moment the engine started. It was a very narrow escape. There they were greeted by those delightful signs of the sun just getting up, one of the real joys of Nature which has delighted the eyes of most flying-men. Again they set their course, but that water would not be kept from boiling. It was then that they agreed to “play for safety,” as Harry himself expressed it.
At 5 a.m. two stars enabled Grieve to determine their position as being directly on their course and about 950 miles from St. Johns, representing an average speed of about 85 miles per hour. No more sights were possible, owing to the clouds and the approach of daylight. When they came down low to look for ships about 6 a.m. their position was estimated by Grieve as 50 degrees north, 29 degrees 30 minutes west; and they pursued a more northerly course to get well on to the steamship route.
The hour of dawn was the one hour in twenty-four in which flying always seemed to hold the greatest charm for Harry, as indeed I believe it always has done for most aviators; and on this occasion, after having flown through a black night above one desolate waste whose secrets may never be unfolded and ahead into another which had never before been explored by man, as one can well appreciate, Harry was overjoyed on beholding the first signs of the dawn of May 19th, 1919. That he and Grieve almost immediately began to have an eye for the refuge of a ship only goes to prove the serious nature of the radiator trouble. But for those high clouds which, coupled with the doubtful cooling system, had forced them to yield most of their advantageous height, they might have been able to continue on further than they did at a moderate cruising speed with the engine throttled. But although they covered almost two-thirds of the journey, the chance of their being able to complete it under any circumstances had become practically negligible owing to the loss of water due to several hours of overheating.
Mentally both Harry and Grieve were comfortable, but an attack of seasickness upset Harry a bit. While flying a couple of miles above the dark ocean they did not attempt to probe in their minds the secrets of regions four, five, perhaps six miles below them. Even had they done so, such thoughts could scarcely have had a demoralising effect on souls like theirs. The fallibility of a machine, against which no man can have absolute insurance, was all that robbed them of the joy of completing their intention. Theirs was a successful failure, and beyond perhaps additional monetary reward (which to Harry was never an unimportant consideration), had they had the good fortune to make the direct flight, I do not believe they would have commanded one iota more respect than they did when they returned to the world at large, as from the dead.
They decided to fly diagonally south-east and then south-west across their course to see if they could find a ship, knowing that they would be unable to go on indefinitely boiling away the water. For two and a half hours they carried out these tactics, in sight of the very rough ocean and with their machine pitched and rolled about by a tempestuous north-east wind described by Harry as “half a gale.” There were heavy rainsqualls, between which were clear spaces in which Harry endeavoured to keep. But these spaces became smaller and finally visibility had almost gone. At last Harry’s eyes were gladdened by the sight of a ship close to them on the left. Both the ship and the aeroplane were more or less in the fog, with low clouds above, and Harry and Grieve were almost over the ship before they saw her. At a height of 400 feet they flew alongside, firing three Vérey lights as signals of distress.
While flying so low down between the rough sea and low clouds the Atlantic was bumped about very badly. As Grieve said, “It was like being in a small motor-boat in a heavy sea.”
It was at about 6 o’clock on the Monday morning that the second mate and the helmsman of the Mary sighted the aeroplane. The sea was rough and a stiff breeze was blowing, and the conditions for launching a boat were getting worse instead of better. So much so, in fact, that Captain Duhn did not think he could have saved them an hour later.
Harry was very cheered when he first saw the Mary, for he had been looking about for a ship for over two hours and had been violently seasick the while. Grieve also was thankful and relieved when he saw the ship.
The machine floated well. The engines held the air, as well as the spaces in the petrol tanks and the wings.
They flew to and fro above the ship several times until they saw men on deck, after which they went ahead about two miles and made a very good “landing,” although a heavy sea was running, with waves about 12 feet high which swept over the wings intermittently. Apart from waves breaking over it, the machine floated well on an even keel and was generally well out of the water. As they saw the steamer approaching they released their lifeboat in case the aeroplane should break up and sink, as it showed signs of doing. Their life-saving suits kept them more or less dry while the crew of the Mary were putting out their boat, which operation took fully an hour and a half. The vessel was only about two hundred yards from the aeroplane.
