In 1913 the course was lengthened to a distance of 94½ miles, and this time Hamel, who flew at a speed of 76 miles an hour, and proved the winner, met with a strange mishap while in the air. A brass petrol cap was, by the vibration of the engine, shaken from the top of a fuel tank in front of him; and the result was that the spirit bubbled out and blew back into his face with the rush of wind. He groped, half blinded, for the cap, which had fallen upon the floor-boards of the machine. But it was just beyond his reach, and he could not of course relinquish his hold upon the controlling lever. Prudence suggested a descent, but the time taken in landing would, he reckoned, cost him his chance of winning the race. To fly on, however, with the petrol streaming into his eyes, was impossible; and yet he could not, even by the most strenuous groping—and with his machine swerving dangerously as he bent within the hull—recapture this elusive cap. What was to be done? Hamel, after a moment’s thought, solved the problem neatly. He found that he could just reach the tank with one hand; whereupon, leaning far forward in his seat, he slipped a finger into the aperture from which the petrol was escaping. The position was cramped and awkward, and he could barely use his controls. But descend he would not; and so he flew for nearly 30 miles, crouching half out of his seat, and with one arm thrust rigidly forth. His determination was rewarded, for he won the race.
But the pilot of a racing plane is no ordinary man; none, indeed, but the most expert will dare to handle a high-speed craft. With 160 h.p. within its frail, light hull, and sustained in flight by the smallest of wings, the machine must have a master hand upon its levers—a hand light and yet sure, delicate and yet as strong as steel. Those in France who fly these racing craft are called the “record” men. Others, who do trick-flying such as “looping the loop,” are known as the “artists.”
A daily feature of work upon the aerodrome is the giving of passenger flights. People of all ages, and in all walks of life, are now eager to fly. Some telephone beforehand, and arrange an aerial journey with a pilot whose skill they may admire; then they motor to the aerodrome, find a plane standing ready, and are soon aloft. Others, coming on days when there is racing, walk to one of the booking-offices in the enclosures and pay their fee for an immediate flight. At Hendon, for the convenience of those who want to fly, there is now a scale of regular charges. A visitor may, by paying two guineas, ascend and circle the flying ground twice. For a flight outside the limits of the aerodrome, say in the direction of Edgware, returning towards the Welsh Harp, a fee of five guineas is charged; while an air journey to Elstree and back, representing a distance of 16 miles, costs ten guineas. A flight enjoyed sometimes by passengers who can afford the luxury, is from Hendon to Brooklands and back; for this, a distance of about 38 miles, the fee is £26, 5s. Anyone who seeks to hire an aeroplane and its pilot, as he might a motor-car, for a long cross-country journey by air, will find the novelty expensive: 20s. a mile is the fee charged, although this is reduced to 15s. a mile if the return flight is made by the passenger. On a popular day at the aerodrome, when stands and enclosures are thronged, flights are booked in great numbers, and several pilots may be busy, taking one passenger after another.
Building and testing machines, holding air-races, giving passenger flights; to these is the modern aerodrome devoted. But there is another, and perhaps an even more important, task, and this is to teach men how to fly. Schools for tuition are numerous in these days, and special machines are used and expert instructors employed. The pupils who come to the flying schools—naval and military officers and civilians from all walks of life—increase largely in numbers from day to day.
CHAPTER XVII
THE FLYING SCHOOL
A pupil’s troubles in the early days—How schools are organised to-day—Types of men who learn to fly—Amusing things that happen—The stages of tuition.
In the early morning and in the evening are the flying schools busy, for it is then as a rule that the wind blows softly; and for his first flights, when he is new to the control of a machine, the pupil needs conditions that are favourable. Summer and winter, therefore, directly it is light enough to see, the instructors bring out their craft, and practice goes on until all the beginners have had their turn, or perhaps until the wind rises and prevents further flying until just before dusk. At the large schools there are now two complete staffs of teachers and mechanics: one takes the morning spell of work, and is then free for the day, while the second staff comes on duty in the evening. It is possible in this way to avoid over-fatigue, and to ensure that both instructors and helpers are fresh for their work.
It is amusing, nowadays, to look back, say, to the year 1908, and recall some of the statements that were made about learning to fly. It was, for instance, when the Wrights began to train pupils, declared impossible to teach an ordinary man to balance himself in the air. The Wrights could do it—yes; but they, contended the critics, were altogether abnormal men. It was argued, indeed, quite seriously, that the brothers had some phenomenal gift—that they could move far more quickly than ordinary men; that they were, in a word, two aerial acrobats. But, when put to a practical test, such arguments were proved idle. The first pupils who went to the Wrights did learn to fly. They learned easily, and without accident; and after this, growing in numbers with rapidity, the world’s airmen were numbered in fifties and hundreds, and then in thousands.
But there were some quaint happenings, none the less, in these early days. The Wright machine, it will be remembered, ran forward upon a length of rail before it took the air; and the day came when, after a number of flights with his instructor, a pupil was allowed to glide by himself from the rail, and soar upward as gracefully as he could. Some, being men of a cool temperament, did in fact do just what was required: they tilted their elevators very gently, and skimmed from the rail with lightness and ease. But others, nervous and a little over-anxious, drew back their levers too sharply. The aircraft shot from the rail; then, robbing itself of forward motion by the abruptness of the ascent, it came to a standstill in the air and slid back tail-first towards the ground—much to the discomfiture of the pilot, and generally to the detriment of its rear-planes. The penalty of a too sudden rise is illustrated by [Fig. 93].