Aircraft and Submarines

The method of progress in these preliminary experiments was, by repeated tests, to determine what form of airplane, and of what proportions, would best support a man. It was evident that for free and continuous flight it must be able to carry not only the pilot, but an engine and a store of fuel as well. Having, as they thought, determined these conditions the Wrights essayed their first flight at their home near Dayton, Ohio. It was a cold December day in 1903. The first flight, with motor and all, lasted twelve seconds; the fourth fifty-nine seconds. The handful of people who came out to witness the marvel went home jeering. In the spring of the next year a new flight was announced near Dayton. The newspapers had been asked to send reporters. A crowd of perhaps fifty persons had gathered. Again fate was hostile. The engine worked badly and the airplane refused to rise. The crowd dispersed and the newspapermen, returning the next day, met only with another disappointment.

These repeated failures in public exhibitions resulted in creating general indifference to the real progress that the Wrights were making in solving the flight problem. While the gliding experiments at Kitty-Hawk were furnishing the data for the plans on which the tens of thousands of airplanes used in the European war were afterwards built, no American newspaper was sufficiently interested to send representatives to the spot. The people of the United States were supremely indifferent. Perhaps this was due to the fact that superficially regarded the machine the Wrights were trying to perfect gave promise of usefulness only in war or in sport. We are not either a warlike or a sporting people. Ready enough to adopt a new device which seems adapted for utilitarian purposes, as is shown by the rapid multiplication of automobiles, we leave sport to our professional ball players, and our military equipment to luck.

So after continued experimental flights in the open fields near Dayton had convinced them that the practical weaknesses in their machine had been eliminated, the Wrights packed up their flyer and went to France. Before so doing they tried to get encouragement from the United States Government, but failed. Neither the government nor any rich American was willing to share the cost of further experiments. All that had been done was at their own cost, both in time and money. In France, whither they went in 1908, they had no coldness to complain of. It was then the golden day of aviation in the land which always afforded to the Knights of the Air their warmest welcome and their most liberal support. Two years had elapsed since Santos-Dumont, turning from dirigibles to 'planes, had made a flight of 238 yards. This the Wrights had at the time excelled at home but without attracting attention. France on the contrary went mad with enthusiasm, and claimed for the Brazilian the honour of first demonstrating the possibility of flight in a heavier-than-air machine. England, like the United States, was cold, clinging to the balloon long after all other nations had abandoned it. But France welcomed the Wrights with enthusiasm. They found rivals a-plenty in their field of effort. Santos-Dumont, Bleriot, Farman, Latham were all flying with airplanes, but with models radically different from that of the American brothers. Nevertheless the latter made an instant success.

From the moment they found that they had hit upon the secret of raising, supporting, and propelling an airplane, the Wrights made of their profession a matter of cold business. In many ways this was the best contribution they could possibly have made to the science of aviation, though their keen eye to the main chance did bring down on them a certain amount of ridicule. Europe laughed long at the sang-froid with which Wilbur Wright, having won the Michelin prize of eight hundred pounds, gave no heed to the applause which the assembled throng gave him as the money was transferred to him with a neat presentation speech. Without a word he divided the notes into two packets, handed one to his brother Orville, and thrust the other into his own pocket. For the glory which attended his achievement he cared nothing. It was all in the day's work. Later in the course of trials of a machine for the United States Government at Fort Myer, just across the Potomac from Washington, the Wrights seriously offended a certain sort of public sentiment in a way which undoubtedly set back the encouragement of aviation by the United States Government very seriously.

In 1909, they had received a contract from the government for a machine for the use of the Signal Service. The price was fixed at $25,000, but a bonus of $2500 was to be paid for every mile above forty miles an hour made by the machine on its trial trip. That bonus looked big to the Wrights, but it cost the cause of aviation many times its face value in the congressional disfavour it caused. Aviation was then in its infancy in the United States. Every man in Congress wanted to see the flights. But Fort Myer, whose parade was to be the testing ground, was fully fourteen miles from the Capitol, and reached only most inconveniently from Washington by trolley, or most expensively by carriage or automobile. Day after day members of the House and Senate made the long journey across the Potomac. Time and again they journeyed back without even a sight of the flyer in the hangar. One after another little flaws discovered in the machine led the aviators to postpone their flight. Investigating statesmen who thought that their position justified them in seeking special privileges were brusquely turned away by the military guard. The dusk of many a summer's night saw thousands of disappointed sightseers tramping the long road back to Washington. The climax came when on a clear but breezy day Wilbur Wright announced that the machine was in perfect condition and could meet its tests readily, but that in order to win a bigger bonus, he would postpone the flight for a day with less wind. All over Washington the threat was heard that night that Congress would vote no more money for aviation, and whether or not the incident was the cause, the sequence was that the American Congress was, until the menace of war with Germany in 1916, the most niggardly of all legislative bodies in its treatment of the flying corps. When the Wrights did finally fly they made a triumphant flight before twelve thousand spectators. The test involved crossing the Potomac, going down its north side to Alexandria, and then back to Fort Myer. Ringing cheers and the crashing strains of the military band greeted the return of the aviator, but oblivious to the enthusiasm Wilbur Wright stood beside his machine with pencil and pad computing his bonus. It figured up to five thousand dollars, and the reporters chronicled that the Wrights knew well the difference between solid coin and the bubble of reputation.

