In 1919 when the N-C 4, the colossal flying boat built for the purpose by the American Navy, made her epoch-making flight across the ocean, there was, among many others, one great difficulty surpassing the rest, which made the task well-nigh impossible. The distance from Newfoundland to the Azores was so great that the problem of building a machine with a hull strong enough to alight safely on the waves, with a load of fuel sufficient for the journey, yet still able to lift the required weight off the water, taxed the available engineering talent to the limit. When all that had been deemed essential was put aboard, the boats were actually unable to rise into the air. Something had to be discarded. The margin of fuel above what the flight would consume was already so small that the commanding officer was unwilling to reduce it further. Therefore the emergency radio transmitter was left behind, and in consequence the N-C 3, flagship of the flight, was nearly lost with all on board. This much is history, but let us get on with our story.
In the years between 1919 and 1937, science and engineering had done wonders, but they had not lessened the number of miles between Newfoundland and the Azores, nor enabled seaplanes to fly without fuel nor to alight on ocean waves without strong hulls. The problem of flying seaplanes across the ocean under their own power was still acute. Seaplanes manufactured in the States were needed in steadily increasing numbers at the great center of naval activity in the Azores. Cargo space on ships could ill be spared for their transportation; they must transport themselves. But instead of attempting to cross the wide ocean in a single hop, they divided the journey in two stages by means of a great floating hangar midway between Newfoundland and Fayal. Thus the load of fuel required was cut in two.
This floating hangar was little more than a glorified scow with a huge sea anchor to windward and engines of just power enough to supplement this in holding her against drifting away from her station when the wind was strong. Two long arms or wings projecting to leeward from her hull enclosed a large sheltered pool, and giant plates, extending deep down under water from the flanks of these arms, broke the waves, so that even in the heaviest gales the surface of the pool was smooth enough for the planes to alight. Fuel tanks, repair shop, quarters for crew of hangar and of passing seaplanes, fast seagoing motor-boats for rescue and salvage work, and storage space for a few planes comprised the rest of the equipment.
A gray lifeless dusk was about to close in on this lonely floating station the day after Barton had called on Fraser. In a deckhouse was a sort of wardroom where were wont to gather the officers in charge and the pilots of such planes as were attached to the station or had stopped there in passing. A group of pilots was sitting round the table looking over the latest weather bulletin received by radio; this promised a clearing of the sky before morning. The sky had been overcast for two days, and the officers now began their usual custom, on such occasions, of getting up a pool with bets on the number of miles off station that the navigator would find them to be with his early morning star sights. One man bet as high as ten miles.
“That’s absurd,” said another. “They know just what the ocean currents are round here by now, and they’ve got indicators to show just what drift the old scow makes. They’re always making allowances for all that. I don’t believe we’ll be over three miles off.”
“I’m from Missouri on this dead-reckoning with a scow riding to a sea anchor, and a one-horse engine to get home with,” said the first.
“Well,” said the other, “you back your notion with your dough, and I’ll back mine. If it clears off like they say it will, we’ll see to-morrow who’s the richer for the deal.”
The skeptic rose from the table, yawned, stretched, and sauntered to the window where he looked out over the endless gray waste of water on which the leaden sky was already beginning to cast the gloom of approaching twilight.
“Gosh, what a dreary place this is!” he said. “I hope they won’t keep me stuck in this billet many weeks; the monotony of it will just about drive me silly.”
“That’s the kind of thing you’ve got to expect in war,” said another officer, older than the rest—one that was permanently attached to the floating hangar.