It will be remembered that Harry had changed his propeller. He believed that the four-bladed type put an undue strain on the engine. Furthermore, without the landing chassis the machine would land on running skids integral with the base of the fuselage. Assuming he could land with the two blades horizontal it was conceivable he could land and do no damage at all, whereas with four blades the propeller would be bound to fracture and possibly lead to other damage.
Harry considered the question of weight to be of the utmost importance. Before starting he lifted Grieve’s bag and enquired whether he could not dispense with his pyjamas, as he would have a long sleep at the end of his journey.
Harry and Grieve boarded the machine without feeling in the least bit “nervy.” After getting into his seat, Harry asked, “How about old Tinsydes? Tell Raynham I’ll greet him at Brooklands.”
At 6.48 p.m. summertime (5.51 Greenwich or 3.15 St. Johns) on Sunday, May 18th, 1919, Harry and Grieve set out to cross the Atlantic from St. Johns to Ireland, and, if possible, to Brooklands, in a single non-stop flight. The weather conditions had been reported to be fairly good all the way across the ocean, and the days had been lovely at St. Johns for over a week. Visiting the Meteorological Office at noon, Harry remarked, “Hang the weather! I go this afternoon, though it leads me to the Pacific.” Three hours later they were completing the final preparations, after having lunched at Glendinning’s Farm with some local friends. At 3.15 p.m., having warmed up the engine, Harry opened up and sped down the starting slope at Mount Pearl for the last time. He covered almost the whole length of the ground before rising, and only just cleared the fence at the lower end. It was only by exercising more skill than is usually required in starting that he was able to keep the machine straight while going over the not too even ground. As it was, he took off in a direct line.
Everything at the start went well, as Harry intended it should. Getting off the ground was necessarily difficult, as owing to the direction of the wind and the dimensions of the ground it was essential to steer a diagonal course over the aerodrome.
During the run of 300 yards the machine lurched hazardously, bumping over the field until it struck a hummock and lifted. The wings took the air at a low swinging start, but did not swerve a hair’s breadth from the chosen course.
Three minutes later Harry was soaring above the western outskirts of St. Johns, climbing steadily the while. With the sun shining on her wings, the aeroplane Atlantic was a glorious sight for those who had the good fortune to see her from below. Steering a steady course, ascending E.N.E., Harry passed over Pleasantville Lake and Raynham’s aerodrome at Quidi Vidi at 2,000 feet, six miles from the start. Looking down, he could see Raynham and his machine surrounded by a big crowd of townsfolk.
Harry remarked, “Look at old Tinsydes with a crowd round him!” To which Grieve, who was too preoccupied to look, replied, “We’ve got the bulge on him.”
They continued on over Bolands Hill, a rocky promontory 600 feet high separating St. Johns from the open Atlantic, where Harry could plainly discern a dozen white mountains—icebergs—having no terrors for this ship of the air. At 1,500 feet above Bolands Hill, having decided that all was well, he slipped the undercarriage. So lessened in load by four hundredweight, and with diminished air resistance, the Atlantic began to climb with appreciably greater speed. Five minutes later she was about 4,000 feet up, flying eastward, steady as a rock, and just passing out of sight of those who were watching with powerful glasses. As the undercarriage was being projected earthwards by gravity, Harry thought of the stimulating effect it would have on Raynham.