But this seemingly cold indifference to fame and single-minded concentration on the business of flying on the part of the Wrights was in fact of the utmost value to aviation as an art and a science. They were pioneers and successful ones. Their example was heeded by others in the business. In every way they sought to discourage that wild reaching after public favour and notoriety that led aviators to attempt reckless feats, and often sacrifice their lives in a foolish effort to astonish an audience. No one ever heard of either of the Wright brothers "looping-the-loop," doing a "demon glide," or in any other fashion reducing the profession of aviation to the level of a circus. In a time when brave and skilful aviators, with a mistaken idea of the ethics of their calling, were appealing to sensation lovers by the practice of dare-devil feats, the Wrights with admirable common sense and dignity stood sturdily against any such degradation of the aviator's art. In this position they were joined by Glenn Curtis, and the influence of the three was beginning to be shown in the reduced number of lives sacrificed in these follies when the Great War broke upon the world and gave to aviation its greatest opportunity. The world will hope nevertheless that after that war shall end the effort to adapt the airplane to the ends of peace will be no less earnest and persistent than have been the methods by which it has been made a most serviceable auxiliary of war.

In July, 1915, Collier's Weekly published an interview with Orville Wright in which that man, ordinarily of few words, set up some interesting theories upon the future of airplanes.

"The greatest use of the airplane to date," said Mr. Wright, "has been as a tremendously big factor of modern warfare. But —

"The greatest use of the airplane eventually will be to prevent war.

"Some day there will be neither war nor rumours of war, and the reason may be flying machines.

"It sounds paradoxical. We are building airplanes to use in time of war, and will continue to build them for war. We think of war and we think of airplanes. Later on, perhaps, we shall think of airplanes in connection with the wisdom of keeping out of war.

"The airplane will prevent war by making it too expensive, too slow, too difficult, too long drawn out – in brief, by making the cost prohibitive.

"Did you ever stop to think," inquires Wright, "that there is a very definite reason why the present war in Europe has dragged along for a year with neither side gaining much advantage over the other? The reason as I figure it out is airplanes. In consequence of the scouting work done by the flying machines each side knows exactly what the opposing forces are doing.

"There is little chance for one army to take another by surprise. Napoleon won his wars by massing his troops at unexpected places. The airplane has made that impossible. It has equalized information. Each side has such complete knowledge of the other's movements that both sides are obliged to crawl into trenches and fight by means of slow, tedious routine, rather than by quick, spectacular dashes.

"My impression is that before the present war started the army experts expected it to be a matter of a few weeks, or at the most, a few months. To-day it looks as if it might run into years before one side can dictate terms. Now, a nation that may be willing to undertake a war lasting a few months may well hesitate about engaging in one that will occupy years. The daily cost of a great war is of course stupendous. When this cost runs on for years the total is likely to be so great that the side which wins nevertheless loses. War will become prohibitively expensive. The scouting work in flying machines will be the predominating factor, as it seems to me, in bringing this about. I like to think so anyhow."

"What, in your opinion, has the present war demonstrated regarding the relative advantages of airplanes and Zeppelin airships?" the inventor was asked.

"The airplane seems to have been of the more practical use," replied Wright. "In the first place, dirigible airships of the Zeppelin type are so expensive to build, costing somewhere around a half million dollars each, that it is distinctly disadvantageous to the nation operating them to have one destroyed. But what is more important is the fact that the Zeppelin is so large that it furnishes an excellent target, unless it sails considerably higher than is comparatively safe for an airplane. And when the Zeppelin is at a safe height it is too far above the ground for your scout to make accurate observations. Similarly, when the Zeppelin is used for dropping bombs, it must be too high for the bomb thrower to show much accuracy."

"You think that the use of flying machines for scouting purposes will be of considerably more importance than their use as a means of attack?" was another question.

"That has been decidedly true so far," replied Wright. "About all that has been accomplished by either side from bomb dropping has been to kill a few non-combatants and that will have no bearing on the result of the war.

"English newspapers have long talked of the danger of Zeppelin attacks or airplane attacks, but it was all for a purpose, because they did not believe the country was sufficiently prepared for war and sought to arouse the people and the War Department to action by means of the airship bogy. [Later history showed Mr. Wright sadly in error on this point.]