After they touched the water, Harry and Grieve found themselves standing in the cockpit, up to their knees in water.
Waves were “sloshing” under the upper planes of the machine, the nose of which was heading into the wind. Sometimes waves dashed right over the top planes. Harry was indeed amused by the sight of the first big wave striking the under-surface of the top plane, which until then had been dry and shining. It lifted them right out of the water, and the trailing edge of the top plane broke away completely. The sun was hazy, and low driving clouds were prevalent. Having launched their own little boat in case they should need it in the event of the Atlantic going under, they spent the interim until their rescue in discussing as to the possibility of the Mary having appliances whereby they could salve the aeroplane.
After much difficulty the boat succeeded in reaching them, and they were taken aboard and the boat was drawn to the Mary by a line. It was impossible for them to salve anything from the aeroplane, and they arrived on board the Mary, which rolled heavily, without boots or caps, and Grieve without a coat. They were exceedingly sorry to have to leave valuable instruments and mail on board the Atlantic.
As the ship’s boat came up to them it banged heavily into the aeroplane and they hopped aboard at once. The Mary slung out a rope with which they were hauled to her. Grieve, being a naval man, was spokesman when they first got on board. He went on the bridge and asked Captain Duhn if he could salve the machine. Captain Duhn regretted he could not, and remarked on their narrow escape. Grieve’s log was washed from his pocket while they were in the water, with the exception of one page of rough notes. The Mary was on a course from the Gulf of Mexico to Pentland Firth, and was crossing the main steamship route, which is only a few miles broad.
The total distance over which they had flown without a stop was approximately 1,050 miles at an average speed of about 80 miles per hour, approximately the distance which Harry covered in stages at a much lower speed in the Round-Britain Seaplane Circuit in 1913.
Altogether, before being picked up, they had been 14½ hours out from Newfoundland, it being 8.30 a.m. on Monday, Greenwich time (9.30 summer time), when they boarded the Mary. There they met Captain Duhn, whose English was good. He told them he had feared they would sink before his boat could pick them up. As they went on the bridge with him, he said, “Another hour and you would have gone down.” He thought Harry and Grieve were Americans, and seemed very nonchalant. As Harry said, “We were struck by the casual manner in which he took the whole business, as if it were an everyday affair to take airmen out of the Atlantic.” Naturally the first enquiries, Harry and Grieve made were as to their bearings and the likelihood of their meeting a ship that day or the next and being in the main route of shipping. The Mary carried no wireless and they were anxious to let friends know of their safety. When they went on board, Captain Duhn considered there were good prospects of seeing a ship with wireless at any moment. But as the day wore on the storm increased in violence and they had to heave to, only making about a knot in a northerly direction. This course took them away from the shipping route and lessened their chances of being able to communicate.
Neither Harry nor Grieve were the slightest bit excited either at the start or when rescued. As Harry put it: “When we started we felt it was a ‘cert’—100 to 1 on.” And Grieve, “We had been waiting so long, we felt callous about the whole thing.” They were pretty well “done up” when they got on board, and feeling seasick, in preference to taking food they had a good sleep. Grieve woke up first and went on the bridge.
Grieve’s seat was not absolutely side-by-side with Harry’s, but was just a little behind, Harry’s left shoulder being in front of his navigator. Grieve was thereby able to move about to the extent of kneeling down to look at the drift indicator, to stand up to take observations, or to move forward a little for working the wireless. This probably accounted to some extent for Harry being in need of sleep, since he had not had such freedom to move about.
Captain Duhn thought they were Americans—in fact Harry jokingly remarked that he rather thought Captain Duhn was a little disappointed that they were not. Harry told the Captain he would like the opportunity of making another attempt, and he pointed out the advantage the Americans had over him in the shorter oversea distances and the assistance of the American warships, although he personally would not have appreciated such assistance, which detracted from the value of the performance. When they had rested and made themselves “at home,” Harry and Grieve passed away much of their time on board reading English books which Captain Duhn had.
Photo by]
[Newspaper Illustrations, Ltd.
