For the next half hour the flight northeast was at about 2000 feet altitude and then at 600 feet. There were now numerous breaks in the clouds and occasionally ground lights could be seen from over 500 feet. After passing over the light of a small town a fairly clear space in the clouds was encountered. I pulled up to about 600 feet, released the parachute flare, whipped the ship around to get into the wind and under the flare which lit at once. Instead of floating down slowly, however, it dropped like a rock. I could see the ground for only an instant and then there was total darkness. Meantime the ship was in a steep bank, and being blinded by the intense light I had trouble righting it. An effort to find the ground with the wing lights was in vain as their glare was worse than useless in the haze.
When about ten minutes of gas remained in the pressure tank and still not the faintest outline of any object on the ground could be seen, I decided to leave the ship rather than attempt to land blindly. I turned back southwest toward less populated country and started climbing in an attempt to get over the clouds before jumping. The main tank went dry at 7:50 P.M. and the reserve twenty minutes later. The altimeter then registered approximately 14,000 feet, yet the top of the clouds was apparently several thousand feet higher. Rolling the stabilizer back, I cut out the switches, pulled the ship up into a stall and was about to go over the right side of the cockpit when the right wing began to drop. In this position the plane would gather speed and spiral to the right, possibly striking the parachute after its first turn. I returned to the controls, righted the plane and then dove over the left side of the cockpit while the air speed registered about 70 miles per hour and the altimeter 13,000 feet. The rip cord was pulled immediately after clearing the stabilizer. The Irving chute functioned perfectly. I left the ship head first and was falling in this position when the risers whipped me around into an upright position and the chute opened. The last I saw of the DH was as it disappeared into the clouds just after the chute opened. It was snowing and very cold. For the first minute or so the parachute descended smoothly and then commenced an excessive oscillation which continued for about five minutes and which could not be checked. The first indication of the nearness of the chute to the ground was a gradual darkening of the space below. The snow had turned to rain and, although the chute was thoroughly soaked, its oscillation had greatly decreased. I directed the beam from my 500 ft. spotlight downward, but the ground appeared so suddenly that I landed directly on top of a barbed wire fence without seeing it. The fence helped to break the fall and the barbs did not penetrate my heavy flying suit. The chute was blown over the fence and was held open for some time by the gusts of wind before collapsing.
After rolling the chute into its pack I started towards the nearest light. I soon came to a road, walked about a mile to the town of Covell, Ill., and telephoned a report to St. Louis. The only information I could obtain in regard to the crashed plane was from one of a group of farmers in the general store, who stated that his neighbor had heard the plane crash but could only guess at its general direction. An hour’s search proved without avail. I left instructions to place a guard over the mail in case the plane was found before I returned and went to Chicago for another ship. On arriving over Covell the next morning I found the wreck with a small crowd gathered around it, less than 500 feet back of the house where I had left my parachute the night before. The nose and the wheels had struck the ground at the same time, and after sliding along for about 75 feet it had piled up in a pasture beside a hedge fence. One wheel had come off and was standing inflated against the wall on the inside of a hog house a hundred yards further on. It had gone through two fences and the wall of the house. The wings were badly splintered, but the tubular fuselage, although badly bent in places, had held its general form even in the mail pit. The parachute from the flare was hanging on the tailskid.
There were three sacks of mail in the plane. One, a full bag from St. Louis, had been split open and some of the mail oil-soaked but legible. The other two bags were only partially full and were undamaged.
It was just about at this time, or shortly after, that I first began to think about a New York-Paris flight. But before discussing the events leading up to that flight, it might be well to say a few words about the future possibilities of commercial aviation.
In comparing aviation to other forms of transportation it should be born in mind that the flying machine has been in existence less than twenty-five years. The Wright Brothers made their first flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, in 1903. Yet in 1927 air liners are operating regularly over long distances and under all conditions.
The first airplane was a frail machine capable of operation only in good weather. Even with the utmost care, flying in the early days of aviation was a dangerous profession at best.
Today the properly operated commercial airline compares favorably in safety with any other means of transportation.
Shipping has reached its present stage after thousands of years of development. Railroads, less than a century ago, stopped their trains at night on the grounds that operation in darkness was unsafe. Automobiles, after nearly forty years of progress, are still dependent on good roads.
The airplane, in less than quarter of a century, has taken its place among the most important methods of travel and now, where time is paramount and territory inaccessible, it stands at the head of its competition.