"Aside from the use of the machines for war purposes the war will give a great boost to aviation generally. It has led more men to learn to fly, and with a higher degree of skill than ever before. It has awakened people to aviation possibilities.

"Just like the automobile, it will become more and more fool-proof, easier to handle and safer. There is no reason why it should not take the place of special trains where there is urgent need of great speed.

"The airplane has never really come into its own as a sporting proposition. Of late years the tendency has been to develop a high rate of speed rather than to build machines that may be operated safely at a comparatively low speed. You see, a machine adapted to make from seventy to one hundred miles an hour cannot run at all except at a pretty rapid clip, and this means difficulty in getting down. One must have a good, smooth piece of ground to land on and plenty of it. When we get an airplane that will fly along at twenty miles an hour, one can land almost any place, – on a roof, if necessary, – and then people will begin to take an interest in owning an airplane for the enjoyment of flying."

"Is it true that you and your brother had a compact not to fly together?"

"Yes, we felt that until the records of our work could be made complete it was a wise precaution not to take a chance on both of us getting killed at the same time. We never flew together but once. From 1900 to 1908 the total time in the air for both Wilbur and myself, all put together, was only about four hours."

Mr. Wright's statement of the brevity of the time spent in actual flying in order to learn the art will astonish many people. Few novices would be so rash as to undertake to steer an automobile alone after only four hours' practice, and despite the fact that the aviator always has plenty of space to himself the airplane can hardly yet be regarded as simple a machine to handle as the automobile. Nevertheless the ease with which the method of its actual manipulation is acquired is surprising. More work is done in the classroom and on the ground to make the fighting pilot than in the air. As we have traced the development of both dirigible and airplane from the first nascent germ of their creation to the point at which they were sufficiently developed to play a large part in the greatest of all wars, let us now consider how hosts of young men, boys in truth, were trained to fly like eagles and to give battle in mid-air to foes no less well trained and desperate than they.

CHAPTER VI

THE TRAINING OF THE AVIATOR

The Great War, opening in Europe in 1914 and before its end involving practically the whole world, including our own nation, has had more to do with the rapid development of aircraft, both dirigible balloons and airplanes, than any other agency up to the present time. It tested widely and discarded all but the most efficient. It established the relative value of the dirigible and the airplane, so relegating the former to the rear that it is said that the death of Count Zeppelin, March 8, 1917, was in a measure due to his chagrin and disappointment. It stimulated at once the inventiveness of the constructors and the skill and daring of the pilots. When it opened there were a few thousand machines and trained pilots in all the armies of Europe. Before the war had been in progress three years there were more flying men over the battlefields of the three continents, Europe, Asia, and Africa, than there were at that time soldiers of all classes enlisted in the regular army of the United States. Before that war the three arms of the armed service had been infantry, artillery, and cavalry. The experience of war added a new arm – the aviation corps – and there is to-day some doubt whether in importance it should not be ranked above the cavalry.

When war was declared none of the belligerent nations had its aërial fleet properly organized, nor was the aviation department in any of them equal in preparedness to the rest of the army. The two great antagonists did not differ greatly in the strength of their flying forces. Germany possessed about 1000 airplanes, exclusive of about 450 in private hands, of all which it is estimated about 700 were ready for immediate service. Fourteen Zeppelins were in commission, and other large dirigibles of different types brought the number of the craft of this sort available up to forty.

France was stronger in airplanes but weaker in dirigibles. Of the former she had about 1500; of the latter not more than twenty-five. The land was swept for planes in the hands of private owners and, as the French people had from the first taken a lively interest in aviation, more than 500 were thus obtained. The French furthermore at the very outset imperilled their immediate strength in the air for the sake of the future by adopting four or five machines as army types and throwing out all of other makes. More than 550 machines were thus discarded, and their services lost during the first weeks of the war. The reason for this action was the determination of the French to equip their aviation corps with standardized machines of a few types only. Thus interchangeable parts could always be kept in readiness in case of an emergency, and the aviation corps was obliged to familiarize itself with the workings of only a few machines. The objection to the system is the fact that it practically stopped all development of any machines in France except the favoured few. Moreover it threw out of the service at a stroke, or remanded for further instruction, not less than four hundred pilots who had been trained on the rejected machines. The order was received with great public dissatisfaction, and for a time threatened serious trouble in the Chamber of Deputies where criticisms of the direction of the flying service even menaced the continuance of the ministry in power.

