Learning to Fly: A Practical Manual for Beginners

by Claude Grahame-White; Harry Harper

In choosing a landing ground, as in other problems that face the novice in cross-country flying, experience will prove his safeguard. He will learn for instance that cattle or sheep, if they can be discerned below in a field, go to show that this field is one of pasture and not of crops. If no cattle are to be seen in a field, and the aviator is doubtful about it, and yet if it happens to be the only suitable one he can locate, then he may look closely at the gateway which leads into the field. If, in this gateway, he can detect such scars or markings on the ground as are caused by the feet of cattle as they walk daily in and out, he may feel satisfied the field is one of pasture.

When cattle or sheep are seen standing in a field so that they face in the same direction, this may suggest either the existence of a slope, or the presence of a strong ground wind; while a stream or brook at the edge of a stretch of open land, or a belt of woods, may suggest a sloping of the ground.

It is amusing for a pilot—or it was so, rather, in the days when few aeroplanes were in existence—to note the astonishment which his descent, made quite unexpectedly perhaps in some quiet and rural country, will occasion amongst the inhabitants. Sometimes, under the stress of such an excitement, people appear to lose for the time being their power of coherent speech. A pilot in a cross-country contest, not being sure whether he was on his right course, decided to make a landing and ask his way. He noticed, after a while, the figure of a man in a field below. Planing down, and alighting in the field, he shouted questions to this man, switching his engine off and on, while he did so, in order that his words, and those of the other, might be audible. But the man in the field, demoralised by the advent of this being from the air, and gazing at him and his machine with an expression of blank amazement, was unequal to the task of giving even the simplest directions. He waved his arms, it is true, but no words that could be understood issued from his lips. The pilot repeated his questions, but it was no good. The man waved and mouthed, and rolled his eyes, but when he tried to speak intelligibly he could not. So the aviator, loath to waste further time, accelerated his engine again and continued his flight.

As a contrast to this, there was the experience of a pilot who, after a long flight from England to the Continent, landed at length near a small village. In the next field to that in which he alighted there was a labourer, digging patiently. The aviator expected that this man would fling down his spade in excitement, and run wildly towards the aeroplane. But such was not the case. This labourer, a marvel of placidity and unconcern, merely raised his head slowly and looked across at the aircraft, and then went on with his digging.

In his first cross-country flights, being concerned chiefly as to the manipulation of his machine, and having so many things to think of, the novice may feel tired after even a short journey by air. His chief sensation, as he switches off his engine to descend towards the aerodrome he sees below him, will be one of relief that he has escaped engine failure, and that he has been able to find his way from point to point. The joy of flight, of passing swiftly thousands of feet above the earth, will have made but a small impression upon him—at any rate consciously. It will not be until the handling of his machine becomes less laborious, and he has time to accustom himself to his unique view-point, and the strangeness and beauty of the scene below him, that the novice will realise some of the fascinations of aerial travel; fascinations that it is difficult to describe. The sensation of having thrown off the bonds of earth-bound folk; of soaring above the noise and dust of highways; of being free from the obstructions of traffic; of sweeping forward smoothly, swiftly, and serenely—the land stretching below in an ever-changing panorama, with the drone of the motor in one's ears, and a wine-like exhilaration in the rush of the air: these, and others more obscure, are among the sensations of cross-country flying.

CHAPTER XI

AVIATION AS A PROFESSION

Young men, and parents on their behalf, are seeking always some profession which will yield an adequate return for the enthusiasm which youth lavishes upon it. Too often, though, at any rate in the past, this search for a man's work in life has been narrowed into ruts; conducted on certain set lines which, though they have found employment for the beginner, have given him no scope for that enthusiasm with which he will attack the first tasks presented him. Aviation, till the coming of the war, was looked at askance by parents who had sons on their hands. Apart from the risks of flying, which appeared to them ceaseless and terrible, the actual industry of building aeroplanes, regarded as an industry, seemed so haphazard and objectless an affair—so much like playing at work—that they discouraged any wish that a youth might show to enter it. Many people, these people of intelligence, regarded the building and flying of aeroplanes as being no more than a passing phase, and a regrettable one, which it was hoped men would soon abandon, and turn their attention to tasks more serious and profitable. But that was before aircraft had proved their value as instruments of war. Now it is known that aeroplanes have the power, granted they are supplied in sufficient numbers, of altering the tenor of a great campaign, both by land and sea; and that in any future war of nations, should one come, a battle between the hostile flying fleets, fought to determine the command of the air, will determine also, to a very large extent, the fortunes of armies on the land and navies on the sea. It is clear indeed that, for any great nation that strives to maintain its place, a powerful air fleet has become a necessity; while for Britain, an island no longer from the military point of view, seeing that we must face seriously the question of invasions by air, there is a vital need to strive for command of the air, as we now hold command of the sea.

The building up of our air fleet will be an arduous task, needing men, money, and time; but without it we cannot be secure. Therefore the work must be faced, the men and the money forthcoming. Aviation, as an industry, must prepare for years of strenuous work. A great air service must be created. Machines must be designed and built in thousands instead of hundreds, and men trained to fly them. Nor is this all. The aeroplane, though it has such significance as a weapon of war, is destined primarily and eventually to be an instrument of peace; a machine for the transport by air of passengers, mails, and goods, at speeds greater than will be feasible by land or water; and a craft also for the use of travellers and tourists, enabling them to make such journeys, with ease and pleasure, as will again prove impossible by land or sea. So aviation has two immense tasks ahead of it, instead of one. Not only must it create, by years of patient and determined effort, a flying service which will command the air, but craft must be designed and built also for the mail, goods, and passenger-carrying services, and to meet the needs of the aerial tourist.