HARRY AND GRIEVE LEAVING BUCKINGHAM PALACE AFTER HAVING BEEN DECORATED BY THE KING. ALTHOUGH A CIVILIAN, HARRY RECEIVED THE FIRST AIR FORCE CROSS—A SERVICE DECORATION.
[Facing p. 244.
On Sunday morning, May 25th, almost one week after starting, they sighted St. Kilda and later on the Butt of Lewis, when communication with the mainland became possible. It was a beautiful morning, with the sea as smooth as ever off this exposed coast. Shortly after 10 o’clock, heading for the Butt of Lewis, Captain Duhn, after running up signal flags reading “Mary,” began sounding the syren. With the weather so fine as it was, this could not but attract the attention of the coastguards. As the vessel drew nearer the shore, Captain Duhn, acting on Harry’s instructions, ran up the signal, “Communicate by Wire,” which had the desired effect of intimating to the coastguards, Chief officer William Ingham and Leading Seaman George Harding, that an important message would follow which they must transmit to headquarters by telegraph. The next signal run up was the international signal for “Saved Hands,” and this was then replaced by the symbol indicating that the following signals would be spelt. Up went the flags “S.O.P.,” followed by “A.E.R.” and after another interval by “O.P.L.,” and finally “A.N.E.” It was when they received the last syllable that the coast-guardsmen were thrilled with the knowledge that they had good news of men whom the world had given up as lost. Having delivered this message, Captain Duhn put out to sea, again, and was just going beyond signalling range when he saw on shore the flags asking “Is it.” Returning towards the shore, he read, “H-A-W-K-E-R.” Up went his reply, “Yes.” The form of signal was made out by Grieve, who was conversant with the code.
Off Loch Erribel the Mary was met by the British destroyer Woolston, sent out from Scapa Flow by Admiral Fremantle to take them aboard. Harry and Grieve therefore bade farewell to Captain Duhn and thanked him for the great kindness they had received at his hands. Captain Duhn described Harry and Grieve as a couple of unusually amiable and pleasant fellows in whose company it was a pleasure to be.
Harry and Grieve did not converse a great deal during the flight, although the noise from the engine was comparatively quiet, most of it being carried away behind them through a long exhaust-pipe. Their conversation was mostly carried on by signs. Grieve would hold up the vacuum flask when he wanted to know if Harry required a drink. They had an inter-communicating telephone, which they rarely used. As Grieve put it, they were too busy to talk much.
Sometimes they communicated by writing. One of Grieve’s messages read, “We didn’t have much to spare taking-off,” referring, of course, to their only just clearing the boundary of the starting-ground at Mount Pearl. He wrote all the compass bearings during the flight and held them up for Harry to read. Grieve used the clouds for his horizon simply because they saw more clouds than sea. In fact, with one exception it was nothing but clouds until they were forced down almost to the water during the last two or three hours. But the weather did not hinder them, and Harry was convinced that but for the radiator trouble he would have won through.
Speaking after the flight of their means of communication with ships, Grieve said that the first wireless fitted was tried during their test flight at St. Johns, when the exciter of the generator burnt out owing to the too great speed of the small windmill or air-driven “propeller.” They therefore had to discard this set, which they replaced at once by a small “Boy Scout” plain aerial set, designed to give a radius of about 25 miles. Their long wait at St. Johns gave them time to receive from England a new set slightly different from the original one, and more powerful than the “Boy Scout” set, for it had a range of 250 miles. They were unable to give this a preliminary test in the air, however, because they preferred not to risk any more test flights on such a small aerodrome as they had. When they got in the air they found the spark to be very feeble, and only a small ampèrage could be raised, owing to the windmill or “propeller” in this case being too small. Nevertheless, they felt they had enough power in their transmitter to communicate with any ships within moderate range, and they tapped out messages every half hour, with the object of letting the outside world know that they were still in the air. But no acknowledgment of these messages was ever received during or after the flight. When the engine was throttled down, during the last few hours to keep the temperature of the water as low as possible under the adverse circumstances in which it was circulating, the speed of the machine was not enough to drive the wireless windmill.
