The Aeroplane

by Claude Grahame-White; Harry Harper

Fig. 90.—Construction of a
Monoplane wing.

Returning to an inspection of [Plate XIII], one may observe, immediately behind the men who are working upon the wing-frame, two completed floats for a hydro-aeroplane; while behind these there is a workbench; and in the far distance, the hull and the centre wing-sections of a craft under construction. To the right of the centre work-table may be seen a man seated at a sewing machine; he is busy with the lengths of fabric which will cover the wooden framework of the wings. Upon the extreme left of the photograph, partly completed and in the form of a girder construction of wood, is the body of an aeroplane. Put together scientifically and from sections of wood specially tested, a remarkable strength may be obtained by such a method of building. [Fig. 91] shows how a girder aircraft body, supported by trestles only at its ends, may support from its centre, without yielding, a tray containing a number of heavy weights.

Fig. 91.—Testing the girder-built body of an aircraft.

When the wings of a machine are ready and have been sheathed with their fabric, and when its hull and chassis have been built, it finds its way into the assembling shop. The motor is bolted in its framework, the propeller fitted, and the whole construction receives a final overhaul. And then one morning it is wheeled out upon the aerodrome—its planes spotless and gleaming in the sun—and is tested for the first time in flight. In many cases, so great has been the progress in aeroplane building, that a new machine will do just what its designer intended it should; there is no longer any doubt as to the craft’s ability to take the air. But minor adjustments have usually to be made, none the less, before a machine is delivered to its purchaser; and in the case of a war machine, bought, say, for the Admiralty or the Army, it needs to perform—prior to being taken over—a series of special tests. It must show that it can ascend rapidly and fly at a certain speed, and it must raise a specified weight of fuel, in addition to that of its pilot and passenger. The War Office has prepared a list of its requirements for military machines of different types; and aeroplane builders, if they plan craft for Government acceptance, must be prepared to submit them to the trials arranged. A light scouting machine, when it is tested, must be able to lift its pilot and fuel sufficient for a flight of 300 miles, and it needs to vary its speed from 30 to 85 miles an hour. Larger machines, built for scouting, have to carry the weight of a pilot and observer and 80 lbs. of wireless apparatus; while a craft to be used in fighting must raise—in addition to its crew—the weight of a gun and ammunition; this is estimated to represent 300 lbs.

What the maker usually does, when a craft intended for the Government has been built and given a preliminary testing, is to send it by way of the air either to Farnborough, where the Royal Aircraft Factory is situated, or to Eastchurch, in the Isle of Sheppey, where the Royal Naval Air Service has its headquarters. Then, with the pilot employed by the firm at its levers, and some military or naval airman as his passenger, the machine is subjected to its trials; and if it fails, say, to rise fast enough, or lifts an insufficient weight, it is returned to its constructor to be adjusted and improved. With sea-planes, naturally, there are tests upon the water, both as to a craft’s ability to rise and descend.

Apart from the factory, or factories, upon a modern aerodrome, there are the offices of the company which controls it; and in addition the sheds of various firms which, renting accommodation from the owners of the ground, are operating flying schools or experimenting with new machines. So that a day spent at an aerodrome, and particularly at such grounds as Hendon or Brooklands, is never for a moment dull. Even when there is no air-racing, a fund of interest may be found in the doings at the sheds; while on those days when a programme of contests is carried out, and racing craft are “banking” round the pylons, there is so much to be seen that a spectator becomes almost bewildered. Air-racing, as made popular by the proprietors of the Hendon aerodrome, forms so fascinating a sight that, on a day of public holiday, as many as 50,000 people will assemble in the enclosures.

To stand near one of the pylons—wooden towers which mark the turning-points of the course—and see the air-racers come rushing by, is to gain such an impression of speed as almost makes the watcher hold his breath. The pilot in a flying race has one chief aim: to fly the shortest way. Every fraction of a second is of importance; and if he can circle the pylons more skilfully than his rivals, he may win the race, even though his machine—in its actual speed—may be no faster than theirs. So a flying race, from the moment the timekeeper waves his flag and the machines leap from the starting line, is a contest of sheer nerve and skill. To fly a winning course, upon a high-powered craft, requires, indeed, a judgment that is exceptional. Towards each of the mark-towers, hurtling through the air at perhaps 100 miles an hour or more, comes the airman with a roar and rush. Peering above his screen, in the fierce wind-blast, he seeks to gauge distance and speed; and here, if ever there was one, is a crucial test of airmanship. The pilot knows that, if he would hope to win the race, he must pass as close to each tower as his skill can take him; and yet, even while he strains to this end both nerve and eye, he must not forget for an instant what is the penalty for error. Were he to press too hard upon the rudder-bar, were the wing-tip to strike the tower instead of sweeping past it, his machine would swerve sideways with the momentum of its rush, and break itself to fragments as it crashed upon the ground.