H. G. Hawker, airman: his life and work

by Muriel Hawker

The hour of dawn was the one hour in twenty-four in which flying always seemed to hold the greatest charm for Harry, as indeed I believe it always has done for most aviators; and on this occasion, after having flown through a black night above one desolate waste whose secrets may never be unfolded and ahead into another which had never before been explored by man, as one can well appreciate, Harry was overjoyed on beholding the first signs of the dawn of May 19th, 1919. That he and Grieve almost immediately began to have an eye for the refuge of a ship only goes to prove the serious nature of the radiator trouble. But for those high clouds which, coupled with the doubtful cooling system, had forced them to yield most of their advantageous height, they might have been able to continue on further than they did at a moderate cruising speed with the engine throttled. But although they covered almost two-thirds of the journey, the chance of their being able to complete it under any circumstances had become practically negligible owing to the loss of water due to several hours of overheating.

Mentally both Harry and Grieve were comfortable, but an attack of seasickness upset Harry a bit. While flying a couple of miles above the dark ocean they did not attempt to probe in their minds the secrets of regions four, five, perhaps six miles below them. Even had they done so, such thoughts could scarcely have had a demoralising effect on souls like theirs. The fallibility of a machine, against which no man can have absolute insurance, was all that robbed them of the joy of completing their intention. Theirs was a successful failure, and beyond perhaps additional monetary reward (which to Harry was never an unimportant consideration), had they had the good fortune to make the direct flight, I do not believe they would have commanded one iota more respect than they did when they returned to the world at large, as from the dead.

They decided to fly diagonally south-east and then south-west across their course to see if they could find a ship, knowing that they would be unable to go on indefinitely boiling away the water. For two and a half hours they carried out these tactics, in sight of the very rough ocean and with their machine pitched and rolled about by a tempestuous north-east wind described by Harry as “half a gale.” There were heavy rainsqualls, between which were clear spaces in which Harry endeavoured to keep. But these spaces became smaller and finally visibility had almost gone. At last Harry’s eyes were gladdened by the sight of a ship close to them on the left. Both the ship and the aeroplane were more or less in the fog, with low clouds above, and Harry and Grieve were almost over the ship before they saw her. At a height of 400 feet they flew alongside, firing three Vérey lights as signals of distress.

While flying so low down between the rough sea and low clouds the Atlantic was bumped about very badly. As Grieve said, “It was like being in a small motor-boat in a heavy sea.”

It was at about 6 o’clock on the Monday morning that the second mate and the helmsman of the Mary sighted the aeroplane. The sea was rough and a stiff breeze was blowing, and the conditions for launching a boat were getting worse instead of better. So much so, in fact, that Captain Duhn did not think he could have saved them an hour later.

Harry was very cheered when he first saw the Mary, for he had been looking about for a ship for over two hours and had been violently seasick the while. Grieve also was thankful and relieved when he saw the ship.

The machine floated well. The engines held the air, as well as the spaces in the petrol tanks and the wings.

They flew to and fro above the ship several times until they saw men on deck, after which they went ahead about two miles and made a very good “landing,” although a heavy sea was running, with waves about 12 feet high which swept over the wings intermittently. Apart from waves breaking over it, the machine floated well on an even keel and was generally well out of the water. As they saw the steamer approaching they released their lifeboat in case the aeroplane should break up and sink, as it showed signs of doing. Their life-saving suits kept them more or less dry while the crew of the Mary were putting out their boat, which operation took fully an hour and a half. The vessel was only about two hundred yards from the aeroplane.

After they touched the water, Harry and Grieve found themselves standing in the cockpit, up to their knees in water.

Waves were “sloshing” under the upper planes of the machine, the nose of which was heading into the wind. Sometimes waves dashed right over the top planes. Harry was indeed amused by the sight of the first big wave striking the under-surface of the top plane, which until then had been dry and shining. It lifted them right out of the water, and the trailing edge of the top plane broke away completely. The sun was hazy, and low driving clouds were prevalent. Having launched their own little boat in case they should need it in the event of the Atlantic going under, they spent the interim until their rescue in discussing as to the possibility of the Mary having appliances whereby they could salve the aeroplane.