Nevertheless, the S.O.S. call was tapped out at intervals of 15 minutes in case the spark should happen to operate. Fortunately Grieve never intended to rely on the wireless for navigating purposes other than to check positions occasionally by communicating with any ships which they might pass above. Previously to the flight, ships were asked by wireless from St. Johns to make known their position in the event of their seeing an aeroplane by day or a red Vérey light at night. Harry and Grieve saw no vessel other than the Mary, and therefore fired no lights until then. Ships that reported having seen red lights in the sky before then probably saw the red glow from the exhaust-pipe of the machine as she passed in the night in and out between the clouds.
Exactly half the petrol carried, 170 gallons, was used, an equal amount remaining in the tanks when the machine took the water.
One of the conclusions arrived at by Grieve was that future navigation in the air undoubtedly lies with directional wireless, once that is perfected.
They spent Sunday night, a week after their romantic departure from St. Johns, on Admiral Fremantle’s flagship, H.M.S. Revenge, and on Monday morning, having received an Admiralty pass to London, they transferred to the destroyer F.O.8, which took them from Scapa Flow to Thurso in about 45 minutes. It being low tide, it was impossible for the destroyer to go into harbour, and so Harry and Grieve were rowed ashore by half-a-dozen bluejackets, once again to set foot on home soil at Scrabster Pier, whence the late Lord Kitchener had departed on his ill-fated voyage in the Hampshire. The sun shone gloriously, and away in the distance could be discerned the blue outline of the Orkneys.
As they reached the landing-stage cheer upon cheer rolled forth from those who had assembled to meet them. Provost and Mrs. MacKay, with members of the Thurso Town Council, several naval officers and men, and townsfolk, had motored out to Scrabster, where everybody and everything was en fête. Provost MacKay was the first to greet Harry and Grieve. Addressing them, he said:
“Mr. Hawker, in the name of the people of Thurso I offer you and Commander Mackenzie-Grieve a welcome, not only to Thurso, but to the shores of Britain. Throughout the length and breadth of the land, and of every land, to-day the news of your safe deliverance is ringing, and hearts everywhere are rejoicing. It is true that you have not achieved what you so gallantly set out for, but to-day you need not worry over that, because you have indeed achieved great things. The names of Hawker and Grieve will live for ever in the annals of Atlantic flight. You have brought a new lustre to the daring, the endurance, and the intrepid spirit of our race. Your countrymen greet you warmly and proudly as heroic pioneers and sportsmen. From the moment of your departure from St. Johns the world has been on tension for news of you; expectation gave way to anxiety, and then anxiety to gloom, but happily all fears and forebodings are to-day dispelled. The world-wide joy over your pluck and safety is so great because the sense of relief is so great. It was at this landing-stage that Lord Kitchener said farewell to the land he loved, and now we shall also know it and mark it as the place of wonderful welcome to two brave sons of Empire.”
Harry, on behalf of Grieve and himself, expressed his heartfelt thanks for this warm greeting, with the modesty and brevity which were so characteristic of him on such occasions. Provost MacKay then introduced the members of the Town Council and other Thursonians, after which Mrs. MacKay invited them to her house for luncheon, an invitation which they were happy to accept.
In the Provost’s car they drove through the beflagged streets, where many people, including parties of bluejackets, had foregathered. At North Bank House they enjoyed a quiet luncheon with Provost and Mrs. MacKay, Sir Archibald and Lady Sinclair, of Ulbster, and the senior naval officer, Lieut. Weir, and his wife. They were feeling very fit and their complexions were sunburnt. Briefly Harry recounted their experiences, telling of the cloud-banks, the clogged radiator pipe, the descent nearly to the water, the rough seas and tempestuous winds, and the sighting of the Mary and their gallant rescue.
Harry and Grieve were much amused by some of the newspapers which Provost MacKay showed them, containing their obituary notices. Grieve was particularly touched by a photograph purporting to be that of his wife, for he was not married! Before driving to the station Harry and Grieve spoke of the warmth of the hospitality they had received, not only at Thurso, but also at Scapa on the previous evening with the Grand Fleet.
During the luncheon, crowds assembled outside Provost MacKay’s residence, and at the station Thurso had never before seen such a throng. Cheers were ringing on all sides, handshakes, cameras, and autograph books were the order of the day. Thurso was en fête as never before.