In this latter case, flights are usually terminated and commenced from the sea surface, alongside the parent ship; and when the craft are no longer in use they are lifted on board by means of a large crane and stowed away on a specially constructed deck.
From the point of view of interest, aeroplane work is preferable to that of the seaplane. Nothing more boring and dreary can be imagined than a long flight over an interminable stretch of blue water; the aeroplane pilot does, at least, have an everchanging contour of hills and valleys, rivers and woods, towns and villages beneath him, whereas the seaplane man’s view is confined to sea, sky and horizon, with perhaps an occasional passing ship.
One seaplane pilot of my acquaintance, in order to relieve the monotony, always took his dog, a staid and wise-looking Scotch terrier, with him. That dog can lay claim to holding the record among dogs of the world, for he has now flown considerably over 2000 miles. His method of aviation is peculiarly his own, for, once the machine has started and got under way, he curls himself up in the body of the fuselage and goes into a sound sleep, from which he does not wake until the engine stops again.
Seaplane flying in these days is beset with dangers of many kinds.
As an example, I will attempt to portray the average day’s work of a seaplane pilot on active service, somewhere in the North Sea.
A scene of unusual activity is revealed by the breaking dawn, lat. “X,” long. “Y.” The sea is calm, the rising sun giving it that peculiar grayish-green tint, over which the early morning mist hangs like a pall. Through the mist can be seen the hazy, blurred outlines of the Fleet: squat, lumpy monitors, slim and graceful cruisers, sharp-nosed destroyers, submarines that hang, as it were, on to the surface of the water. Great towering battleships, dignified and stately, look down upon the smaller fry with apparent disdain. Far in the rear there is what at first appears to be an ordinary smug-funneled tramp steamer; but a glimpse of the huge crane and queer, elongated shapes along her decks reveals the seaplane carrier.
Four o’clock in the morning. Though it is summer, the weather is cold and raw, the chilly breeze bites knife-like through one’s clothes, fingers are all thumbs—rather a disillusion of the joys of flying. The engine stops, and coughs and splutters as if in protest at this extraordinary behavior. Compass, maps, instruments are missing; the petrol tanks are unfilled, or the oil has been forgotten.
At last, creaking and groaning, the crane is lowered, and fixed to the craft. A few hoarse commands, and she is swung off the deck and dropped gently on to the sea, and off she goes, bound on a reconnaissance trip or target-registering. First taxi-ing far across the open sea, clear of the Fleet. What a delightful sensation this is, skimming the water like a seagull, dipping and bowing gracefully; but it is quite another story when the sea is rough, and the swell threatens every moment to break up the floats and submerge the craft. At last up into the air, 200, 300, 500, 1000 feet, circling round the now, seemingly, stationary Fleet; how still and quiet they appear down below there!
The seaplane is usually a much slower craft to climb than the aeroplane, and some time elapses before a decent altitude is reached. The observer busies himself plotting out the course, testing the wireless gear, and preparing his report.
Scouting is the object of the flight, and scouting implies, for the most part, keeping a weather eye open for suspicious craft, enemy battleships, cruisers, destroyers and enemy submarines, the latter more easily distinguishable from a height, when the bed of the sea in the more shallow portions can be read like an open book, sandbanks standing out most prominently from the surrounding azure blue.