At the outset of the war Great Britain lagged far behind the other chief belligerents in the extent of her preparations for war in the air. As has been pointed out the people of that nation had never taken the general interest in aviation which was manifested in France, and there was no persistent Count von Zeppelin to stir government and citizens into action. The situation was rather anomalous. Protected from invasion by its ring of surrounding waters, England had long concentrated its defensive efforts upon its navy. But while the danger of invasion by the air was second only to that by sea the British contemplated with indifference the feverish building of Zeppelins by Germany, and the multiplication of aircraft of every sort in all the nations of the continent. The manufacture of aircraft was left to private builders, and not until the war was well under way did the government undertake its systematic supervision. The Royal Aërial Factory, then established, became the chief manufacturer of machines for army and navy use, and acted also as the agent for the inspection and testing of machines built by private firms. Control of the Royal Flying Corps is vested in the Admiralty, the government holding that the strategy of airships was distinctly naval.

In the use of seaplanes the British were early far in the lead of other nations, as we shall see in a later chapter. And in the prompt and efficient employment of such aircraft as she possessed at the opening of the war she far outclassed Germany which in point of numbers was her superior. At that moment Great Britain possessed about five hundred machines, of which two hundred were seaplanes, and fifteen dirigibles. Despite this puny force, however, British aviators flew across the channel in such numbers to the headquarters in France that when the Expeditionary Army arrived on the scene it found ready to its hand a scouting force vastly superior to anything the Germans could put in the air. It is no exaggeration to say that the Royal Flying Corps saved Sir John French's army in his long and gallant fight against the overwhelming numbers of the foe.

Russia before the war had hidden her aeronautic activities behind the dreary curtain of miles of steppe and marsh that shut her off from the watchfulness of Western Europe. Professional aviators, indeed, had gone thither to make exhibition flights for enormous purses and had brought back word of huge airplanes in course of construction and an eager public interest in the subject of flying. But the secrecy which all the governments so soon to be plunged in war sought to throw about their production of aircraft was especially easy for Russia in her isolation. When the storm burst her air fleet was not less than eight hundred airplanes, and at least twenty-five dirigibles.

A competent authority estimates that at the outbreak of the war the various Powers possessed a total of 4980 aircraft of all sorts. This sounds like a colossal fleet, but by 1917 it was probably multiplied more than tenfold. Of the increase of aircraft we can judge only by guesswork. The belligerents keep their output an inviolable secret. It was known that many factories with a capacity of from thirty to fifty 'planes a week were working in the chief belligerent lands, that the United States was shipping aircraft in parts to avoid violation of neutrality laws before their entrance upon the war, and that American capital operated factories in Canada whence the completed craft could be shipped regardless of such laws. How great was the loss to be offset against this new construction is a subject on which no authoritative figures are available.

It was estimated early in the war that the life of an airplane in active service seldom exceeded three weeks. In passing it may be mentioned that by some misapprehension on the part of the public, this estimate of the duration of a machine was thought to cover also the average life of the aviators in service. Happily this was far from true. The mortality among the machines was not altogether due to wounds sustained in combat, but largely to general wear and tear, rough usage, and constant service. The slightest sign of weakness in a machine led to its instant condemnation and destruction, for if it should develop in mid-air into a serious fault it might cost the life of the aviator and even a serious disaster to the army which he was serving. As the war went on the period of service of a machine became even briefer, for with the growing demand for faster and more quickly controllable machines everything was sacrificed to lightness and speed. The factor of safety which early in the war was six to eight was reduced to three and a half, and instances were known in all services of machines simply collapsing and going to pieces under their own weight without wound or shock.

About the extent to which the belligerent governments developed their air forces after the outbreak of war there was during the continuance of that conflict great reticence maintained by all of them. At the outset there was little employment of the flyers except on scouting reconnaissance work, or in directing artillery fire. The raids of Zeppelins upon England, of seaplanes on Kiel and Cuxhaven, of airplanes on Friedrichshaven, Essen, and Venice came later. It has been noted by military authorities that, while Germany was provided at first with the largest aviation force of all the belligerents, she either underestimated its value at the outset, or did not know how to employ it, for she blundered into and through Belgium using her traditional Uhlans for scouts, to the virtual exclusion of airmen. The effectiveness of the Belgian fight for delay is ascribed largely to the intelligent and effective use its strategists made of the few aircraft they possessed.

Wellington was wont to say that the thing he yearned for most in battle was to "see the other side of that hill."

Napoleon wrote:

Nothing is more contradictory, nothing more bewildering than the multitude of reports of spies, or of officers sent out to reconnoitre. Some locate army corps where they have seen only detachments; others see only detachments where they ought to have seen army corps.

So the two great protagonists of the opening years of the nineteenth century deplored their military blindness. In the opening years of the twentieth it was healed. All that Wellington strove to see, all that the cavalry failed to find for Napoleon is to-day brought to headquarters by airmen, neatly set forth in maps, supported by photographs of the enemy's positions taken from the sky.